Page 112 of Girl Between
LaSalle read from her folder. “Hillary Foster. Caucasian. Female. Late twenties. COD unknown. Case date: 2017.” She snapped the folder shut. “They read like a book.”
“Fucked up book,” added Richter.
“Yeah, but our unsubs are telling us a story,” Dana replied. “They have a type. White females in their twenties. And however they’re killing them, it isn’t obvious. No blunt force trauma, no sexual assault, no mutilation.”
“They’re missing organs,” LaSalle argued. “I’d call that mutilation.”
“Yes, but they were surgically removed. These crimes aren’t violent or passionate. That means something,” said Dana.
“Unsub could be impotent,” Richter offered. “Might explain why he started with men.”
Dana frowned. “I don’t know. None of this feels right.”
“We’ve got 68 bodies, Gray. It’s not supposed to feel right,” Richter grumbled.
“It doesn’t add up,” she clarified.
“I agree,” LaSalle said. “Too many different angles make it hard to see what’s right in front of ya.”
“Well, let’s do what the kid says,” Richter muttered. “Learn everything we can about these three.”
98
The task force'sfrantic movements should be worrying, but I can’t hide my amusement. They scurry around my city like mice in a maze, only following the breadcrumbs I’ve laid out for them.
A tingle of excitement washes over me as I think about what they’re about to discover. With my arousal sparked, I go back to work, feeding my hunger. Only another harvest will satiate me.
My heart pounds in my chest, I need to remain focused. I remind myself that I’ve composed an intricate web of deceit, planting seeds that will grow into the fruits of my labor. It’s time it be unveiled. For so long it’s been dormant. Hibernating. A forest of misdirection.
I stroke her cheek, frowning as she recoils from my touch.
“Soon,” I croon, more to myself than her, I realize. “Soon, it’ll all be over.”
The anticipation is intoxicating. I can already taste the victory, feel the inevitability of my success. The clock is ticking, and every second brings me closer to the climax of my grand scheme.
99
“You’ve gotto be kidding me?” Richter growled when the busty blonde drag queen playing hostess led him, Dana, Lena, and LaSalle to their VIP table.
“Why are we here again?” he grumbled after the Marilyn Monroe with an Adam’s apple ruffled his hair and trailed a boa over his chest.
“We’re following leads,” Lena said, eyeing the bottomless mimosa menu.
When LaSalle discovered both Hillary Foster and Jasmine Baker had been employed at the Country Club, a swanky Bywater restaurant famous for its pool parties and drag brunch, they made a few calls and got themselves on the list for today’s show.
“We should be talking to management,” Richter argued.
“And we will,” replied Dana. “But we can learn just as much by observing.”
“Maybe more,” LaSalle said, her eyes wide as a busty Mardi Gras Queen strutted onto the main stage.
“Welcome Farrah Moans to the stage,” the MC broadcasted with too much enthusiasm.
A riot of applause broke out among the packed house. A cocktail waitress fought her way through the melee to take their order.
“Mimosas and Bloodys are bottomless,” the waitress announced, “Just like us,” she added, turning to smack her barely-covered posterior.
“One mimosa!” said Lena, raising her hand.
