Chapter 13

AIDEN

"Our guy is definitely devolving and spinning out of control," Victoria muttered when we arrived at the most recent victim's house. "He'd been going months between kills, and now it's barely been a couple of weeks before another body dropped in our laps."

I nodded as we walked up towards the house, my thoughts a million miles away. Things didn't sit right with me over this one. And it wasn't just from the additional carnage done to the victim. Something about the guy sent off warning bells as soon as I'd walked onto the scene and saw his body.

"Is it possible this isn't our guy?" I asked, then grimaced. "Never mind. I don't think I want to know if we are looking at more than one person who is capable of that." A full-body shudder went through me. "But I think you're right. Either that or this was personal."

The thought stopped me dead in my tracks.

Personal.

"Aiden?" Victoria called my name but I couldn't find it in myself to answer until she was right in front of me, snapping her fingers. "What? What about it?" Her eyes narrowed as she gave me a once-over. I wasn't sure what she'd find when she studied my face, but I didn't think I'd like it.

I shook my head. "Sorry? What did you say?" I tried to act nonchalant but I knew I wasn't fooling the partner I'd known for almost a decade.

"What the hell, Aiden?" she hissed, keeping her voice low so she wouldn't attract the attention of any of the other dozen cops or crime scene technicians who were milling around.

She grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away, but I was able to easily get out of her grasp.

"We have a job to do, let's do it." My voice was firm and held a tone that was non-negotiable. At least, I hoped it did. But she let out a sigh and followed me into the house.

There was nothing unusual in the house unless you counted all the garbage and the piles of dirty dishes. I was pretty sure there was something alive scurrying around—and I didn't mean a cat.

"This is gross," Victoria muttered as she dug through the guy's belongings, trying her best not to touch anything more than she had to. Even with the gloves on, it still made me squeamish.

"You're telling me," I made a face as I stared at a pile of gay porn DVDs. "Didn't anyone ever tell this dude he could watch this stuff for free on the internet?" I joked.

She rolled her eyes and ignored me. Which was good. Because I felt like I was devolving.

I moved away from the living room and wandered around, but there was nothing that told me anything about the guy or who would want him killed.

Except that he was gay.

Needing air, I went out to see if any of the techs found anything, but they had just started to get to work, so there was nothing yet. I wandered around and let my thoughts drift, which was not a good idea. Just as I tried to reign them in and get back inside, something caught my eye a little further down the street, nestled perfectly in the crack on the sidewalk.

I glanced around, but no one was paying attention to me, so I made my way down the street and bent down to see if it was anything or just more broken concrete. When I got close, I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. My heart raced so fast I was sure it would leap right out of my chest.

No. No, no, no. That's impossible.

With trembling fingers, I reached down and picked up the antique cufflink that had been left behind at the house of the latest victim of the serial killer I'd been hunting for almost a year. My vision swam, and I thought I'd pass out or throw up. Perhaps both.

But I pulled myself together and stared at the tangible proof I couldn't deny any longer. I'd known something was different when I saw the victim.

Personal.

Unlike the rest of the victims, there had been additional wounds on Clint Davenport's body. Along with the cuts we had come to expect, there were stab wounds all over the man's body and his face had been badly beaten. So I hadn't recognized him, plus the club had been dark and I'd been drinking. Then there was good old-fashioned denial.

He'd been even more mutilated, with his hands and dick having been cut off—we still hadn't found those.

"Hey, Cooper, you find anything?" one of the techs asked.

I slid the cufflink into my pocket, spun around, and shrugged. "Nah. Nothing but broken concrete here. Thought maybe there'd be some scuff marks or something from it, but nada." I looked around. "I'm going to canvas the neighborhood. Let Coleman know, would you, if she starts looking for me?"

He nodded. "Of course, Detective."

I gave him a nod and was glad I had an excuse to walk around and dispel some of the anxiety and tension that had gripped me after I found the cufflink. There had to be a reasonable explanation.

ME: We need to talk. I'll text you when I get off work.

NATE: Everything okay, little bird?

ME: Yeah. I'll text you later.

The words, the lie, made me grimace. I wasn't sure I even wanted to confront him about it. Maybe I'd be better off being an ostrich with my head stuck in the sand.

Except, that wasn't a viable option. I was a homicide detective. I was hunting a serial killer. And my boyfriend's cufflink was at the victim's house.

Or near, rather.

No! I had to stop rationalizing what I'd found.

But I also had to get back to work, so I slipped my phone back into my pocket and started knocking on doors. Even though I knew no one would answer for the police.