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Clearing his throat, Slade slid a small spiral-bound notebook from the side pocket of his slacks and flipped it open.

“Matthew Brewster. Thirty-two years old, single from what his friends say, though his neighbors had something different to say about that.” I filed that away to ask about later. “We talked to his landlord. He and another male rented the house. Been there a year, always paid on time, no complaints from his end.”

“The roommate wasn’t there last night. He’s in Los Angeles visiting his girlfriend,” Jameson added. “Solid alibi since he’s been with her the last week and has several people to corroborate his whereabouts.”

“Matthew,” I said, staring at his pale face, “was stabbed thirty-eight times after an initial blow to the right temple.” I pointed a gloved finger at the bruising. “After the blunt force trauma, which probably dazed him or even knocked him out for a few seconds, the first penetration wounds were to the kidneys. If he was unconscious from the blow to the head, that kind of pain would’ve woken him up. And I think that’s why this guy chose that location.” I worried at my lower lip, imagining how painful the last few moments of his life were. “The pain would’ve left him almost immobile while the killer carefully inflicted the next wounds to his lungs. He bled out, like the others, and the other stab wounds were postmortem.” I shook my head, the tip of my ponytail swaying with the movement as I ripped off my gloves. “I’ve noticed something with each new victim.”

“Any defensive wounds?” Slade asked, coming to stand beside me while slapping on a pair of gloves. Tossing the sheet back to expose a hand, he carefully picked it up and rotated it, inspecting the knuckles. “None on the hands or forearms, like he fought back.” He narrowed his eyes at the light bruising around both wrists.

“I noted those in my report. With lack of fibers or indentions or even residue, I don’t think he was restrained during the attack. With an object, at least.” My lips twisted down in a frown as I remembered how the body from the other day didn’t have obvious strangulation marks on her skin, yet she was.

“How does he keep them from fighting back?” Slade mused beside me. “Though I guess the victimsareon the smaller side.”

“Everyone is compared to you,” I joked. “We can’t all have the build of a lineman.”

“Left tackle,” he stated with a smirk. “If you want to get technical about it.”

“I think you were about to say,” Jameson cut in, breaking off my wayward side conversation with Slade, “that you’ve noticed the murders are more violent but almost clinical at the same time. The stab wounds are precise, calculated even.” I nodded in agreement. “Makes sense. This is the fifth body we’ve found, so it’s safe to assume the unsub is more confident, maybe even did research on the circulatory system or anatomy to inflict maximum pain without, what I’m thinking, the unsub’s favorite part being cut short by the victim dying too soon.”

I studied the body while Jameson spoke. Damnit, there were too many unanswered questions still, and we were on victim number five. How many more would there be before we caught him?

“What do you think is his favorite part?” Slade asked. “Are you saying the actual murder isn’t?”

“No. Not after seeing this body.”

“What, then?” I questioned. “With the number of stab wounds and the crazy scene he leaves behind, how can the murder not be what this person enjoys? He’s left almost half a dozen bodies in his wake.”

“Is this victim like the others, no residue or marks around the mouth area?” I dipped my chin in acknowledgment. “What if it’s not the act of the murder that keeps this unsub going but their screams or something else the unsub is coaxing out of the victims?”

“Screams,” I mused. Flipping the sheet down to expose the torso, I pointed to one of the many wounds. “That one right there punctured the lung, so screaming couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t have been able to take a full breath. That’s why I say he’s getting better. Each wound is precise, at least until the victims are dead.”

“How many are postmortem?” Slade asked as he moved around the table. He flipped the sheet back, exposing the victim’s legs.

“It’s hard to say exactly since I’d wager some were made just before he fully bled out, which would’ve taken a while. So, in the moments immediately prior to death and then after, I’d say thirty to thirty-five.”

“Why the overkill?” Jameson mused. With a groan, he interlaced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “This case is so fucking contradicting. Just when I think I have a read on this asshole everything changes.”

“What are these?”

My shoulder brushed against Slade’s side as I shifted closer to the table to see what he was pointing at along the victim’s legs.

“I noticed faint bruising there too. I noted it in my report.”

His green eyes flicked from the shins to the bruises on the wrists, back and forth, brows pulling together even tighter with each pass.

“Do you have a theory?” I asked.

I couldn’t help but stare at Slade as he inspected the body. Damn, he was sexy without even trying. The light blue dress shirt made his smooth, naturally tan skin stand out. The cuffs of both sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, showcasing the black ink designs that decorated both arms. I’d never seen him without his shirt—well, not in person. The pictures I’d found online during training camps or after games displayed his fully inked chest and back in all its glory.

“Maybe.” He locked that intense gaze on me. “Come with me.” After ripping off the latex gloves, he tossed them into the trash and wrapped his thick fingers around my wrist, tugging me toward the door.

My sneakers scuffed against the floor as I stumbled after Slade out of the morgue, across the hall, and into my office. I barely looked at the morbid pictures and notecards taped to the wall behind the desk before I was whirled around.

“Get on the floor.”

My heart skipped as I blinked up at Slade, sure I’d heard him wrong. “What?”

“I have a theory on how this guy—” Jameson cleared his throat, making Slade respond with a dramatic eye roll. I stifled a laugh. “On how thisunsubrestrained the victim while he bled out, and I need to visualize it.” Slade gestured to the rug and arched a brow. “Don’t worry, Rain. I won’t hurt you.”

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