Page 22 of Nothing Left

"And the autopsy?"

"That gave us a lot of information," she shared. "Samantha was killed somewhere between two and four a.m., so we have an approximate time of death, and to me, those stab wounds did not look like they were made by a twenty-two-year-old student who'd never been killed before. They were deep, the killer committed to them and used a lot of force, and they were very accurately placed. The killer is right-handed. So given the force, my personal feeling is we're looking for a man and that Heather is not our killer. But I doubt that alone would convince a judge. We need more."

"No other leads yet?" Ebury sounded surprised.

"Not as yet," Juliette said, feeling the weight of the pressure on her shoulders. "We're doing everything we can, Sierra is monitoring all the local communication on groups and sites in case we're missing anything, but we're hitting dead ends."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Juliette could practically feel the disappointment radiating from Ebury.

"I see," he finally said, his voice tight. "Well, I hope tomorrow brings some progress. Because the international spotlight is intensifying, and the media and politicians are pushing for answers. We need to find evidence that either incriminates Heather or else clears her, and we need it fast."

"I'll keep you updated on what happens," Juliette said.

"Please," Ebury emphasized. "Any other help you need, just ask. But we need results. We need a suspect in custody.

Juliette hung up, feeling frustrated and inadequate. Worst of all, there was a fear lurking inside her that she didn't want to voice to anyone right now. Not to Ebury, not even to Wyatt.

There was one possibility they hadn't considered, but which the violence and brutality of the crime had forced her to confront in her own mind.

What if this was the first of a series, and they were hunting a serial killer?

The hard facts were that Heather would then only be cleared by another's death. And that would only make things worse.

Juliette dreaded, deep down, that the morning might bring news of another murder.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The acrobat was shaking with excitement as he climbed the fire escape, his feet soundless on the treads. At times like this, he felt at one with the structure that he was using. He felt as if these metal stairs were an extension of his own body, something that was empowering him to reach his goal.

He thought of himself as an acrobat. He wasn't one by profession any longer, although he knew he still possessed the ability in his slim, sinewy body, in his surprising strength that could unleash itself suddenly and violently when required.

But more than that, the balancing act he was doing was not just physical. Oh, no. He was balancing risk and opportunity, too, and he was pushing it to its limits.

As he reached the top of the fire escape, he paused and took a deep breath. The adrenaline coursing through his veins made his heart race and his hands shake slightly. He had to calm himself down and focus on the task at hand.

The apartment was quiet, very quiet. He tested the door. It was closed and locked. That was okay. It was very rare that he got a free pass in that regard. He didn't expect it, didn't even think he deserved it. It made it all too easy. His skill was greater than that.

He had a lock pick in his pocket that he'd learned to use silently and expertly. It hadn't been easy. Nothing was. But just as he'd fought and battled to make himself as quiet and agile on the stairs as he could be, so he'd also schooled himself in the fine and intricate art of opening these locks. Luckily, fire escape door locks were seldom complex. The main problem was that they were rusty and disused. So he had some oil with him, which he worked carefully into the lock, needing it to turn quietly.

The city was asleep. It was as if Barcelona was breathing softly. Only the swish of traffic and the faraway sounds of nightlife were audible. Close by, he could hear nothing that was important or a reason for concern. It was peaceful up here.

Finally, he heard the satisfying click of the lock giving way, and he pushed the door open, slipping inside with stealth and grace. He was in the kitchen. He looked around, taking it all in. The apartment was small, but it was cozy. Everything was in its place. The sink was empty, and the dishes were done. The table still had salt and pepper shakers in place, as well as a rack of cutlery.

Looking at that cutlery made his own hand stray to the knife on his belt, so lethally sharp.

But the apartment was quiet. The occupant was sleeping, or at least he hoped so. That was part of the thrill, the danger of it all. He thrived on that kind of rush, that kind of risk.

He moved to the living room, knowing that the whole point of the exercise was to claim his trophy. He looked around, his eyes gradually adjusting to the darkness. It wasn't complete. In a city, it was never totally dark. There was always ambient light to be found, and in its shadowy glow, he could see a bookcase. The top shelf of the case didn't have books on it. It had ornaments. A paperweight made from Venetian glass, gleaming softly. A small brass trophy that must be a prize or an award of some kind. A couple of wooden figurines that were roughly carved in the shape of dancers.

Just one, he told himself. The rule is one. And he liked to choose something that he thought would not be missed. The paperweight was valuable, the trophy too personal. One of the wooden dancers, then. There was a woman and a man. He chose the woman, liking the flow of her hair and the flare of her skirt. The wood felt smooth under his fingers, and the little sculpture was surprisingly light. He’d expected it to be heavier. And also, the figurine was small enough that he could slip it into his jacket pocket and zip it up. Perfect.

And now for the final part of his ritual, and the most exciting step by far. It was the dare.

He moved on silent feet to the closest bedroom.

He could see the outline of a bed, the covers neatly tucked in, and the silhouette of a sleeping figure. His heart raced with excitement as he approached the bed. It was a woman; he could see the glint of her hair and the narrowness of her wrist - one of her hands was outstretched, hanging over the edge of the bed.

On the nightstand, there was a small, silver-framed photograph. In it, the woman was smiling, her arm around another younger woman who, he guessed from the resemblance, was a teenage sister.

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