4. Jace Holloway

Chapter 4

Jace Holloway

I couldn’t shake the euphoric sensations, even after having to wait for the delayed train and the short walk through the drizzling rain to get back home. My thighs still shook as I stripped out of my clothes and jumped in the shower. I rinsed off and stood under the warm water, eyes shut, body feeling the after-shocks of one of the best orgasms of my life. I wasn’t sure what the hell was in the air or what kind of magic ass Theo had, but I had to jerk off again. It didn’t take me long to finish, either. All I had to do was picture the broody-eyed and tattooed man back on all fours for my orgasm to hit.

Cum swirled down the drain as I held myself up against the white tiles.

“Fuuuuck,” I hissed out. That was good. Normally, the bathhouse was a hit or miss. I found some good times there, but it wasn’t always guaranteed. And now I imagined disappointment would likely follow me every time I roamed those dark halls and didn’t bump into Theo.

I finished off in the shower and pulled on a pair of briefs. I walked out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam following behind me. My apartment wasn’t large—New York, after all—but it worked well for me. It was a studio with a bomb-ass bodega down the street. There was an office building next door that obstructed the view, but I didn’t entirely mind. Everyone went home after five, so I could walk around naked with my window open and not give a fuck who saw me. I had neighbors that only got into the occasional shouting match and had zero problems with rodents or roaches.

So, overall, I felt like I was winning.

I was too buzzed to go to bed. If I lay down now, I’d probably end up needing to stroke another one out. I went to my desk instead, pulling back the worn red chair. The wooden legs tugged against the beige carpet. I opened my laptop and leaned back. I tried to ignore the way my dick twitched between my thighs.

Goddamn, what did that man do to me?

I wasn’t normally this horny. Especially after I started on my antidepressants. They were truly a lifesaver and had pulled me from the dark depths of my mind, but the side effects of being happy and hopeful meant having a dick that didn’t work all the time. I didn’t mind it at first. Not when it felt like I was getting my life back. I was no longer spending days in bed, struggling to find a motivation to get up and succeed at something. I was actually able to enjoy the struggle of work and life. And I wasn’t idealizing ending it all. My depression had become severe and led me to some life-threatening moments, moments I never wanted to revisit again, so I was fine with having a lack of a sex drive. When it did kick up, I’d end up going to the bathhouse or finding a random hookup on Grindr, but that wasn’t all that often.

Yet something had clicked with Theo. The pure passion and intense chemistry unlocked a door that had long been closed. I wanted to see him again, to fuck him, to feel him wrapped around me, taking every inch of me, begging me for my load.

But I also had to work.

I knew of a sure-fire way to dampen my sex drive. I unlocked my laptop and opened up my case files. I uploaded the photos I took from today’s crime scene, all thoughts of Theo and his perfect ass dissolving into thin air.

My focus zeroed in on the bloody, winged enigma filling my computer screen. There was something beautifully messed up about how the black feathers seemed to sprout from the victim’s back. No matter how many visceral photos I examined, I never truly got used to them. Yet, I couldn’t deny the morbid fascination these images held. It was as if the killer had taken painstaking care to place each feather just right. A thin wire had been inserted through the top feathers, allowing them to lift off the victim’s back.

And that poem today… it was clear this had something to do with “The Raven,” but what exactly? Was it just a sick ob session, or was there a deeper meaning? I was inclined to believe the latter.

A thought struck me. Both of these men were found within about a seven-mile radius of each other, and both appeared to have been caught unaware during some kind of hookup. They were likely on the apps. Could they have known each other?

I closed out of today’s photos and opened Facebook. Searching for Ricky Walters, I found a profile that was pretty bare-bones. Scanning through his public friend list, I didn’t spot the other victim, Jesse Sanderson. Not surprising—guys in their early twenties rarely used Facebook these days.

But Ricky had his Instagram linked. That seemed more promising.

I jumped over to a much more populated profile. Rows upon rows of photos showed Ricky modeling, all appearing to be shot by the same photographer. Maybe that explained the camera in his bedroom? I looked through his friends list and still didn’t spot Jesse. But then I clicked over to the photographer’s profile.

His name was Andres Jackson. He specialized in no-frills photo shoots, likely done from his own apartment. There was a tall, arching window where most of the models sat, wearing only their underwear, photographed mostly at the same time of day when the warm orange glow of the sun was most appealing. Some of the models slouched in a blue leather chair; others leaned back on a tall, velvet black headboard. All of them were men of various body types and ages .

I found Ricky on the third row, and just a few photos down from his was Jesse.

Bingo.

I’d found a link. Good.

I went to the contact info and typed up a quick email. I couldn’t find a phone number, so I hoped my request didn’t land in spam; otherwise, I’d have to find another way to reach the photographer.

Maybe they had met after spotting one another on the photographer’s profile? Or perhaps something more sinister was occurring. Maybe this page had become some kind of catalog for the killer to pick his next prey.

Whatever thread I’d just discovered, I was determined to see where it led.

I closed out of the website and went back to the evidence from today’s scene. I revisited the poem that had been left on the camera. So odd for there to be just one photo in there and for it to relate to a raven. I wondered if this was more of a calling card than anything else.

And what was with the changing of names in the poem? Who was Marielle? I dug a little more, trying to see if Ricky had a relative or friend named Marielle. Reopening Instagram, I combed through his posts, his tags, his comments.

No one named Marielle. But I did find a comment left by someone who appeared to have the same last name as him. It was simply a “congrats” under a picture of Ricky graduating from cosmetology school. A family member?

I clicked over. Certainly looked like an older brother. They had the same eyes, same hair—but no pictures together. Odd.

I sent him a DM, asking if I could contact him about Ricky to discuss what happened and who might have done it. I was shocked to get a reply almost instantly.

Not interested.

Hmm, weird.

I replied back, asking if he could please jump on a call. I just wanted some answers. It would be quick, I promised.

There was a longer stretch of time before another DM came through. It simply had a phone number.

I tapped the number and stood up from my chair. This could be another solid lead. The phone gave a couple of rings before a gruff-sounding “Hello” greeted me from the other end.

“Thank you for taking my call, Justin,” I said.

“What is this about?”

“I’m investigating the death of someone you may know. His name is Ricky Walters.”

“Fuuuck. That’s my cousin.”

“I’m sorry to break the news like this.”

There was a deep exhale followed by a dark laugh. I cocked my head, eyebrows drawing together. People dealt with shock and grief in various ways, although laughter was one of the more unsettling reactions, even if it was natural. “How’d it happen?” Justin asked.

I didn’t want to go into full detail. I gave him a short rundown, sparing the more gruesome parts, and didn’t bring up the link to the other victim. Not yet. I wanted to keep as much of the case under wraps as possible .

“Damn,” Justin said. He must have been driving; the wind echoed around him. “Honestly, though, it’s not a surprise.”

I was glad I was speaking to Justin over the phone because a flash of surprise twisted my features. I kept my tone neutral. “How so?”

“My cousin was into some messed-up stuff. Running around in dark circles. I tried talking to him about it, but he kept shutting me out. I was the only one left in the family who even interacted with him. After the disaster at my mom’s birthday party, everyone cut him off. Even his own parents.”

Interesting.

“What happened at the party?”

“He brought his boyfriend with him. An older guy, full of tattoos and scars. Everyone in the family was fine with him being gay, but no one liked this guy from the jump. He was rude and dismissive. A huge jerk. Then he got into it with my dad. The fight escalated until the guy pulled a gun out. He shot it three times; one bullet grazed my freaking ear. And Ricky ended up leaving with him. He defended him, saying my dad was in the wrong. No one spoke to him after that.”

I opened up a black leather notebook on my desk and jotted this down. “Do you have a name for the boyfriend?”

“Just a first name: Gio.”

“And how long ago was this incident?”

“Last year.”

“You said Ricky was into some ‘messed- up stuff.’ Is there anything besides Leo’s actions that made you think that?”

There was a brief pause. “Listen, I don’t judge; I’m not that kind of guy. But he didn’t have the most noble of professions. He was an escort. And sex work is fine, but there were rumors that he was involved in something darker.”

“What rumors?” I pressed. I could feel something just beneath the surface of what Justin was telling me. I felt like a bloodhound hot on the trail.

“Something about him blackmailing people. I don’t know the full details. I was contacted by someone—I don’t know their name or info; they called from a blocked number—but they wanted me to possibly testify against him. I told them I didn’t want to get involved. They never reached out again.” A baby gave a shrill cry in the background. “Listen, I have to go. I hope you get to the bottom of what happened. Ricky may have gone down a bad path, but he wasn’t always like that. I hope he can rest now, at least.”

“Thank you for your time.”

I hung up the call and leaned against my desk. Sirens wailed outside my apartment building. The call might have given me more questions than answers, but that was fine. Questions would lead me in the right direction. It just meant the puzzle pieces were falling into my lap; all I had to do was arrange them into the correct pattern. It’s what I love most about my job—the piecing together of seemingly random information. There’s a cathartic release that comes once the entire picture is assembled.

I remembered speaking to my dad about it as a child. He hated the investigative aspect of policing. He liked the instant results of pulling up to a crime scene, finding a man holding a bloody knife as he stood over his dead wife, wrestling him to the ground, and snapping handcuffs on him so he could drag him to jail where the criminal would rot. Then on to the next.

I preferred more of a chase. I enjoyed the hunt.