Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

Frankie

Being drugged has a way of changing the way a girl thinks about her life.

I don't like it—this sense of vulnerability, of not being in control.

It's a feeling I've spent my entire career trying to avoid. But I can't dwell on it now. I have a job to do, and I need to focus on that.

So, I do what I always do when my personal life threatens to bleed into my professional one. I shove it way deep down, lock it up tight, and concentrate on the task at hand.

Namely, Jay on his way to the penthouse, so I take a quick shower and dress in one of my standard suits complete with a silky camisole and a gray blazer and pants set. Jay has a lot to say about every fucking thing and I'm in no mood, but the minute I slide into the passenger seat, he's ready to pounce. "Morning," I grunt.

"Are you finally ready to see things clearly or do you plan to take another vacation to lie to yourself?" Jay is his usually grumpy self, but it hits me harder than usual.

"Back off, Jay. I haven't had enough coffee this morning." I mean it, but I know him well enough to know that's never going to happen.

"You're too close to this shit to see it clearly, Frankie. I'm not trying to be harsh, but it's true. Let me talk to Damien."

"No," I bark instinctively.

He lets out a frustrated sigh. "I'm serious. The very least he can do is point us in the right direction to let us know who might be doing this and why. The fact that he won't is suspicious."

He's right but his suspicion isn't what's important. I'm worried about Damien and his reluctance to admit that he's Michael is pissing me off and making me worry.

"Frankie, listen to me. Have you considered that maybe your boyfriend is on the kill list?"

I nod. "Of course it's occurred to me. It's the whole fucking reason I agreed to another getaway in the middle of a potential serial killer case. But something got in the way of that, and we came home early." I don't tell him what happened, and I don't plan to because it would only fuel his mistrust of Damien, which isn't getting us any closer to the truth. "Where are we heading anyway?"

"Crime scene," Jay grunts. "Friend of the vic showed up when he didn't answer calls and missed some sort of standing card game."

As we approach our destination, I sit up straighter, my brow furrowing. "Wait, isn't this DuBois' house?"

"Yep," Jay confirms, his expression grim.

"You knew. You didn't say anything," I hiss.

"Nothing to say," Jay shoots back, his eyes darting away from mine.

"Bullshit. What are you trying to prove?" My heart races, frustration surges through me like electricity.

He stops before we step inside. "This could've easily been lover boy, but you refuse to confront the goddamn truth." He shakes his head, disappointment and exasperation flashing across his face.

"Jay, you don't understand?—"

"Yes, I do," he interjects, his tone sharp. "He's lying to you, and you're not even curious about why. "

His words are like a slap in my face that makes my stomach turn. There is, I'm sure, a perfectly reasonable explanation to all of this, namely that Damien probably doesn't want the world to know he was in foster care.

His image is very important to him, but what I can't figure out is why he'd risk his life to keep that information secret. "Let's just get to the crime scene."

"Body first," he grunts and heads to the kitchen where we'd been questioning Zeke DuBois just a few days ago about his time at Hope House.

Zeke's body is face up with his eyes wide open and his lips closed, likely glued shut, and his throat is slit. "Where's the blood?" It's messy business, slitting a throat, yet the kitchen is clean.

"Upstairs is the primary crime scene," one of the uniformed officers protecting the scene calls out.

I crouch down to get a closer look at Zeke, the way his face appears to be frozen in fear. "Who did this to you?" I whisper to no one, wondering if he knew his killer, if it was someone in those photographs. I slip my hands into a pair of gloves and test my theory about the glue, tugging on his bottom lip to see if his mouth would open easily. "Mouth is glued shut."

"As if there was any doubt that this was our guy. Zeke was the clearest connection we had, and now he's dead." Jay folds his arms over his chest, glaring down at the body angrily. "We should've put him in protective custody."

"On what basis? The brass would have never agreed to use resources on the flimsy connection we have." If Zeke had told us what he knew about the other victims, we might've been able to swing it. "His refusal to tell us what this could be about is why this happened." Shit. That's it. "He might not have been involved in whatever this is about, but he knew and that's why he's dead." It's all coming together but it still doesn't get us closer to the who , which is what we really need to know.

"You think he knew who it was before he got killed?"

I nod. "I got the impression he knew something. He was surprised but not as surprised as he should have been." I should've seen it sooner, dammit. "I can see it clearly now."

"What's this?" Jay asks as he slips on some black vinyl gloves, lifting Zeke's lifeless hand. "Probably was holding on to it when he died." He tugs at the fingers, working gently until he frees the fabric. "Well, this is new."

I gasp at the sight before me.

Blue. Silk. Panties.

My blue silk panties.

I wore them on the night someone drugged me on the yacht. "Shit." My head is pounding, and my vision starts to blur. Anyone could have those panties, but this, like too many other fucking things in this case, feels really personal.

"You okay?" Jay's brows dip into a frown, his face full of concern.

I nod my head, but when I open my mouth, the words don't come. I can't tell him I was wearing those panties when I was drugged on the yacht. It'll make me sound exactly how I feel, which is like I'm losing my fucking mind. "Yeah, yeah. I'm good."

I need to focus. Just one breath at a time. I bite my lip, swallowing down the rising panic.

He lets out a grunt as he pushes up to a standing position. "At least Zeke came to us with those photos. The killer has to be in there somewhere."

"Along with the other victims," I say, my mind racing. "We need to track down the records from Hope House. They've got to be somewhere if they were a state-funded facility, right?"

"Record keeping was a mess back then, but we have to try," Jay says. "Let's head upstairs."

I nod, but the discomfort in my belly twists further as we move up the stairs. The killer's twisted game isn't just about murdering these guys. It's personal, aimed directly at me.

And where did he get my panties? If they are my panties.

As we pass Nate and his team, I catch a glimpse of his face. "It's not pretty," he warns.

"Is it ever?" I shoot back, trying to mask my anxiety with bravado, though my heart is beating like a wild horse.

"No, but this is bad, Frankie."

I nod. "Okay." I take another few steps forward and stop. It's bloody and much of the blood is all over the walls, the computer screens and gaming equipment. "This doesn't make sense."

"Agreed. It's the same guy, but this is out of character for what we know about him."

The scene is intentionally messy when the others have been so pristine. "This is personal, or more personal than the others. I think." I can't make sense of it especially with my mind whirling about the blue panties in an evidence bag down in the kitchen.

"It's just blood. His throat was slit here." Jay points to the chair. "The arterial spray is dry underneath the smears on the screens," he says, pointing out the dots under the mess.

Jay walks around the room making notes and I can't move. My mind won't stop thinking about those panties— my panties, I'm sure—and what this all means. "Jay."

"Nothing appears to be missing, so we can rule out a robbery. Junkies would surely take this expensive equipment rather than rub blood all over it."

"Jay," I say again and this time I get his attention.

"What's up Frankie?"

I open my mouth to tell him about the panties. I trust Jay. He's family to me but the first sound that comes out is incoherent and I shake my head. "Never mind."

I can't tell Jay about the panties or the benzos on the yacht because it'll make me sound crazy. Hell, I think I sound crazy. What are the odds that someone on the ship stole my panties and placed them in Zeke's cold dead hand?

The panties can't be mine. I keep telling myself that, but I can't even remember if I packed them when we left the boat. My mind's a mess, all scrambled thanks to this killer. He's in my head, clouding my thoughts.

Losing focus. Again.

Jay and I head downstairs, but I veer off into the kitchen, spotting Nate. I give him a quick nod toward the backyard. He follows, curiosity on his face.

"What's going on, Frankie?" His voice is laid back, but there's something more behind it. That same old Nate swagger.

"I need a favor." I glance around, making sure we're alone. "I need you a rush on those panties for DNA."

His eyes light up and I want to smack him. He leans against the house, a smug smile growing. "Panties, huh? They aren't yours, are they?"

"No," I shoot back, too quickly.

He laughs. "Are you sure, Frankie? ‘Cause if they are, well, that's a whole different kind of request." He winks.

I roll my eyes, feeling heat creep up my neck. "Just do your job, Nate."

He leans in slightly, still smiling. "I dunno, Frankie. You asking me for this? I thought we were past this favor thing, but I guess some habits die hard." His tone drips with innuendo, his eyes raking over me.

I glare at him, keeping my voice low. "You owe me. Don't make this weird."

Nate's gaze sharpens a little. "What's really going on? You don't just pull me aside for nothing."

"Nothing's going on. I just need it done fast and quietly."

He studies me for a beat longer, then shrugs, though I can tell he doesn't believe me. "Fine. You want me to call you directly when I get the results?"

"That'd be great. Thanks."

As I walk away, my pulse quickens. I know those panties are mine. My DNA will be all over them, and if that happens, I'll be out. No more case. No more investigation.

And Nate's stupid smirk tells me he's enjoying this a little too much.

Jay keeps casting sideways glances at me, but I pretend not to notice. He's waiting for me to say something, but I'm too wrapped up in my thoughts.

"You going back to the penthouse?" he finally asks.

"No. I need to check a few things at the precinct. You can drop me off there." I need to go back through everything, comb over the case again before I'm pulled off it. I have to search for anything I might have missed. Details I brushed aside that could have been important after all.

Murder cases evolve, and what seems true in the beginning always shifts as more bodies pile up and new evidence surfaces.

I have to figure this out—for Damien's sake and because I didn't save Zeke. Jay and I both should've realized that Zeke talking to us might set the killer off, but we didn't. And I was too distracted, and now the poor guy's dead because of it. That's on me. And I have to make it right.

The panties are key. I know it. Zeke didn't have a girlfriend, and he wasn't exactly known for his charm with women. So, where the hell did those panties come from? This killer is messing with me, taunting me, and I feel it in my gut. That instinct is the reason I'm still standing today, and I won't ignore it.

If Damien won't talk to me, maybe his sister Olivia will.

She might have some insight into why this is happening, and if nothing else, maybe she can convince Damien to take this threat seriously. He's in danger, whether he likes it or not. The killer knew we were on that boat. And now the only other person we've talked to is dead.

There has to be something I'm missing.