8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

RICHARD

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out.

Ashley’s gaze flicks to the door where Izel just disappeared. I run a hand over the back of my neck, trying to shake off the tension. Her eyes narrow as she looks back at me.

“Who is she?”

I hate it when people answer a question with a question.

“She’s a witness,” I say, keeping it as evasive as possible. “She’s supposed to be under witness protection, and we’re working on that. But until then, she’s staying with me.”

Ashley’s eyes narrow further, like she’s gearing up for a fight. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head, and I know she’s not happy about this. But I’m not in the mood for a debate.

“What are you doing here, Ashley?” I ask again, more firmly this time.

There’s a brief moment where her expression shifts, the accusation in her eyes softening into something else entirely—something familiar. Lust. I recognize it instantly, the subtle change in her posture, the way her eyes darken as they rake over me. She’s not here for answers. She’s here for sex, plain and simple.

“I came to see you, babe. We haven’t had much time together lately.”

She pulls me in for a kiss, but I hesitate. I’ve nearly kissed Izel twice, and it’s driving me wild. I can’t think straight, and it wouldn’t be fair to Ashley. I step back, and she looks confused.

“Hey, what’s going on, Rick?”

“Ashley, I’m just not in the mood right now,” I sigh.

She frowns, clearly disappointed. “You’ve been distant lately. I thought we could... you know.”

Ashley’s persistence grates on me as she steps closer, pressing herself against me. Her hands slide up my chest, pulling me back in. I can feel her breath on my neck, and it’s like my body is on autopilot, but not in the way she wants.

“Come on, Rick,” she whispers, her breath ghosting over my ear. “We’ve barely spent any time together. Let me make you feel better.”

Her touch feels stiflingly close, like she’s trying to replace what’s missing with something I don’t want. She leans in for another kiss, but I turn my head away at the last second.

“Ashley, stop,” I say.

“Is this because of that girl? Who is she, Rick?”

“I told you she needs protection. So, she’s staying with me. That’s all there is to it.”

“Protection from what? From who? What’s her name? You owe me some answers. If there’s something going on, I have a right to know.”

“Ashley, it’s my job. I can’t share details with you. You knew that when we got involved.”

She crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing. “Your job? That’s your excuse? I have a right to know what’s going on especially if there is a girl staying with you.”

“No, you don’t. This isn’t about you or us. You don’t get to demand answers about something you were never supposed to be involved in.”

“So, I’m just supposed to sit back and watch you play protector to some random woman while you push me away? That’s not fair, Rick, and you know it.”

I can feel the tension in the room ratcheting up, like a coiled spring ready to snap. She’s not getting it, and maybe she never will. My job isn’t something I can just set aside to make her feel better.

“Ashley, I’m asking you to leave. This isn’t the time for this.”

She stares at me, her anger giving way to hurt, but she doesn’t move. Instead, she presses on, as if she can force a different answer out of me.

“Is it about her?” Her voice trembles with jealousy.

I don’t answer. I can’t. It’s not about whether it is or isn’t about Izel. It’s about the fact that my work comes first, that my responsibility to protect people outweighs her need for reassurance. But she won’t understand that.

I feel like a complete jerk, but I don’t care. “Can you please leave?”

She frowns even more deeply, and I couldn’t care less about her reaction. She’s a casual fling, and I’m not obligated to explain anything.

I’m back in my room, staring at the phone records Noah managed to pull up. Izel’s phone records show nothing out of the ordinary. Calls from her clients, her cousin, and her grandparents, just your everyday stuff. The text exchanges are equally bland. It’s all normal, or at least, it seems that way.

I investigate further, opening my laptop, and check her social media presence. But there’s nothing, no trace of her on any social media platform. She’s like a digital ghost, which only adds to the intrigue. Why would someone her age have zero online presence?

It’s clear that this girl looks like a typical American on paper so why would she lie to protect Liam’s sorry ass? She lies, and she’s pretty terrible at it. Or maybe, I’m just too good at sniffing out lies. Either way, it’s fishy.

I dig further into their work history, and it turns out they’ve collaborated on a project with a client named Jonathan Harper.

After setting up a meeting with Jonathan Harper and his manager at Harper Industries, I snap my phone shut and head to the kitchen.

Izel’s there, setting up food she must have ordered. She looks up, and I catch nervousness in her eyes before she quickly hides it. I offer to help, and together we set the table in silence.

Halfway through our meal, my phone buzzes with a call. It’s Colton.

“Charges have been pressed against Liam. He’s looking at a solid eight years,” Colton tells me.

I can’t exactly talk about this in front of a civilian, but there’s no avoiding it now.

“What did he just say?” Izel asks incredulously.

“I’ll have to call you back,” I tell Colton, and hang up.

I keep my focus on the plate in front of me. But Izel isn’t one to let things slide. She repeats her question, pushing me.

I take a deep breath, there is no way around this now. “He confessed to sexually assaulting you.”

“I haven’t made a complaint! You can’t let an innocent person rot in jail for nothing!”

“Innocent? Liam is hardly innocent. Why the hell should I let him off the hook and pretend this never happened?” I demand, irritation seeping into my words.

Izel’s eyes blaze with anger, and she lets it all out. “He’s in a troubled state, alright? What do you expect from a guy whose sister got brutally murdered?”

I feel my jaw stiffen, the muscles flexing painfully as I wrestle with control. “That doesn’t give him a fucking pass to sexually assault another girl.”

“You don’t get it,” she says, dropping her fork onto the plate with a clatter. “He’s messed up. He’s lost. This isn’t who he is. He’s just...broken.”

“Broken or not, it doesn’t excuse what he did,” I counter. “He hurt you, Izel. And he needs to be held accountable.”

“I don’t care about your damn accountability!” she shouts. “I don’t want his life ruined because of this. He’s already been through enough.”

“And so have you!” I fire back. “You think letting him go will make everything okay? It won’t. He is a monster and it’ll just show him that he can get away with it.”

“He’s not a monster,” she insists. “He’s my friend. He’s...”

“Do you love him?”

I watch her closely, searching her face for any sign of the truth. She opens her mouth to speak but hesitates. It’s clear from her expression that she doesn’t love him, not in the way that would justify protecting him.

“Let. Him. Go.”

A wave of relief and anger crashes over me. If she’d said yes, if she’d claimed to love him, I would have found a way to let that piece of shit rot longer than eight years.

“Give me one solid reason, and I might.”

But she doesn’t offer a reason. Instead, without breaking eye contact, Izel abruptly turns away and storms into her room, the door slamming shut behind her.

Three cases are staring me down, but the Ghostface Striker is giving me the major side-eye. I toss the other files on my desk like they’re yesterday’s garbage and focus on the one that’s been keeping me up at night.

These kills, they’re random as hell. No specific time frame, no pattern that makes sense. Only thing tying them together is that the poor souls are all around the same age.

The meeting with Harper was a total bust. Liam and Izel played the pros to perfection, nothing out of the ordinary. Not a single crack in their work profile.

Noah bursts into the room, holding a folder like it’s the freaking Holy Grail. “Got the forensics report on the Slasher’s knife.”

I snatch the folder from him, flipping it open like it’s the answer to all my damn problems. The Slasher case has been gnawing at me for months, but I haven’t had a moment to sit down and really dig into it because the Ghostface Striker started his spree right after.

Jealousy hits me as I think about those movies where FBI agents seem to tackle one case at a time, with neat resolutions tied up in a two-hour runtime. Real life is a mess of overlapping horrors and deadlines.

“Tell me something good, Noah,” I mutter, scanning through the pages.

“The knife used is a rare one. It’s got a signature to it. The sicko’s got a taste for the exotic.”

I look up, locking eyes with Noah. “Exotic how?”

He grins, the kind of grin that says he’s onto something. “This blade isn’t something you find at your local store. It's a niche, like underground knife enthusiasts’ wet dream.”

“Underground knife enthusiasts?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Exactly. There are these sketchy online shops, forums, where people trade, sell, and drool over rare blades. It’s a whole subculture. And our Slasher seems to be a part of it.”

I lean back in my chair, nervously twirling my pen between my fingers. “Can we get into one of these forums? Find out where the hell this knife came from?”

Noah’s already nodding, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he pulls up a dark web browser. “I’ve got a few leads. These places aren’t exactly secure, but if we’re careful, we can get in and poke around.”

I watch as Noah navigates through the layers of encryption, eventually landing on a forum with a minimalist look, featuring a black background and red text. There’s a whole thread dedicated to rare blades, with pictures and detailed descriptions.

Noah clicks on one of the posts, and I see a blade that looks similar to the one used in our case. “There,” I say, pointing at the screen. “That’s the one, isn’t it?”

“Looks like it,” Noah agrees, his eyes scanning the post. “It’s custom-made. Only a few of these exist.”

“Who’s the seller?” I ask, leaning in closer.

Noah scrolls down to the seller’s profile. “Goes by ‘SteelSinner.’ Not much info here, but I might be able to trace the IP. Could take a while, though.”

“Do it. If this guy’s selling the same knife, he might know who bought it.”

As Noah gets to work on tracking down the seller, I pick up my phone and dial Emily. “I need you to follow up on something,” I say as soon as she picks up. “We’re looking into an underground knife forum, and I’ve got a lead on a seller. I want you to dig into any recent knife-related purchases near the slasher’s hunting grounds. Check pawn shops, specialty stores, anywhere this knife could’ve changed hands. I’ll send you the details.”

“On it,” she says, and I can hear her scribbling down notes. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” I add, glancing back at the screen. “If you find anything, I want you to cross-reference it with anyone on our suspect list.”

She hangs up, and I turn back to Noah, who’s still working on the trace. “How’s it looking?”

“Slow, but I’m getting there,” he says, his eyes glued to the screen. “This guy’s careful, but not careful enough.”

I watch as the screen fills with code, lines and lines of it that I don’t fully understand, but I trust that Noah does. My gut tells me we’re onto something here. Whoever this ‘SteelSinner’ is, he’s got connections to the kind of sickos who get off on rare blades—and possibly our killer.

Noah heads out, leaving me with the pictures. As I’m poring over the details, my phone suddenly blares out an annoying ringtone. I snatch it up and glance at the caller ID – Detective Lucas Brown.

“What?” I bark into the phone.

“Sir, I’ve got something you need to see.”

“I’ll be there.”

I hang up the phone, grab my jacket, and rush out of the office. There’s something about Lucas’s tone that tells me this can’t wait.