Page 20 of Hide and Seek
All of the internal organs have been shifted around, each one of them showing visible signs of trauma, but on top of that, there’s also a foreign object here. Something long, partially hidden within the rib cage, but it’s covered in blood, making it impossible to decipher.
My brows furrow, that wicked unease growing by the second.
What the hell is this?
After documenting the foreign object and taking multiple photographs from different angles, I reach back into the body cavity, and as my hand slips up into the ribcage, I immediately notice that the lungs are displaced. A shiver sails down my spine, and I try to ignore it as I focus on the object.
Curling my hand around it, I carefully remove it, but there’s something so familiar about how it feels in my hand. Is this a—fuck.
A rose.
My chest heaves, fear doubling down, and as I release the object onto the autopsy table, it becomes as clear as day. It’s a black rose, just like the one that was left here the other night on this very autopsy table.
Tears well in my eyes as I come to the realization that this man was murdered simply for the sick need to send me some fucked-up message, and he wasn’t just killed in a humane way. He was slaughtered. Sliced open while still alive only to have to feel his organs being cut out. At least the good news is that he would have quickly bled out and wouldn’t have had to deal with the pain for long.
I can’t even imagine the type of agony this man has suffered through.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him as the tears roll down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
Wanting to give him the respect he deserves, I swallow over the lump growing in my throat and continue with my work, vowing to do whatever I need to catch this asshole.
Carefully removing each organ, I examine them thoroughly, weighing and measuring before taking detailed notes on any irregular markings. I find his lungs smashed down into his abdomen, and they mostly look okay. This man was fit and clearly took care of himself. He wasn’t a smoker, and his lungsgenerally appear healthy. However, that doesn’t change the fact that they were disturbed within the body.
What kind of sick fuck plays around with someone’s organs? Was killing him not enough of a thrill? At least it seems like the victim was already deceased by the time the killer got around to playing surgeon on the lungs.
I work on autopilot, mentally trying to distance myself from the work in front of me, but the moment my hand gently curls around the heart, unease settles deep in my gut. Hearts usually have a smooth texture, but I can feel the deep gouges under my fingers.
My brows furrow and I slowly pull the heart out of the chest cavity, and the moment I place it down on the examination table, horror rocks through me.
More carvings stare back at me, and despite how unsettling the first ones were on the skin, this takes it to a whole new level.
I swallow over the growing lump in my throat, and as my hands shake, I lean in closer and do what I can to decipher the words.
8
KNIGHT
Tossing my keys on my entryway table, I stride through my door before kicking it closed behind me. It’s been one hell of a long day, and an even longer night. I haven’t had a break in over twenty-four hours. But that’s what you get as the leader of the best SWAT team in the country.
I was called in to deal with a hostage situation a few hours after dropping Harper at her apartment. I didn’t even get a chance to look into her stalker situation, and it’s been eating at me ever since. I arrived at the scene a little after 11 p.m. and spent the next twelve hours having to play by someone else’s rules, all while the bastard gunman terrorized a family.
I’m not a patient man, nor do I enjoy falling in line under someone else’s command. Especially when that person has no business calling the shots. There’s only so much bullshit I can handle, and after sitting around, twiddling my fucking thumbs for twelve hours, I devised my own plan with my team.
We had that family safe and the gunman down within three minutes.
That should have been it, but my supervisor doesn’t like having his judgment questioned. My team then spent another twelve hours having our asses handed to us, but to be honest, I think my supervisor just likes the sound of his own voice. I don’t regret it though. Never have. It’s not the first time I’ve crossed a line to save a life, and it won’t be the last.
The thud of my closing door has barely faded from my entryway when my phone comes alive in my pocket, and I groan, hoping like fuck I’m not being called in again. I need to eat, and as soon as that’s done, I’m going to crash for the next week. I’m fucking wrecked.
Dread begins to fill me as I slip my hand into my pocket and pull my phone out. It’s a little before two in the morning, and if it’s not some woman calling to see if I want to fuck, then it’s work. It’s always fucking work, and honestly, I’m not down for either right now.
A number I don’t recognize flashes on my phone, and for just a moment, I consider rejecting it. As it continues to ring, my stomach knots, and my thumb instinctively swipes across the screen.
“Hello,” I say, my back stiffening.
A sniffle comes through the phone before I hear a tone that I’d recognize anywhere. “Knight?”
“Harper? What’s wrong?” I ask, my fingers closing around my keys, more than ready to take off and find her. There’s only one reason why Harper-Rayn would be calling me, and it has everything to do with the bullshit she told me in my truck last night.
