Page 59 of Obsession
“He’s staging the scene.” Motioning toward the bridge behind him, I let my gaze travel over the mayhem of people, sniffer dogs, and cameras. “This is what he craves. It’s not about the killings. The killings are a means to an end. He wants the glory. The coverage.” My eyes light up, even as a chill races down my spine. “I bet he’s here. He wouldn’t want to miss this. Not when he stages his crimes to create this…this mayhem.”
The officer’s eyebrows fly up past his aviator glasses.
“Think about it. The killings aren’t sexually motivated. He doesn’t derive sadistic pleasure from the killings the way someone like Robbie Hammond would. He strangles them, right? I think that’s what I read…” I’m talking mostly to myself now. “Why would he go to the lengths to stage a crime scene with such creativity behind it unless he wants people to notice him? I bet he enjoys the setting up of the scene. The anticipation of what is to come. The news coverage. The fear the crimes instill in others. He wouldn’t go to such lengths only to sit at home and watch it on the TV. I’m telling you”—I pocket my notepad—“he’s here, soaking it all in.”
“Are you sure you’re not in the wrong line of work, ma’am?” the officer asks as Elliot walks over.
My chest blooms at his compliment. “Reporters are profilers too.”
“What did you find out?” Elliot asks me, glancing at the officer.
“The killer is wearing shoes too big to hide his identity.”
Elliot’s eyebrow quirks, and the officer clears his throat.
“Ma’am, I shouldn’t have told you that. That kind of information has not been released to the public yet, as it could hinder the investigation at this point.”
“It’s off the record. Got it.”
“Your reporter friend here is in the wrong line of work,” he says to Elliot. “She’d be better suited as a profiler.”
Elliot bounces his eyes between us, holding back a laugh.
“She has some good theories,” the officer continues. “According to her, the killer is here in the crowd.”
The blood drains from Elliot’s face, and he blinks comically at the officer before scanning the bridge and the surrounding area.
“You’re safe,” I joke. “By the way, did you tell them about the blood you found?”
Elliot snaps his head back to me. “Oh, right.” He leads the officer to the blood spots while I let my eyes drift over the crowds of people. This is what I want to do when the Hammond story is done and dusted. I want to unravel clues and put all of my reporter skills to full use out on the field.
My heart is not involved on this snowy pavement beneath a lamppost with a broken light bulb. Not like it is when I’m seated across from the most enigmatic man I’ve ever seen.
A heavy, throat-clogging sadness settles over my chest as I let my mind drift to thoughts of a day when I no longer get to sit down opposite him and listen to the rise and fall of every deep vowel that flows from his lips.
I press the toe of my rubber sole into the fresh layer of snow while blinking back tears. My cold fingers burn inside my pockets, a stark reminder that I must invest in gloves. Visions of Hammond’s smile flood my mind. I’m a lost cause, ready to die for a chance to see it again. To be graced with the rare dimple that has my heart skipping beats with joy. I bet few people make Hammond smile. Truly fucking smile. My thighs still sport a dusting of bruises from his tattooed fingers, now faded to a faint yellow.
I’m falling hard.
So very hard.
26
ROBBIE, AGE 16
Kill. Kill. Kill. End her. End the suffering.
The thoughts were growing louder by the day, entering my head when I least expected it, urging me to fight back. To shut her up once and for all. Show her she had no power over me anymore.
But that was a lie. Mom held all the power. I was the neglected dog who refused to leave its owner, hoping and praying that she’d love me. She wouldn’t. Mom would never change.
And still, even after a childhood of abuse, it hurt to see her wither away inside this trailer. I wanted to save her.
I wanted to kill her.
Fuck.
I shook my head, ridding it of the voices that wouldn’t stop whispering, and opened the fridge for a bite to eat. It was empty except for a packet of beers and a cheese block. Slamming it shut, I slid my fingers through my hair, pulling until my scalp prickled with pain.
