Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“What happens now?”
“The police are gearing up to release a statement. There will be a manhunt for Gray. And we need to find him fast because …” Theo squeezed his eyes closed, his expression drawn. When he opened them, there was that haunted look again. “Sarah, I spoke with their team of analysts. They told me what their expert psychologist thinks, and it lines up with the thoughts I shared with DCI English. The last two victims in my show were the father and the stepmother. Gray has neither, but he will find an alternative to fit the sick narrative he’s playing out. And they—we—need to figure out who he might hurt next.”
My stomach twisted with dread. “We? Theo … you know this isn’t up to you?”
Anger flashed in his eyes. “I wish that were true. But I feel responsible for flipping some fucking switch in this bastard. Sarah … you didn’t see what I saw today. The horror and the pain … and it was so eerily similar to King’s Valley. Seeing that inflicted on real women, human beings with lives and families …”
“Sweetheart,” I whispered, reaching for him.
He hugged me hard again. “We have to find him.”
I was afraid we did. I was afraid if Theo didn’t have some part in bringing Quinn Gray down, he’d never let go of the guilt.
Thirty-Three
THEO
The shock of my visit to police headquarters had worn off a little. Now that Quinn Gray’s name was out there and the public knew who he was, I had relaxed marginally. It was hard to hide these days, and I hoped someone would see him and call the police. The public rage toward him was terrifying but ultimately useful in this case.
People wanted him caught. They were tired of being scared.
I wanted it over. For the victims’ families, for the public, for myself, and Sarah.
I’d just signed the contract on the deal for Juno McLeod and sent it to Sarah for completion. Colleen was gearing up to sell the idea to Skylark with the actor Olivia Jones attached to play the role of Juno. Just a few short months ago, I was impatient to get to this point, and now I was nauseated. It didn’t feel right to put a crime series into production that followed a subplot about another serial killer.
But I couldn’t disappoint Sarah, and this was my job.
Sarah stirred beside me in bed and I sat up, swinging my legs out, elbows braced on my knees, head buried in my hands.
Gentle fingertips skimmed my naked back. “Are you all right?”
I couldn’t voice my doubts aloud. I … I’d already let her down enough. So much so, she still couldn’t bloody well tell me she loved me.
Instead, I surprised even myself by announcing, “I think it’s time to face my father.”
At her silence, I glanced over my shoulder. She stared up at me, sleep-rumpled and wide-eyed. “Are you sure?”
It was as good a distraction as any.
Moreover, I was afraid. I was afraid if I didn’t try to let go of my bitterness toward the old man that Sarah was right. I’d eventually fuck up what was between us because of it. And what she and I had was the only bloody thing holding me together right now.
“Yes.” I turned, sliding back into bed and bracing myself over her warm body. “But after I make love to you.”
Sarah opened herself to me, caressing my chest, arching her hips in invitation. For a while, I didn’t have to think about anything but the bliss I found inside her.
“Wow.”
The word echoed off the marble floors as Sarah gawked at my family’s London townhouse on Wilton Crescent. There were five floors to the home. Four above us, plus a roof terrace, and one below us.
The spacious entrance hall led to an impressively wide staircase with an elaborately carved balustrade that swept upward, curving along a balcony that overlooked the hall from above. To our side an open archway led to a library/sitting area. Beyond that were double doors into my father’s study. He’d barely updated the furnishings since my mother’s passing. It wasn’t exactly contemporary, and the hallway walls were cluttered with paintings of our family and our ancestors.
I noted the painting of my mother at the bottom of the stairwell and blocked out the swell of emotion that threatened. This place held a strange mix of treasured memories and pain.
“You grew up here?” Sarah whispered as my father’s butler went to announce our arrival.
“If you think this is something, you should see Haleshall Manor,” I murmured back sardonically. At her uneasy expression, I threaded my fingers through hers.
I knew Sarah and I came from opposite sides of the track, but I didn’t want her using that to put any more distance between us.
I was no longer the Honorable Theodore Merrick Cavendish, second son of Viscount Stephen Jerome Cavendish. I’d buried that boy long ago.