Chapter 1

Olivia Bennett

M y phone buzzed against my nightstand, cutting through the silence and waking me reluctantly. My hand fumbled for the device, dragging it to my ear as bleary eyes squinted at the red digits of the clock on my side table. 4 am mocked me.

Fuck, already?

“Oli!” His voice was too bright for this ungodly hour. “We got another one.”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, trying to push away the fog clouding my mind. Another day off forfeited to the job. A girl could dream about free time, but dreams were luxuries in this line of work. Especially for me. I was a busy woman.

“Slapchop is at it again. Meet me there, I just texted you the address,” Johnathan chirped with twisted enthusiasm in his tone.

“Slapchop,” I muttered, disdain curling my lip. That damned nickname, born from some blogger’s dark humor, had stuck for Jonathan despite all the others our killer had been given over the last few years.

I groaned into the receiver, showcasing my reluctance for the grim display we would find at the crime scene. It was too early for this.

“Amazing.” Johnathan’s voice dripped with sarcasm, the kind only he could get away with. “See you there in twenty.”

The line went dead before I could muster a comeback. I tossed my phone aside, its thud against the nightstand oddly satisfying. My feet hit the cold floor, a small jolt to my senses. No time for slippers and coffee today. I tugged on my clothes—a tight black tee and faded jeans—in seconds. Muscle memory at this point. My gun’s metal was cool, almost biting, as I fastened it to my hip with my badge. Its presence had always been reassuring, even if the reason for it wasn’t.

I took a deep breath, allowing the quiet of my apartment to steady me. It smelled of coffee from my espresso machine and the lemon cleaner I used too often. My life seemed half-lived in between calls like these. I spent more time chasing bad guys than I did in this place. I had always been a defender of the helpless. It was why I had picked this job all those years ago: to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

I moved to leave, locking the door behind me, ready to face another day. Quickly, I made it down the three flights of stairs from my studio apartment to the parking garage. I opened my car’s door and crawled inside. It hummed to life with the turn of the key, my headlights cutting through the dark of the early morning.

Twenty minutes. Another body. Another chance to dance around the devil Johnathan called Slapchop. So stupid , I thought as I smiled to myself. The killer’s recent name was “The Executioner.” That was the one seen the most in all the headlines.

I pressed the gas, the engine’s roar swallowing my unease that always came with going to a crime scene. Especially one on this case.

The police tape glinted under the stingy light of the streetlamps. My boots crunched on broken glass as I approached the apartment building. The air was thick, tainted with something metallic and wrong, like old blood and decay. Heads started turning toward me, marking my arrival.

“Morning,” I muttered to no one in particular, ducking under the yellow tape.

Johnathan stood by the entrance, his eyes scanning everything. They landed on me, then brief nods were exchanged—our version of a warm greeting in front of everyone. Right now, we were all business. We stepped through the doorway of the apartment, our movements synchronized, careful not to disturb anything.

“Details?” I asked.

“Single caller, ex-wife. Officer Jenkins took the statement,” Johnathan replied, eyes never leaving the scene.

“Let’s talk to Jenkins after we see the body.” My voice was steady despite the dread tightening in my chest. “Why was the ex-wife here?” I asked.

“Said she wanted to see for herself that he was dead. Apparently, when our victim didn’t come to kill her, she assumed the executioner came for him,” Jonathan said, reading from the small notepad in his hand. “I prefer Slapchop, but her words, not mine.” I rolled my eyes, and he let out a light chuckle.

“So, who’s our victim?” I asked.

“30-year-old David Croix.” Jonathan handed me his file. The FBI considered the Croixes to be one of the largest and most powerful crime families in New York. This guy had been accused of everything under the sun: murder, gambling, drug trafficking, money laundering. If you could name it, he’d done it.

David was the perfect candidate for our serial killer. They went for the people the law just couldn’t seem to catch, whether because they had the money to get off or had connections that had kept their record clean, resulting in a slap on the wrist.

“The body’s in the living room,” a uniformed officer pointed out, his face pale. As if he might faint from just the glimpse he’d taken of it.

“Thanks.” I kept my reply short and focused as I finished glancing over the file. Most of this information, I already knew. The Croixes were popular with the feds.

We moved deeper into the apartment, my senses heightened. A shattered vase. The hum of a refrigerator somewhere in the back. An expensive painting askew on the wall. I noted everything, nothing was too small, and it was all a part of protocol. I was always careful to never miss a step.

We entered the living room. There it was. This was definitely our perp. No matter how many times I saw the aftermath of their work, it never got easier. It was getting increasingly more difficult to try and catch this guy because I felt these victims deserved what happened to them. Every single person the executioner had gone after had a laundry list of crimes and families they had tormented.

I crouched down, my gaze never faltering from the horror in front of me. The body was splayed out. Deep gashes marred the flesh, and his face… unrecognizable. They loved slicing. The coppery stench of blood hung thick in the air, cloying and suffocating with the ripening smell of his decomposing body. You never got used to it, no matter how many crime scenes you’d been to. His body had started to bloat, and his skin had started turning a pale, greenish hue.

Johnathan’s voice floated over. “Neighbors didn’t see anything. Big surprise.” He gestured with a shake of both of his hands.

“Our killer is too careful, plus our vic has been here a few days already based on his decomposition.” I stood. “Let’s hear what Jenkins got from the ex-wife,” I suggested, already moving toward the officer in question.

“Right behind you,” Johnathan confirmed, his presence a steady assurance. He always had my back, as he’d been my partner for a few years now. I’d tried to keep my distance at first, I wasn’t big on friends, but Johnathan had eventually become my only one, and for the most part, we were inseparable. We walked over to where Officer Jenkins stood, flipping through his notepad, his eyes wary and tired.

“What’ve you got for us?” I asked.

“Caller’s name is Amanda Croix. Claims she knew he would come for her once he got out of jail for leaving him. She still had the key to his apartment and wandered in looking for David for herself when he didn’t. She found the body and bolted, then thought better of it and called it in from a payphone two blocks over.”

“Any priors?” I prodded, going over all the standard questions.

“Other than getting beat by David for a few years, no, nothing. Their divorce was finalized while he was serving a short sentence. He just got out about a week ago.”

“Where is she now?” I pressed. Maybe she could give us more information. Plus, I wanted to be sure she was safe.

“She said she didn’t want to talk to the cops. She didn’t want anyone to see her here. She fears his family.”

“Thank you, Jenkins.” It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Jonathan followed behind me as we readied to leave.

“Sooo, are we going to say hello?” Jonathan murmured, already knowing what my next move would be.

“Yep,” I agreed, feeling the eluded pull of the chase making butterflies flutter behind my ribs.

Amanda Croix looked like a ghost. Her eyes were hollow, her skin a pale mask to what its normal color would be. She appeared sick, but with fear, not a cold. She sat in the corner booth of the diner, the kind with cracked red vinyl seats and mismatched flooring, and flinched every time the door jingled open. I slid in across from her with Johnathan. She didn’t relax, but how could she? She knew how dangerous the Croixes were, and after finding the man that had abused her for so long and the way he’d been killed… I was sure this wasn’t easy for her.

“Amanda, thanks for meeting with us,” I said, and Johnathan gave her a reassuring smile.

She glanced around the room, her eyes darting like a frightened bird’s. Her knee was a jackhammer under the table. “I don’t have long,” she said. “I can’t be seen talking to cops.”

I signaled the waitress for coffee. Amanda already had a cup, but it looked untouched. “We’re just here to help,” I said. “No one will know.”

She bit her lip. “You don’t understand. His family—”

“Are they coming after you?” I cut in. Her fear was palpable. Real. But it was my job in more ways than one to protect victims like her. I’d make sure nothing happened to her. She’d been through enough.

She shook her head then nodded. “I don’t know. Maybe. Once you’re married to a Croix, it’s hard to escape that life. They might think I had something to do with his murder somehow.”

The waitress plunked a chipped mug in front of me and filled it with a slosh of hot, dark liquid. “Amanda, we know you didn’t kill him.” Johnathan eyed me but didn’t interrupt. “I’m going to help you get through this.”

She stared into her coffee, wringing her hands together. “He was a dangerous man,” she almost whispered. “You know that...” I nodded, letting her open up to me. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “He hurt me for years. The bruises, the broken bones. I never told anyone because I was too scared. He said he’d kill me if I left, and I believed him.”

I waited. I didn’t need to take notes—her words were carving themselves into my memory. As if I were sitting here in the memories with her.

“He was getting worse,” she continued. “Unhinged. He called me from jail a few days before he got out, screaming. Telling me he was going to come for me because I had divorced him with his own money. I thought that was it. That he was going to finish me once he got out.”

She opened her tear-filled eyes and looked straight at me for the first time. “I’m thankful,” she said. “To whoever did it. To whoever the executioner is. If they hadn’t taken him out, I’d be dead now. They saved my life.”

My stomach tightened, but I gave her a small smile. “How do you know it was the executioner?”

“When I saw the body, it matched the things I’d heard on the news over the years. They always go for the ones that slip through the cracks… I hope they never get caught.” She trailed off, but I understood her too well. “I’m sorry,” she continued. “I’m not trying to disrespect your job or anything. The system can just be...” She waved her head as if dismissing her own thoughts like smoke.

I touched her hand gently, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I understand. No need to explain.”

The door bells jingled and she jumped. “Sorry, I really should go...”

“Wait,” I said, stopping her as she was getting up to leave. “Take this.” I handed her my card. “It’s my personal phone number. Go to the Royal Palace Hotel on the outskirts of town, stay there as long as you need, and call me if you need anything. Just tell them my name and they’ll help you from there.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, stay safe,” I said, and she hurried toward the exit. The door jingled and a gust of warm air rushed in. I watched her disappear into the afternoon sun, then stared into my coffee, seeing something far darker in the reflection of my eyes.

The executioner saved her life. The words settled in my chest. I finished the coffee in one swig, letting its heat burn all the way down.

“How many times have you done that?” Jonathan asked after sitting there quietly, his eyes full of emotion as he looked over at me.

“I’ve lost count,” I murmured as I stood from the booth. “C’mon, let’s head back.”