12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

RICHARD

I lock my gaze on Izel, and raw anger ripples through me. The fact that she’s not wearing pants is a glaring reminder of just how absurd this situation has become.

I trust Noah, and I know he’s a professional. But right now, I can’t seem to shake this possessive feeling that’s clawing at the pit of my stomach. She’s been with him all day, and the thought of it leaves me seething.

I try to keep a lid on my anger, but it’s a losing battle. She’s sitting there, seemingly unfazed by my reaction, and that just infuriates me even more.

“So, what, you just roam around without pants on?” I snap.

She merely shrugs. “Well, it’s a free country, right? Besides, Noah doesn’t seem to mind.”

“That’s not the point. This is my house, and there are rules.”

“Your house?” she raises an eyebrow. “Last time I checked, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about being here.”

“I just don’t appreciate your lack of respect towards the people who’ve lost their lives.”

She snorts, refusing to back down. “Oh, forgive me, Mr. FBI, for not wearing pants in your oh-so-holy house. But I’m not really following how it’s affecting the dead. For all I know, I’m probably giving them a show. It’s not like they have Netflix.”

The possessiveness I’m feeling is fucking irrational, and absolutely maddening. I can’t really dictate her choices, yet here I am, wanting to stand between her and anything that could hurt her.

“Go back to your room,” I command, and she starts to protest. But I cut her off with a sharp, “Now.”

She grumbles in frustration, pushing herself up from the couch. As she does, I notice something peculiar. Her oversized sweatshirt slips slightly, revealing a scar on her stomach. It’s not just any scar; it’s large and far too noticeable to be missed.

I can’t tear my eyes away from it, and she avoids my gaze, looking away. My mind races as I recall her medical records, and I’m certain there was nothing out of the ordinary in them. This scar, however, tells a different story.

She tugs her sweatshirt down, as if to conceal the evidence, but it’s too late. The sight of that scar is etched into my memory, and it’s raising a multitude of questions I can’t ignore.

“Luna, I need you to stay here and keep an eye on Izel. Make sure she stays in her room,” I instruct. No way I’m keeping a man around her, especially if she’s not going to be wearing pants

Luna nods in understanding.

As for Noah, I turn to him and gesture for him to accompany me. “Let’s drive back to the office together. I need you to tell me the information you have on our Slasher.”

Leaving the house, I make a mental note to double-check Izel’s medical records.

“Noah, what’s the deal with the Slasher case?” I ask, focusing on the new lead he’s got.

“Izel mentioned something that got me thinking. She said she was into woodworking as a hobby, and it might lead us to a new angle on this Slasher case,” he says.

We climb into the car, and I grip the steering wheel tight. Everything seems connected to Izel.

“What did she mention exactly?” I press, curious about this unexpected connection.

“She basically said Charles Cooper is our guy. I’ve booked an appointment with him,” Noah explains.

“That’s pretty specific,” I say, starting the engine. “And you think this Charles Cooper guy could lead us somewhere?”

“Yeah, it’s worth a shot. Snakewood isn’t common, especially not around here. If Cooper’s involved in the woodworking scene, he might know something or someone that can give us a lead on SteelSinner and that will ultimately lead us to the Slasher.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes. Noah’s probably replaying the interactions with Izel, dissecting every word and gesture for hidden meanings. We’re both seasoned investigators, yet this case has managed to throw us off balance, making us question our instincts and our ability to see through the layers of deception.

“You ever get the feeling, that everything’s too fucking connected in this case?” I mutter, keeping my eyes fixed on the road.

“You mean with Izel and her suggestions? It’s weird, man, but maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

I shake my head. “I don’t believe in coincidences. What town was Izel from again?”

Noah takes a moment to recall. “I think the reports mentioned something about a town called Hollowbrook.”

“Hollowbrook, huh?” I muse, swerving the car into the adjacent lane with a sharp turn. “You know, I noticed something when I told her to go back to her room. She had this scar on her stomach, and it didn’t look fresh. It was big, like it had been there for a while.”

“You think that’s significant?”

“I do. That scar is too noticeable to have gone unnoticed in her medical records. I want the last fifteen years of Izel’s medical reports. We need to see if there’s something she’s not telling us.”

“I’ll get Luna and Colton to head to Hollowbrook and see if they can dig up those old records. Digital reports weren’t a thing back then, so we might find some old-school paper trail.”

“Good, make it happen.”

Noah starts making calls to set things in motion. The road stretches out ahead, an unending ribbon of asphalt leading us toward answers—or more questions.

We finally pull up to Janson’s Antiques. People are gathered outside. I park the car and jump out, making my way through the throng of onlookers. I spot a guy who looks like he’s been through hell—mid-40s, balding, with a beer gut straining against a stained shirt. I grab his arm, pulling him aside.

“What the fuck happened here?” I demand.

He blinks, wide-eyed, and stammers, “It’s... it’s the owner, Charles. Someone... someone murdered him.”

“Shit,” I mutter, sharing a look with Noah. We push our way through the crowd and enter the shop.

The shop’s interior is a mess, every inch of the walls is covered in erratic splashes of paint—red, blue, black.

Charles’s body is sprawled in the middle of the room. He’s been butchered. There are multiple stab wounds to his chest and stomach.

“Motherfucker,” Noah mutters under his breath.

I crouch down beside the body, careful not to step in the blood. “Look at his hands,” I gesture. “Defensive wounds. He fought back.”

Noah joins me, his eyes scanning the scene. “Yeah, but it didn’t do him any good.”

“Maybe it was the Slasher,” I suggest. “He probably got a wind that we had a lead on Charles and decided to shut him up.”

Noah shakes his head. “It’s not his MO. The Slasher has a specific way of doing things. The paint doesn’t fit.”

“But he has a motive,” I argue. “If Charles knew something that could lead us to the Slasher, it makes sense that he’d want to eliminate the threat.”

Noah rubs his chin thoughtfully. “True.”

Noah pulls out a pair of gloves and starts examining the body. I let him do his thing while I scan the room, looking for anything that might give us a clue. My eyes land on a laptop sitting on the desk. I step over and try to wake it up, but of course, it’s locked. Useless. I move on, rifling through the drawers. Papers, pens, nothing interesting—until I spot something unusual.

Tucked away in the back of the drawer is a small stack of business cards. Black background, red text—same damn design as the one we found before. I flip it over, my gut churning as I read the name: SteelSinner.

The IP address we traced from SteelSinner’s online activity came back from somewhere way outside the States. It’s like he’s running his game from halfway across the world. Only problem is, he’s clearly operating here or was operating from here.

This means one of two things: either he had a tech whiz helping him out from overseas, or he had the cash to pay someone who could keep him hidden behind a fancy VPN or something like that. Or maybe he was tech-savvy enough himself to pull it off. Either way, the bastard wasn’t working alone, or he hadn’t just relied on basic tech. He’s got some serious resources, and that’s making my job a hell of a lot harder.

As I am stewing over this, something clicks in the recesses of my thoughts. Izel’s cousin was into tech, wasn’t he? The memory’s fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure I remember something about that. The connection feels too convenient to ignore.

I pull out my phone and call Emily. She picks up on the first ring, already knowing I don’t call unless it’s urgent.

“Emily, I need you to send over Izel’s background reports to my email. Specifically, I want everything on her family relations.”

“You got it, Rick. I’ll have it in your inbox in five.”

True to her word, my phone dings a few minutes later. I open the email and start scrolling through the files, cross-referencing every damn thing. And wouldn’t you know it? Izel’s cousin does own a tech company. That can’t be a fucking coincidence. She pointed us to this lead, and her cousin just happens to be some tech whiz? Yeah, right.

I’m searching for the connection, but it keeps slipping away, and it’s pissing me off. Izel’s smart, cagey as hell, and if she doesn’t want to give me anything, I’m not getting shit out of her.

I glance over at Noah, still focused on the body, oblivious to what I’ve just found. I thumb through the stack of cards—there aren’t many left. This was a business meant for a select few, no doubt. I should bag them, tag them as evidence. But instead, I shove them into my pocket.

Fuck. Why am I doing this? I don’t even know. But something tells me to keep this under wraps, at least for now.

I walk over to Noah. “We need to get the local PD on this. Let them handle the mess while we focus on the bigger picture.”

Noah nods, pulling out his phone to inform the local police. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get out of here.”

We leave Janson’s Antiques behind, and I head straight for my house. When I walk through the door, I find Izel sitting on the couch, surfing through the channels.

“We need to talk,” I say, not bothering with pleasantries.

She looks at me. “About what?”

“About Charles, the guy who just got butchered. You pointed us to him, and now he’s dead.”

Izel smirks, not a trace of concern on her face. “Oh, poor Charles. Guess he won’t be making it to poker night then.”

“Don’t fucking mock this. It’s convenient how everyone connected to you ends up dead.”

“You’re right,” she says, and for a minute I can finally see some remorse in her eyes, but then she opens her mouth again. “Maybe I’m cursed. Maybe a witch put a hex on me, and now everyone I come into contact with dies a horrible death. Better watch your back, Agent.”

“Goddamn it, Izel!” I shout, unable to hold back my anger. “This is serious! People are dying—”

“You’re such a drama queen. People die all the time. It’s not my fault if the universe decides to take a few people out after I’ve met them.”

I grab the remote from her hand and turn off the TV, forcing her to look at me. “You think this is funny?”

She leans back, crossing her arms. “I think you need to relax. Stress isn’t good for you, you know.”

I take a deep breath. “You’re not getting it. We need to find out who’s doing this and why they’re targeting people connected to you. If you know anything, now’s the time to spill it.”

Izel sighs dramatically, like this whole thing is a huge inconvenience. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Start from the beginning. How did you know Charles?”

“I didn’t know him personally. I attended a woodworking workshop a long time ago. Charles was the instructor there. He introduced us to snakewood, showed us some advanced techniques. That’s it. After the workshop ended, I never saw him again.”

I lean forward, studying her reaction. “Where’s this workshop you used to go to for woodworking?”

Her gaze shifts, and I can tell she’s searching for a lie. “Were you not listening? It was a long time ago. I don’t remember.”

I sigh inwardly. It’s clear she’s not telling me everything. The way she’s avoiding my question, the hesitation in her voice—it’s all signs of someone hiding something.

It’s also becoming increasingly obvious that Izel wanted us to find Charles. If she didn’t lead us directly to him, then either she’s being threatened into silence or she’s a silent partner trying to cover her tracks. The way things are shaping up, she might be connected to the Slasher in some way, either by choice or under duress.

I decide to play it cool, keep things friendly. If she’s a victim, it won’t be long before she feels safe enough to open up. I’ve dealt with enough cases where people are scared or protecting someone to know that building trust is key. If she’s in danger or has something to hide, I need to be the one she can rely on. For now, I’ll keep the pressure off and let her think she’s got a friend in me.

I head straight for the coffee machine. This past week has been a dead end, and right now, I need that caffeine fix more than ever. The bitter, dark brew calms my nerves as I settle in at my desk.

Meanwhile, the local PD continues working with the forensics on Charles’s case. So far, there’s no clear link to The Slasher. So, I focus back on the Ghostface Striker. I pull up the sketch that Izel had helped us with, hoping for a miracle that might link us to the bastard. But there’s no match, and the silence of this psychopath is unsettling. It’s been a while since we’ve heard anything from him.

With a heavy sigh, I glance at my original reports on the unsub we profiled.

Just then, Wilson walks into my office, interrupting my thoughts. “Got an update on the Ghostface Striker?”

I give him a side-eye, a silent ‘here we go again’ in my expression. “What’s the deal, Wilson?”

He takes a deep breath. “We need a breakthrough. The city’s on edge, and we can’t afford more victims.”

I give him a look that says, You don’t say .

“I’m well aware of the urgency.”

Then, the inevitable question comes, the one I’ve been dreading. “Izel Montclair. She’s still a suspect, right?”

Izel – her name has been a constant shadow looming over this case. I’ve turned her life inside out, searching for something fishy, some connection to the kills. But so far, nothing. I can’t explain why, but the idea of releasing her doesn’t sit right with me.

I dodge the question, not ready to give up on her just yet. “I’m still working on it. Nothing’s definitive.”

He narrows his eyes, clearly not satisfied with my response. “Reynolds, this case is a pressure cooker. We need results. If you’ve got anything on Izel, you better share it.”

I hesitate, weighing my options carefully. I can’t tell Wilson about Charles being a lead that came from Izel. If I do, he might pull someone else to question her, and that could complicate things further. I don’t fully understand why I feel the need to protect her, but I do.

“There’s nothing concrete,” I finally reply, keeping my tone neutral. “Just routine checks and dead ends.”

Wilson eyes me suspiciously, but he nods. “Alright. But don’t sit on it too long. We need to crack this case.”

“I know,” I say, watching him leave before I turn back to my desk, troubled by the conflicting instincts driving me in Izel’s direction.

She’s not a prime suspect, but my instincts say otherwise. I’ve learned to trust my gut in this line of work. There’s something more to her, something that ties her to this case in ways I can’t yet comprehend. And I’ll be damned if I let it slip through my fingers.

But as much as I’m trying to stay focused on the investigation, there’s this... shift. This past week, something’s changed between us. It’s not the constant back-and-forth, the snide remarks or the way we used to rile each other up. Instead, we’ve fallen into something... easier.

I thought I’d have to fake my way through this, pretend I was earning her trust, but it’s getting harder to keep the distance, harder to lie to myself about what’s actually happening here.

Fuck, it’s not even about the case anymore, is it? I find myself wanting her to trust me—not because it’ll help me do my job, but because I actually care.

I take a deep breath and shift my attention to the board where the images of the victims stare back at me. The common connection between these girls isn’t something as simple as shared hobbies or online groups

Angie Swayer, the young artist who painted outside the lines, pushing boundaries with her provocative works.

Laura Dawson, the aspiring musician who belted out rebellious anthems, refusing to conform to the music industry’s standards.

Evelyn Price, the activist who fought passionately for her beliefs, even when it meant clashing with authority.

Olivia Davis, the only child who was nothing short of a pampered princess.

Cassie Taylor, the college student who partied like there was no tomorrow, refusing to be bound by the rules of her conservative family.

These girls, though different in many ways, shared a common thread of rebellion. They rejected conformity, pushed boundaries, and challenged the status quo. It’s this rebellious nature that drew the Ghostface Striker’s attention.

The door swings open, and Noah strides in, followed by Luna, who’s nursing a steaming cup of coffee. She settles on the edge of my desk. Noah grabs a chair and spins it around, sitting down backward, his eyes already scanning the pictures.

“Find anything, Rick?” Noah asks

“Yeah,” I mutter, rubbing my jaw before pointing at the board. “These girls, they’re not random. Each one of them was a fucking grenade in their own way—pushing against the norm, flipping off society. They weren’t just victims; they were a threat to the world our unsub’s trying to control.”

Luna sips her coffee, her eyes narrowing as she focuses on one of the pictures—Evelyn Price. “So what, the bastard’s got a problem with women who don’t toe the line? Some kind of moral crusader?”

“Maybe,” I say, looking at the board. “But it’s more than that. This isn’t just about punishing them. This motherfucker is obsessed with domination, with putting them back in the box they fought to escape from. He’s not just killing them; he’s erasing them, making sure they’re remembered for nothing but how they died, not how they lived.”

Noah grunts, glancing between me and the board. “But the profile doesn’t match the sketch we got. The guy in the sketch looks... normal, clean-cut. Not the kind of guy who’d be obsessed with control like this.”

My phone buzzes for the fortieth time. I glance down at the screen. Ashley. Again. Fucking hell. I hit decline and shove the damn phone away.

“That’s the fucking problem,” I say, fingers drumming on the desk. My phone buzzes again, and I silence it without checking. Ashley’s calls can wait. “We’ve got a profile that doesn’t match the sketch, now either Izel’s lying through her teeth, or we’re missing something big.”

I look down at the sketch again. Martin . He’s around the same age as the sketch. What if Izel fed us a bogus description, but her mind was fixated on the age? It’s like a fucking mental tick—when you’re lying and not prepared, your brain latches onto something familiar. Something you can’t shake. It’d be fucking stupid not to consider that possibility.

“Look,” I continue, “if we go by the sketch, which demands priority, then we’re dealing with a fucking chameleon. Someone who blends in so well, you’d never suspect him. The kind of guy who could charm the pants off a nun and still walk away with her fucking rosary. He’s not just some creep lurking in the shadows; he’s the guy you’d invite over for dinner. That’s why he’s so dangerous.”

“But that doesn’t explain the breaking and entering. If he’s blending in, why the hell would he risk blowing his cover?” Noah grunts.

“Think about it. He’s not just breaking in to rob them or kill them outright. No, this bastard wants to fuck with their heads. He wants them to feel safe, like everything’s fine, before he flips the switch and shows them how wrong they were.”

Luna takes Evelyn Price’s picture off the board, holding it in front of her like she’s trying to read between the lines. “So, what are we saying? This guy’s a psychopath?”

“More like a goddamn sociopath with a God complex,” I say, the pieces starting to click into place. “He’s got everyone fooled, probably even himself. He’s meticulous, calculating, but the cracks are there if you know where to look. He sees these women living life on their terms, and it fucking drives him nuts. They’re everything he wishes he could be but knows he can’t.”

The door swings open again, and Emily strides in, her eyes already scanning the room. “Rick, there’s a girl named Ashley downstairs, and she’s losing her shit. She’s fighting with Carter to let her in.”

Noah arches a brow. “Who’s Ashley?”

“Let me guess, some clingy little leech? Your latest bad decision, Rick?” Luna sneers.

“Cut it out, Luna.”

“Oh, please. I’m just calling it like I see it. You’ve got a type, Rick, and—”

“Great, more drama. Meanwhile, Ashley’s about to claw Carter’s face off downstairs! Are we doing something about this, or should I just grab the popcorn?” Emily throws her hands up.

“Fucking great,” I hiss under my breath. I knew this was coming. I rub the bridge of my nose, warding off the headache that’s forming.

Luna doesn’t miss a beat, raising an eyebrow as she takes a sip of her coffee. “Nice choice in women, Reynolds. You really know how to pick ’em.”

Noah chuckles and I shoot him a glare.

“Settle down, Romeo,” Luna adds, putting the picture down. “That will keep your flings from turning into clingy nightmares.”

“Thanks for the advice, Dr. Phil,” I snap back, rubbing my temples. “Emily, tell Carter to keep her out, and make sure she doesn’t cause a scene. I’ll deal with her later.”

Emily nods and ducks out of the room, leaving Luna to smirk at me. “You should be more worried about Izel than Ashley. She’s the one who’s supposed to be under protection, remember?”

“I am worried, which is why you’re going to head over to my place and keep an eye on her,” I say.

Luna raises an eyebrow but grins. “You know, Rick, you’re really shitty at dishing out punishment. Watching over Izel is hardly a chore. Hell, it’s a break from all this profiling bullshit.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring her sarcasm. “Just go.”

Luna laughs softly. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, boss. I’ll keep our little suspect safe.”