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Not the warm laughter of joy or humor, but something cold and twisted—the sound of someone who genuinely enjoyed the suffering of others. A psychotic giggle that seemed to go on forever, echoing through the basement like a promise of horrors to come.
Logan and Morgan stared at each other in the dim light, both thinking the same thing: Whatever was coming next would test every ounce of strength and courage they had left.
The laughter finally stopped, but somehow the silence that followed was even more terrifying.
Andi paced the conference room while Yazzie coordinated search teams over the radio.
Every minute that passed felt like an hour, and they were no closer to finding Logan or figuring out where the killer might stage his finale.
“Wait.” Andi suddenly stopped mid-pace. “Did anyone go to Zimmerman’s house? To look for evidence the killer might have left behind?”
“Logan went there after we found the pharmacy closed, but then we got the call about the crime scene at the lightning tree,” Yazzie said. “I’m pretty sure he never made it inside.”
“So Zimmerman’s house is untouched?” Duke’s steely gaze met Yazzie’s.
“As far as I know.” Yazzie ran a hand over his face. “We’ve been so focused on the active scenes that we never circled back.”
Hope surged inside Andi. “That could be exactly what we need. If the killer took Zimmerman from his house, there might be evidence of how he operates—maybe even clues about where he’s holding his victims.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Duke agreed.
Twenty minutes later, the three of them pulled up to Zimmerman’s place.
“Stand back,” Yazzie said.
Then he kicked the front door open.
Inside, the house felt frozen in time. A half-eaten sandwich sat on the kitchen counter, and a coffee mug still sat by the sink with a ring of dried residue at the bottom.
Zimmerman had been interrupted mid-routine.
“No obvious signs of struggle,” Duke observed as he moved through the living room. “This guy is either really good or Zimmerman didn’t see it coming.”
Andi moved toward the back of the house, noting the careful way everything had been left undisturbed. The killer was methodical, professional.
But as she entered Zimmerman’s bedroom, something caught her attention.
The window was slightly ajar—not broken, just unlatched. Like someone had climbed out in a hurry.
Or had been taken out.
But what she saw in the bathroom made her blood run cold.
Andi picked it up the bottle with trembling fingers and held it to the light.
Her throat went dry.
“Duke.” Her voice was barely steady. “You need to see this.”
Even as Duke’s footsteps approached, Andi’s mind was racing.
“What is it?” Duke asked from the doorway.
Andi showed him what she’d found.
CHAPTER
SIXTY-THREE
