Page 23 of Killer Knows Best

“Maybe they were prepping for the apocalypse,” I offer.

“They were definitely prepping for something,” Jack adds.

“Speaking of prepping”—Nikki gives her crimson locks a tousle as she shuts the cabinet and opens another—“I still haven’t nailed down Kiki’s address, but according to phone records, she’s in contact with a man by the name of Gunther.”

“You have access to her phone records?” I ask, impressed.

“In a roundabout way.” She nods through each word. “Anyway, I’m starting a database of every number she’s called and Gwen was on the roster just hours before she was killed.”

“And now we know who our madame is.” Jack ticks his head as he pulls open drawers and shuts them. “At least Rush was telling the truth about something.”

“What about Gunther?” I ask.

“He’s a pimp,” she says, heading back to the living room and looking behind the TV. “He runs most of Elmwood from what I gather. Old friend of yours, Jack?”

“You’re hilarious,” he says, hardly looking up to acknowledge the slight.

“My guess is that he’s her connection to the low-rent girls, no hate.” Nikki winces. “Half her text messages look encrypted, but she seems to have access to high-end clientele as well. We can goover my findings once we’re through here. Not much to see, but at the same time, it’s everything.”

“Gunther the pimp, huh?” I shake my head. “His mother must be so proud.”

We divide in an effort to conquer, and I’m hoping we’ll conquer a few clues along the way.

Nikki takes the living room, poking through shelves and flipping through a pile of partially opened mail. Jack moves toward the far side of the room, pulling at a stack of notebooks on the tiny desk, while I head toward the bedroom. The whole place is cramped. Too small for two people, really, but that’s most likely what put it in their price range.

The bedroom smells like perfume and old laundry. Gwen’s side is a mess of clothes—some clean, some not so much—and Delaney’s side is a bit overly tidy. Bed made to perfection, everything tucked into place. The contrast is jarring like two worlds smashed together in too small of a box.

I open a drawer on Delaney’s side and start sifting through T-shirts, tank tops, and leggings. It’s all so normal. Like she wasn’t hiding anything. Like she was just a regular girl living a regular life. And I have a feeling she was right up until she stepped into that hotel room.

Jack steps in and pulls a book off Delaney’s nightstand. He flips it open and raises a brow. “Well, look at that.”

I turn to see what he’s holding, and it’s a copy ofInto the Ether with Love, that grief book written by Phillis Hazelwood, only on the cover she has it down asPhillipaHazelwood. Regardless, it’s the same woman Delaney had been working with.

“Autographed,” Jack says, turning a blank page with flowery writing toward me. “Remember to live your truth. Each day is a gift,” he reads before wagging the book my way.

“I’ll try to remember that.” Although with Erin missing, andfour dead women riding on my shoulders, each day is starting to feel like a curse.

Nikki looks at the book from over Jack’s shoulder. “Nice sentiment. Too bad she didn’t get many of those gifts.”

Jack gives her a half-smirk, half-something else. “You know, you’re really not one for uplifting speeches.”

“I’m just here to keep it real,” she says, rifling through the closet now and I join her.

Sweaters, a couple of jackets, nothing out of the ordinary. I head back to Delaney’s bed and start pulling back the comforter, the blankets, the sheets.

My hand runs under the lip of the mattress and I feel something tucked underneath. I pull it out and there it is—a small leather journal covered in stickers with her school’s name and logo in every iteration. I open it up and readDelaney Riggs, junior year.

Jackpot.

17

SPECIAL AGENT FALLON BAXTER

“I’ve got her journal,” I say, hoisting it in the air momentarily.

We skip right to the good part, a few days before Delaney’s untimely death.

I flip to a random section, about halfway through the journal, and the handwriting shifts from looking neat to rushed, as if Delaney was racing against her thoughts.

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