Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“And you never stir drama to get attention, right?” I challenge.
“I do not,” he replies. “I’m the brainy type who people should listen to, but they don’t because I just—well, that’s a topic for my therapist, not you. You’re famous now, Lilah Love-Mendez, kind of like Anne Rule the New York Times bestselling author, God rest her soul. She became a famous true-crime writer because she worked with Bundy. You spent years working with Roger. I can’t imagine all the ways you now can put that to use in your work, now that you know who and what he was.”
I glance up as both Kane and Kit step in front of me and Kit arches a brow at me that pretty much says, are you coming or what? Good lord, he’s arrogant enough to be Kane’s attitude protégé, and either brave enough or stupid enough not to know better. “I’m coming,” I murmur under my breath.
“You will?” Jack asks.
I grimace. “I wasn’t talking to you, Jack. Who’s dead?”
“Two in their twenties, one in his thirties. The fourth is unknown at this point.”
“Cause of death?”
“HMC.”
“I don’t talk Dungeons and Dragons, Jack. Give me layman’s terms.”
“Horror movie copycat. So far there’s been four victims, two by hatchet attack from Friday the 13th, and a butcher knife attack aka Michael Myers from—”
“Halloween,” I say, sliding into the backseat of the car, Kane following. “I know who Michael Myers is. It sounds to me like you’re reaching.”
“Calling these killings coincidental is reaching.”
“Not far,” I retort.
“Two of the victims were having sex, and the killer was under the bed and shoved a hatchet up and through both bodies. That’s classic Jason. I mean, who else does that?”
This killer, I think. This killer is the “someone else,” but I’m officially intrigued. “How exactly did he get the hatchet through the mattress?”
“He rigged a hole in advance.”
“And how did the fourth victim die?”
“I’m on my way to find out. I’ll text you the address.” He was about to hang up when he adds, “Also, you should know that I called the press and alerted them to the HMC killer, anonymously of course, but I had no option.” His voice is stronger now, steady, confident even. “The department is ignoring what should not be ignored,” he continues. “We have a serial killer worthy of the great Lilah Love. I mean Mendez. Sorry. Don’t tell him I keep doing that. Or that I think he’s, you know, leading a life of crime. I don’t want to die. Oh and Ms. Love-Mendez. Cox is one of the twenty-five most wealthy family names in the world.” He disconnects.
Chapter Three
Jack Cox is irritating, but he’s not as stupid as his rambling.
And he hung up on me.
The truth is, people don’t tend to say goodbye to me because I don’t say goodbye to them. And those are people I know. Though they might not see it as such, me hanging up on people is an act of love. If I don’t say goodbye, it’s not the last time we’ll talk. Unless you piss me off and make me cut you off or well, cut you, which is only in extreme cases, where you turn out to be worthy of being cut.
Like you’re bad.
The way Roger was bad.
As for Jack, something about that little rich boy hanging up on me after flaunting his money reads like a game. I’d like to call it a geeky, Dungeons and Dragons kind of game. But when money is flung around, it’s about power, regardless of job title. Money is the title equalizer. And power games piss me off. Okay, most games piss me off. Maybe even all games. But for reasons that don’t completely align with the actions, this feels like the mind fucks my note-writer, Junior, might play. Junior has become an annoying fly buzzing about my life at random moments, knowing too much, while I know too little, about that person’s identity.
Most people don’t know that flies not only vomit on everything they land on and see as food, but they defecate too, and that means they do these gross-ass things on you, your food, your counter, your couch, your kid. Dirty flies and dirty money power plays equal the same. You getting shit all over. Me getting shit all over.
Jack Cox isn’t what he seems and the idea of him burrows down into my belly and claws at me.
I glance at Kane. “I have to—”
“I know, bella,” he says. “What’s the address?”
My phone pings with a message and I glance down to find the answer to that question. I call out our destination to Kit and then add Jack Cox to my address book under “Cox Blocked”—yes I amuse myself, if no one else—before I return my attention to Kane. “I need to make a few calls. Can you—”