Page 31 of Deadly Secrets
Another nod. He twirled the liquid in his glass. “The killer was never caught, correct?”
“He wasn’t. It was ruled a hate crime. The Dunkirks were black, living in a very white, and apparently racist, section of town. I investigated it myself later on, when I was older. The cops never even considered it might be a serial.”
“I don’t mean to be insensitive, and I know you were just a scared kid, but is there anything about him that stood out? You mentioned he was tall and bulky. Did you see his face? Hear his voice at any point?”
“I saw a partial outline of him through the scarf over my face. He was backlit and wearing a mask. That’s all I remember—him bending over that trunk and peering into it as if he had x-ray vision. I just knew at any moment he would see me and yank me out of there. Do to me what he’d done to Aleisha.” She shuddered so hard, the blanket slipped off her shoulder. “But the rest is a blank. I can’t remember what happened after that moment. He must have closed the lid and left. The next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance and a cop was asking me what had happened.”
“You blanked it out because of the trauma.”
“The psychiatrist they sent me to afterwards said the same thing. As an adult, I’ve seen a bunch of therapists and I’ve even tried hypnosis. My brain refuses to give up any memories of what happened after the man opened the lid.”
“And now, with the sigils, you’re afraid he’s back.”
“It was my first thought, yes. There have been a few other serials through the years who marked bodies, but none like the man who killed the Dunkirks. The victim profiles and methodology don’t match, however. My guy slit their throats, yours feeds his victims poison. The Dunkirks were American-born, middle-class citizens, attended church, and had decent jobs. The Reverend—and his apostles—are going after undocumented immigrants.”
“Non-white victims with similar marks on their foreheads is enough for me to look into your case.”
She shrugged. “I’ve already investigated it to the nth degree. The man who killed the Dunkirks disappeared. It’s been 20 years. Serials don’t wait that long between killings.”
“Unless they’re forced to.”
“Like prison? Yeah, I thought of that, but I’ve combed through hundreds of men who were in that area of California when I was ten and ended up in prison shortly after. I have a database of them, in fact—the ones who seemed to fit the profile of a religious freak that hate nonwhites—and nothing matches.”
“Must have taken a lot of time to create that database without access to nationwide law enforcement files.”
“You have no idea.”
“But tonight, someone broke into your rental car and left you his calling card. It has to be the same man from your childhood.”
Her face felt stiff even though the brandy had made her body loose and soft. “Looks that way.”
“Why now? Why here?”
If she knew that, she’d know how to track him down and stop him. “He found out I was investigating these new murders? He thinks I pose a threat to him, or maybe he supports The Reverend, so he’s trying to scare me off his trail?”
“Or itisthe same guy. The Dunkirks might have been his first. He’s refined his technique since then.”
That thought hadn’t escaped her. Her hand shook again and her vision went fuzzy for a second. “I guess that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
He reached over and gently took her hand. This time, she didn’t shrug him off. It felt good to share all of this with someone for once. Not hold it all in as a secret. She’d never even shared this with her best friend, Trish, who was probably already in Utah at the dig site and waiting for her to show up. It was just too much to dump on normal people.
Plus, it revealed her obsession with a killer, which people might understand up to a point because of what had happened to her, but it was still weird. Brooke didn’t want the few friends she had giving herthatlook every time they saw her. Poor, crazy Brooke. The girl who’d escaped a killer, but now couldn’t let it go.
Roman’s hand was warm, his thumb rubbing little circles into her palm. The brandy had suffused her limbs with its warmth and the blanket was soft and comforting. She had more ideas about The Reverend, but in that moment, she didn’t want to talk about serial killers and murder. She just wanted to sit there and let a man hold her hand.
Her eyelids dipped. She stifled a yawn. Those little circles Roman was rubbing into her palm sent waves of relaxation through her. All she wanted to do was lay her head in his lap and sleep.
“I have more questions,” he said softly, “but they can wait. Let’s get you upstairs to bed.”
If his bed was anything like the rest of the house, it would be amazing. Big, soft,safe. She gave him a half-hearted smile. “You coming with me?”
She hadn’t meant it to sound suggestive, but the words, combined with her slightly drunk voice, definitely smacked of an invitation. The devil on her shoulder cheered.
Snatching her hand back, she shrugged off the blanket and bolted upright, nearly falling over from her drunkenness.
“Lightweight,” she muttered to herself.
But the angel on her other shoulder, who seemed to disappear at inconvenient times, reminded her there was a reason she didn’t drink.
