Chapter One

"Who drank the last of the coffee?" Agent Tiberius Granger barked, holding up the empty coffeepot and waving it around the Strange Crimes Unit office. "I thought we had a rule. Whoever drinks the last cup makes the next pot. It's a sound rule. I'm an FBI agent, people. I'll find the culprit."

His colleague and the SCU division psychologist, Violet Rainwater, glanced up from her desk. Maybe irritated. Maybe not. Violet always appeared annoyed. "Ty, you drank the last cup. An hour ago. Idiot," she mumbled, and his ride-or-die, Owen Barkley, chuckled.

Well, maybe he had. "In my defense, I'm out of my mind in paperwork. I hate this job."

That earned him another eye roll from Violet until her phone rang and her face softened. "Hey, John." She stood and left the office for privacy. Ty made kissy sounds on her way out the door to get under her skin. She and the Memphis Missing Persons detective had been all about each other since last October when they'd worked a case together in an east Kentucky holler. So much so she now wore a big fat engagement ring, and Ty wondered if she'd shot and killed someone to get it. That was one big rock. And Violet was one good shot.

Owen met him at the coffee bar that their admin assistant, Cami, had put together, calling it Pinterest-worthy. All Ty cared about was that he had hot caffeine to keep him awake when he was out of Monster energy drinks. Owen dumped the filter in the trash. "Your coffee tastes terrible and your tie is ridiculous." He poured distilled water in the coffee tank and scooped grounds into a new filter.

Ty smoothed his new tie. "I'll have you know this tie says I'm a fall guy."

"It's a chalk outline mixed in between fall leaves."

"I know." Ty grinned. "Fall. Guy. Get it?"

"I wish I didn't." He pressed Start and the machine gurgled. "You think serial killers are taking autumn off? Less psychotic since summer is over? It was a scorcher. Even I wanted to kill someone."

Ty leaned on the counter. Early in June, a sick-wad called The Priest had crucified men, leaving a trail across the Louisiana bayou. But nothing since then, except paperwork and phone calls. Well, they had helped Violent Crimes on two cases that weren't considered strange—no religious undertones. Those crazies belonged to the SCU. Nope, it'd been entirely too silent since then. Ty never liked the quiet before the storm. Didn't like storms in general since he'd been caught in a cat 1 hurricane in Barbados. And yet he'd still remembered to bring back gifts to the team, though he'd noted not one of them had ever worn the tropical shirts.

"I'm not sure serial killers take too much time off. Just enough to plot their next murder." He glanced toward the big kahuna's door. "Hey, you bringing a plus-one to Asa and Fiona's wedding?"

Owen frowned. "That's over a month away, bruh. I barely know who I'm taking out this weekend." His sight traveled to the small cubicle at the back of the room where their computer analyst, Selah Jones, sat with thick black frames on the tip of her nose. Ty had a sneaking suspicion they weren't even prescription lenses. Selah and Owen flirted and hung out on occasion, but O didn't date colleagues, and like Ty, he wasn't interested in serious relationships.

Bexley Hemmingway had ruined Ty for other women, or maybe she'd ruined other women for him. Either way, she was the last person he wanted on his mind and the only one on a constant loop since last year when he discovered she hadn't actually been dead for the past seventeen years. He had a million questions, but not enough nerve to call and ask them. Besides, if she'd wanted, she could have found him. He'd been on the national news on more than one occasion, and where serial killers were concerned, everyone had a fetish tuning in to interviews, podcasts and press conferences to mine any perverted nugget they could, so she'd more than likely seen him at least once.

"Who are your weekend options?" Ty asked, redirecting his thoughts away from Bexley and anywhere else, even Owen's dates.

"No one," came the grisly voice from behind. Asa Kodiak, their Papa Bear and SAC, wore a grim expression. Fiona followed with the same narrowed eyes and scrunched brow. They'd been married and divorced, but they'd reconciled after catching the Nursery Rhyme Killer last summer. Since then he'd proposed again, and the next wedding was set for this October. Both Owen and Ty were Asa's best men. Violet was going to be Fiona's maid of honor. Violet in a fancy dress. This would be fun to watch, record and all-around enjoy. He hoped for John's sake she at least smiled for the photos or their own wedding photos would look like something straight out of the 1800s.

"We're leaving for the Outer Banks at noon," Asa said. "Blue Harbor Island, a little place near Roanoke."

"What nightmare has presented there?" Violet stood by the door to the office, already texting. Probably to let John know she was about to fly to sandy shores for a few days, two weeks tops. That's the longest they stayed on a site, though they often returned if needed.

"Last month they found a woman, Amy-Rose Rydell. She'd been missing six months. They discovered her propped at the door to the Currituck Beach Lighthouse in Corolla. She'd been tattooed in roses from her neck to her mid-thighs. Local sheriff thought it might be one gruesome, but isolated, incident."

"That didn't pan out, huh?" Owen asked.

"No. Forty-five minutes ago, another missing woman from five months ago was discovered in the same manner at the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse entrance." He glanced at his phone. "A Lily Hayes. Both late twenties. Neither woman had the tattoos before they went missing. Her tattoos were of lilies."

"It's bizarre," Violet said, "but you know what I'm going to ask. What brings it to our door? The Manteo resident agency unable to assist?"

Asa pocketed his phone. "They're on site now, but it has a religious undertone."

Almost all of their cases had twisted religious ritualistic behavior, which is why Ty had a job with the SCU. His expertise as a religious behavioral analyst kept him busier than he wanted to be, but people to some extent were predictable if they had some kind of religious faith. Their beliefs motivated not only day-to-day behavior, but their killings as well, and that belief manifested in their signatures, aka their homicidal calling cards.

Ty knew firsthand about warped religious views; he'd been born into a cult and was thankful every day he'd left. Religions boiled down to two things—money and power. Dark purposes and greedy gain. Grubby paws that swiped at the objects they lusted over. From preachers peddling healing handkerchiefs to poor desperate souls riddled with sickness to gurus who ensured people who did good things could come back in the next life more prosperous than the one before. It was all a long con. A scam. A joke.

Ty wasn't falling for any of that nonsense ever again.

Asa rubbed the back of his neck. "They each had a solid white index card nailed into their right palm that read in black print, ‘Bloom where you are planted.' That's a phrase used in Christian circles. Right, Ty?"

The Christians—his favorite group of twisted fanatics. How anyone could be duped into believing that a higher power loved a human enough to die for them so they could spend eternity together was ludicrous.

Every soul had a god—self. And no self would die for another human being. End of story. But millions had fallen into the trap, including three of his SCU members. To each his own as long as they didn't push it on him.

"It's a Christian phrase, yes?" Asa asked again.

"It was said by Bishop of Geneva, Saint Francis de Sales, but later made famous by an illustrator. I can't remember her name. It's often seen on bumper stickers with the Jesus fish as well as on home decor signs and stuff. Pretty self-explanatory." He shrugged. "You may not like where you are, but make the most of it. You know, like me and paperwork."

Fiona frowned, and Asa ignored him and turned to Violet. Violet had a superpower. She could slide into the brain of a serial killer and was rarely wrong. It was terrifying, but it came in handy for them. "Violet?" Asa asked.

She blinked a couple of times and cocked her head. "I need to see photos of the tattoos. Are they good? Hack job? Did he tattoo them and dump them, or did he keep them for a period of time after the tattooing?"

"I don't know," Asa said. "I wouldn't think it would take four months to tattoo someone's body."

Violet closed her eyes again, her telltale sign she was becoming a killer. "I want them for myself. I enjoy seeing my ink, my brand, on them." She opened her eyes. "Sexual assault?"

"I don't know yet," Asa said.

Violet returned to that dark place and Ty studied her, icy fingers scraping down his spine until he inwardly shuddered.

"I want them for myself but it's not enough. I need the world to see them, see what I did. I want them under a spotlight—the lighthouse. It's not about them, though. It's about me. My handiwork."

"We're looking for a narcissist," Fiona said.

Ty grinned. "Owen, did you do it?"

Owen gave him a you're-not-as-funny-as-you-think look. "Ha ha. I'll check the distance between the lighthouses." Owen was a great geopattern theorist, and his work helped them triangulate where killers might live or work and where they hunted based on geographical patterns. Total old school when he had software that would accomplish the same task.

Asa handed Violet an iPad with preliminary photos of the bodies. Ty stood behind her to check out the artwork. "Professional and intricate."

The flowers were identical to each other and the stems were perfectly straight.

"Ty, I rarely say it because it's rarely sayable," Violet said, "but you're right. No way a captive woman would hold still for this. He's meticulous and precise. Moving would cause a mistake, and he doesn't make mistakes. Mistakes enrage him." Violet handed the iPad back to Fiona. "It's more than narcissism. I need to see the bodies, and I need to know if they've been sexually assaulted. Either way, it's about power and control."

"That'll affect the profile," Fiona said. Being in the SCU meant having access to the Behavioral Analyst Unit in Quantico, but Fiona had gone through the lengthy training early on, and she and Violet often worked up the profiles on their unidentified subjects, or UNSUBS, without calling for a BAU consult.

Owen clapped his hands together. "Well, let's go get him."

Ty made a fist, and Owen bumped it.

Asa's gaze landed on Ty. "Can I see you in my office a minute?"

That was never good. "Sure, Bear." He looked to Fiona for some inkling of what Asa might want, but she offered no help. Definitely not good. Ty followed Asa into his office and closed the door. "What's going on? Am I in trouble?" It'd been a while since he was in the official hot seat.

Asa eased into his leather chair and pointed to the other one across the desk.

Yeah, he was in trouble. But he'd pretty much been toeing the line and keeping his cake hole in check. Ty plopped in the chair. "I've been using a filter in public, Bear. Honest." He'd gotten himself in deep trouble when he'd made some snide comments about a killer in Virginia they'd been tracking. Someone with a cell phone had recorded it, and it had gone viral due to his humorous remarks. Could have been worse. He could've talked trash about a colleague or something. Still, it had been unprofessional, and he'd been careful since then about what he said. In public.

Asa smirked. "I'm not talking about that viral video, though Fiona thinks you deserve a medal to celebrate not ending up on someone else's TikTok or YouTube."

"I kinda concur." Although that case involving the Fire Ice Killer had gone cold three Septembers ago, he had nagged Ty the most. Ty still wanted him. But there hadn't been a murder since the TikTok and YouTube video released. No new evidence. All Ty was left with was his own blunder. "You're not suspending me again, are you?" His punishment had been fair, and he'd taken that week to gain some clarity in Barbados, only to be trapped in the middle of a hurricane. That had been a suck year.

Asa tented his hands. "No. Have you been paying attention to the news?"

"Like politics and stuff? 'Cause no." He had enough sociopaths to deal with in his job. The last thing he wanted to do was come home and turn them on his TV as background noise.

"This case is in the Outer Banks, and the weather team is keeping an eye on a storm gathering in the southeastern Caribbean Sea. Right now, the probability is low that it'll generate into a hurricane, but they're watching it, and I know how you feel about bad storms and about North Carolina in general."

He held Ty's gaze. Ty did hate storms, but it was highly unlikely they'd be in the Outer Banks when one hit. They'd exit before it was too wild. Being in North Carolina altogether was a whole other ball game—where curveballs were thrown and heavy hitters struck out.

It's where he was born and raised in the Family of Glory. "That's more about Asheville, Asa. Are we going to Asheville?"

"I don't know the answer to that, Tiberius. We never know where a case will lead. You know this. But...since Cami is on vacation, I thought I'd give you the option of staying here and helping Selah answer phones and do the paperwork you love so much."

He scratched his scruffy chin—he hadn't had time to shave for oversleeping. "Paperwork and phones over catching a killer. Hmm...tough choice." He didn't necessarily love going back to his home state. Too many tragic memories and pain. The night he'd been disfellowshipped from the Family, it had been storming. Maybe that was the genesis of his fear and hatred of storms. But this was an assignment. A chance to catch a sicko. "I'm not paralyzed by my past, and I've worked other cases in North Carolina." Which had been few and far between. "I'll be fine." He stood. "But thanks, man. I appreciate you looking out for me."

"If you're good, I'm good."

"I'm good. This case has nothing to do with me. And I'll be on my best behavior." He saluted.

Asa raised an eyebrow. "That's really not saying much."

"That's valid." He left the office with a grin, then spotted Violet poring over a file with pursed lips. "What's up?"

She tapped her index finger to the cleft in her chin. "This case reminds me of one of our cold ones. I couldn't place it, but when Asa called you in his office, it jogged my memory."

If Ty's possibility of getting into trouble jogged her memory of a cold case, then it had to be the Fire Ice Killer. "Which one?" he asked anyway, his stomach churning.

Her face said it all. Yep. The Fire Ice Killer.

"It's similar," she said. "He staged his victims, naked, at doors of historical churches—beacons of hope."

"Not the same at all. No tattoos."

Violet arched an eyebrow. "Lighthouses are also beacons of hope—bringing ships to shore. Symbolically it fits. Both sets of women in Virginia and North Carolina were in their mid-to late twenties."

"But the Fire Ice Killer painted his victims' lips red." He'd used Revlon's Fire Ice lipstick, which is how he earned his nickname. But he only used the lipstick and matching polish on their lips, fingernails and toenails. "No tats. And no flowers in their names."

Violet eyed him until he squirmed inside. "No, but he went silent in Virginia. North Carolina isn't that far away. Maybe he was evolving. From lipstick and polish to a more permanent brand. It's possible he spent the past three years working on his craft. I'll run the signatures through ViCAP. Might take some time, though."

The Violent Crime Apprehension Program would tell them if there had been other similar murders around the country and give them patterns and timelines. Was this possible? "He didn't leave notes that said ‘Bloom where you are planted.'"

"But he did leave notes with the same kind of note cards nailed into their palms. Same color of ink."

The sadistic freak had left a message from the King James Version of the Bible. Isaiah 1:18. "...though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool."

Ty wasn't sure how that note had evolved into flowers and notes about blooming. "I'm not buying it."

She folded her arms over her chest. "I'm not trying to sell you. I'm simply saying he could have progressed."

"I wish you wouldn't have said anything," he muttered.

He didn't need this looming over him, eating at his gut lining and forcing him to take stock in antacids.

Violet nonchalantly lifted a shoulder as she collected her badge, gun and purse. "If I were the Fire Ice Killer, I'd bide my time, perfect my game, get more intricate and seek revenge on you. He's already in your home state."

A shudder ripped through him. "Don't say stuff like that!"

Because she was rarely wrong. And if it was true, then these murders might be on his head for foolish jesting that some guy caught on a cell video. Yeah, Ty had been made out to be the hero and was hilarious, but the killer wouldn't think it was funny. He'd feel emasculated, challenged and insulted on every level.

Ty waltzed from the office into the hallway and found the YouTube video since he didn't have a TikTok app. He pressed Play. In the video, Ty sat next to Asa and Fiona at an outdoor café, fiddling with his straw and leaning back with his arm casually over the chair.

Dude, it's not going to take us long to find this guy, Ty said. He's an idiot. I've seen more intricate murders from twelve-year-olds using cats. And...he colored out of the lip lines. That's kindergarten level. He laughed, and Asa smirked.

No one had known they'd been caught on camera, using humor to deflect the gravity of what they'd seen earlier that day. Not until the next morning when it was trending on TikTok and uploaded to YouTube.

No more bodies surfaced, and the case went ice cold.

But Violet thought otherwise. And she might be right. Maybe he was on fire again and just getting started.

The horizon was dipped in magenta, gold, turquoise and purple. The perfect backdrop to the evening as the Artist reclined in the boat at the dock near his island—Kipos Island, meaning garden. Every part of this evening was enchanting and planned down to the type of grapes and wine and cheese.

He gazed at Catherine. Exquisite, tall and lithe with virgin skin—his favorite canvas to work with. Not that he couldn't work with marred flesh—he could and he had, but there was something special about skin that had been untouched. Unpainted.

Catherine was on her second glass of merlot and her eyes sparkled and glazed with desire. He'd met her when he'd been on a walking trail at Nags Head. She'd been with a friend. He'd noticed her and she had noticed him, but it wasn't until the friend called her name that he recognized it was a flower, and then he'd expressed more interest.

"The sunset is perfection, don't you think?" she asked through a dreamy sigh.

"It is." He peered at the horizon, wishing for that kind of power—to create something the world would marvel over and post to their social media accounts, making him famous.

He would be famous. His work would be seen all over the world.

Patience was the key, and he'd perfected the virtue.

"You were right about the view from out here," she said in her sweet soprano voice. "It's truly breathtaking."

Blue Harbor was nestled on the Croatan inlet that connected the Pamlico Sound with the Albemarle Sound, and from his island in the center of an archipelago, the scenery was magnificent.

"I didn't even know there were houses out here," she continued.

Ten miles south of Roanoke Island. He'd spent years hunting the perfect place for his garden. His masterpiece.

Patience. Patience. Patience.

That was the problem with most men. Impatience. They rushed and hurried and made messes. Life was about waiting. Right opportunities. Right moments. Perfect storms. That soured his mood. A storm was churning in the Caribbean, and while he anticipated storms, he wasn't thrilled about one possibly hitting. But he wouldn't rush things in a panic. He never panicked.

"Just mine. I like my privacy."

Batting her lashes, she ran her index finger around the lip of the wineglass. "What do you like to do in the privacy of your own home and island?"

"Well, to be honest, whatever I want. It's my island. My home. My...kingdom." He winked, and her cheeks bloomed a lovely shade of crimson. "How's the wine?"

"Delicious. Want a taste?" Her eyes darkened and her pupils dilated.

"I do." He reached for her wineglass, and she pulled it away and leaned forward.

"It might taste better on my tongue." She brushed her lips to his and let him explore the fruity flavor.

"You're right. It does," he murmured against her lips, tasting the fruit and fermentation.

He carefully brushed a strand of her long blond hair behind her ear and pulled back. After all, he was a gentleman. He never took what wasn't offered. If she said no, then it would be no.

But they never said no. Not to him. He never had to beg or force himself.

She set the glass on the deck and slid nearer to him. "You don't have to be shy, Art."

"Catherine, I am far from shy. But I'm on your timetable. Whatever you want or don't want."

She ran her hand through his wavy hair and kissed his neck below his earlobe. "I want," she whispered. "You smell so good." She wrapped her body around his like a snake, her arms around his neck as she faced him.

"What do you want?" he asked. "You must be clear. No mixed signals."

Leaning into his ear, she told him exactly what she wanted, and she was not shy about it.

"Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure."

"Because you'll belong to me if you do," he breathed as he ran his lips along her jawline. "Do you want to belong to me?"

She leaned back, giving him access to her neck. "Yes."

That was all he needed to hear.

Permission granted.

Catherine wheels. He would remake her with the rare intricate white flowers that bloomed in clusters. Rough textured stems and petals that gave the appearance of wheels. Oh, he owned the perfect shade of green for the centers. She would be a gorgeous addition to his garden.