Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Frankie

After dinner and drinks with Amelia, I should have gone straight home, but her words sparked a few ideas. Being the workaholic that I am, I wanted to explore them while they were still fresh in my mind.

I'm fucking exhausted after what feels like the longest day ever. I can barely keep my eyes open when I drag myself into the house. But that's what I get for returning to the office after saying our goodbyes in the restaurant's parking lot. Then I hightailed it to my messy desk to cross-check the victims' tax records to see if they'd ever lived outside California.

Even at the late hour and a few after-dinner drinks, I was wide awake enough to see if the poor guys had crossed paths somewhere out of state—airports, trains and buses. So far, I haven't found anything linking them together—not looks, careers, or even neighborhoods.

The men were all very different, and other than being homicide victims, the only thing they shared were alleged problems with alcohol. I could chalk this up to being circumstantial. Often, people resort to the bottle for a while over a job loss or the end of a relationship. It doesn't always mean a serious addiction to alcohol.

I'm not giving up, but after two beers and too many hours in front of a computer screen, I knew when I needed to shut it down in favor of a few hours of sleep.

The sick bastard will still be here tomorrow.

Right now, as I'm kicking off my shoes at the front door and hanging up my jacket, he's probably scouring Los Angeles somewhere, hunting for his next victim. Hunting for some poor soul—who I can't identify yet—who will become my problem in the morning.

A laugh escapes me, and I shake my head as I walk through the living room to do my nightly check of the windows and doors on the first floor.

"In the morning, if I'm lucky," I say to myself, thinking about the middle-of-the-night wake-up call to get to the Beaumont crime scene.

"Shit," I mutter when I realize I didn't lock the patio door. My shoulders slump, and I go through every room on the first floor to make sure there aren't any big bads lurking in dark corners.

Once every room is clear, I make my way upstairs and check the spare room that's never seen a guest, and then the bathroom. "All clear," I say to myself as I pull back the shower curtain and turn on the hot water. The damn thing takes forever to heat up—because I don't have time to find a good and dependable plumber—which means it needs a few minutes before it gets even close to hot.

Steam fills the bathroom as I head into my bedroom to undress and wash away the day. I barely take two steps inside when I sense something's wrong. Purple lingerie laid out on the bed catches my eye—lingerie I wore for Nate before I found out he was a cheating bastard. And I definitely didn't leave it out on the bed. Nor did I buy those stockings.

What the fuck?

My pulse quickens and I scan my room. Clenching my gun tighter, I check my closet, yanking the door open with my gun at the ready. Nothing. Nobody.

Knowing better than most that, sometimes, big bads do hide there, I peer under the bed. With my bedroom clear, I rush downstairs for a second, more thorough sweep of the house. My eyes are wide, and my heart is pounding so loud that if someone is inside, I might not hear them.

I race downstairs, checking every nook and cranny—the bathroom, my office, the kitchen, even the laundry room. I tell myself that the house is empty, but my pulse won't slow as I make a third circuit of all the rooms, just to make sure that I'm truly alone.

I return to my bedroom and head straight for the safe inside my closet. After a moment's hesitation, I decide to keep the weapon with me instead of securing it. Despite triple-checking the house and positively sure the house is empty, I can't shake the unsettling feeling in my gut.

Suddenly, a thought strikes me—Nate. He's the only person besides me who knows about that stupid negligee and the only one stupid and impulsive enough to break in and display it like this. The silk stockings are an unexpected, almost thoughtful addition. He's never been one for romance, and it seems out of character. Then again, he is trying to win me back.

My gaze sweeps the room again. What the hell is he thinking? Breaking into my house, leaving lingerie on my bed like some kind of twisted gift? My fingers tighten around the grip of my gun as a surge of anger floods through me. Nate's always been impulsive, but this crosses a line.

I stalk over to the bed and snatch up the negligee, the smooth fabric slipping through my fingers. I want to rip it to shreds, but I force myself to toss it back on the bed. It's evidence now, as much as I hate to admit it. Evidence of Nate's unhealthy obsession, his refusal to let me go.

The stockings catch my eye again, and I scoff. Is this supposed to be romantic? A grand gesture to win back my affections? Nate's never been one for subtlety or genuine concern. This feels more like a taunt, a reminder of the hold he thinks he still has over me.

But I'm not falling for it. I'm not the same woman who fell for his charms and empty promises. I've grown. I've hardened. And I'll be damned if I let Nate manipulate me again.

Forget him , I tell myself as I storm into the bathroom. I strip down before stepping into the—finally—hot shower. My mind races as the water spray hits my skin, and I wonder how in the hell that negligee that's been in the back of the drawer for months ended up on my bed with a pair of stockings.

I shake my head vigorously, water droplets flying as I try to banish a scary thought. What if it isn't Nate? The possibility gnaws at me, but I refuse to entertain it. There's no way I inadvertently pulled out that negligee while rummaging for something else. I'm too careful for that kind of mistake.

I wouldn't. I couldn't have.

Although I should have thrown the damn thing in the trash months ago, practicality won out. It was expensive, and wasting money goes against my nature. Besides, it's almost brand new, and I can wear it whenever and for whomever I damn well please. It's my choice.

Am I losing my mind? Maybe it's sleep delirium, and I just really need a day or two off to recharge my batteries. That is a distinct possibility since I haven't had a day off in the past three weeks because, in addition to a probably—very likely—serial killer, the city's been experiencing a crime wave. Dead bodies are popping up left, right and center. And even if it is just exhaustion, there are no days off in my future, not with the dick decapitator on the loose.

I tilt my head back, letting the water cascade over my face as if it could wash away the weariness and dark thoughts. I can't afford to fall apart, not when there's a deranged killer at large. I'll rest when this is over. If it's ever over.

I step from the shower and wrap a big fluffy towel around my body and use another to dry off my hair. My gaze falls on the open door to my bedroom. I see the negligee and stockings taunting me from the bed. Jaw clenched, I snatch them up and stuff them back into my drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. If only it were that simple.

Focus, Frankie. That's what my dad used to say to me when I'd go off on my teenage tangents about one injustice or another. "You've gotta learn to focus on the minor details, Frankie."

The minor details.

Not my stupid, cheating ex-boyfriend.

I train my mind on the details about the killer. And his victims.

There has to be a connection that I'm not seeing. I just know it. It's unlikely, given the wounds, that the victims are unrelated to one another. It's even less likely they are unknown to the killer.

Question number one. "How do they know each other?"

I work the moisturizer into my skin, starting with my arms and working my way down to my legs. The repetitive motions are a small comfort. The thought of someone intruding into my space, rummaging through my things, especially my underwear drawer, still sends a shiver down my spine. But he's not here now.

And I'm dog fucking tired.

"Stop." I scold myself, forcing my scattered thoughts into a semblance of order. Nothing's going to make sense in this state of mind, and I need to be sharp. I need to sleep. Tomorrow's another day.

I pull on my shorts and tank and collapse onto the bed, the weight of the day pressing down on me. As I sink into the mattress, a heavy sigh escapes, tugging exhaustion from the deepest corners of my soul.

But before my eyes fully close, a flicker of movement catches my attention. My heart leaps, and I jolt upright, my hand automatically reaching for my gun on the nightstand. With every muscle tense, I scan the room, searching for any signs of intrusion.

The damn curtain. That's all it is. Moving from the evening breeze teasing my frayed nerves. I force myself to relax, my fingers loosening their grip on the gun.

"You need a break, Frankie," I tell myself. "Get some rest. Tomorrow's a new day."

But even as I try to convince myself, I know it's more than just fatigue clouding my judgment.

The serial killer is making me crazy.