Page 5 of Aftermath
The night that broke me.
Ruined me.
And now, I was forced back to square one.
I was a well-decorated agent, having been with the bureau for six years. No matter how much I learned, how many cases I solved, how many killers I brought to justice, this was what defined me now. I knew that.
My fist was clenched tighter than I realized, and I let go to find red marks in my palm.
“Stop beating yourself up,” Grey said, lowering his voice and glaring at me. “You’re clean now. You’ve been working your ass off at the bureau. You will be back in no time.”
I didn’t want it. In fact, I’d told him multiple times I would never step foot into the field again. He just wouldn’t let up.
“Blythe deserved better,” I barely whispered.
“Don’t,” Grey warned. “It never was your fault.”
“Saying that won’t bring her back,” I pointed out, my chest heavy. I stuck to the facts.
My head swam with thoughts, flashes of memories I never wanted to relive.
Tips. I needed to focus on tips.
“Talk to someone, take time, whatever you need. Just stop putting it all on yourself,” Grey said with a sigh.
“I’m fine,” I agreed, trying to convince him.
He sighed again and turned off toward a set of elevators.
I made my way to the office and plugged my badge into the laptop sitting on my desk. All my work popped up immediately, and I minimized everything before opening the tip database.
It was filled with aimless tips and complaints. People used it as a means to complain about any little pestering detail in their life. Tips on loud neighbors, suggestions on how to do our jobs better, complaints about overpriced coffee.
Scrolling through and weeding out the bad ones from the worst ones, I found a tip that was my personal favorite for the day. How delusional did one have to be to believe their overpriced macchiato was a matter of national security?
The majority of the tips were useless. Some, I filtered through to send to our technology department to further investigate their integrity. There were next to none that piqued my interest.
That was, until a name caught my eye.
The Coastal Killer.
I was familiar with the nickname the press gave the serial killer whose trail went cold years prior. I hadn’t worked it, but I knew the details of every major case that passed through our organization. I made it my job to know.
I paused my scrolling and clicked on the tip to expand it.
A news clipping popped up—the last victim. I checked the note submitted with the tip, but there was none.
That gave me nothing to go on. The way my heart raced a little had me sitting on the edge of my chair. I needed to quit while I was ahead, but my hand kept moving.
I combed through the other tips and quickly came across one with the same subject line.
The last four victims all visited the same bar the night they were attacked.
The note included a link to the bar’s website.
I pulled up the address—the center of Briarport, Maine. It was the local bar frequented by most of the town, High Tide Pub. Hundreds of photos pulled up beside the address, and I swallowed hard, realizing anyone could have been a victim.
Still could.
