Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Frankie

"There was only DNA belonging to one person on the panties." Nate leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating look of his, like he's savoring this. He's dragging it out, enjoying how on edge I am.

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Those weren't your panties, were they, Frankie?"

I stiffen, feeling my jaw clench. My heartbeat picks up, but I shove down the frustration, not letting him see how much this is getting to me. "No," I snap, my voice sharp. "Of course they're not mine. Why would you even ask that?"

He shrugs, a smirk pulling at his lips. "You seemed pretty eager to know what we found. Almost like you were worried about it."

I take a breath, fighting the urge to throttle him. "Nate, just tell me what you found, okay? I don't have time for this."

His smile widens, but he finally relents. "All right, all right. Relax. The only DNA on said panties is from DuBois. That's it."

I exhale, my shoulders loosening up a bit. Not mine. Thank God . "That's all?" I ask, making sure I heard him right.

"Yep, that's it," he says, leaning back further in his chair, still looking at me like I'm his lunch. "Happy now?"

I scrunch up my face. "Ecstatic. Thanks for doing this, Nate. I appreciate it."

"No problem. But hey," he adds, his tone dripping with suggestion, "next time you need a favor involving panties , you know where to find me."

I shoot him a look, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. "Let's keep it professional, Nate."

"Always," he says.

As I turn to leave, my phone buzzes in my pocket. "What's up, Jay?" I answer, stepping into the elevator, feeling a mixture of relief and frustration.

"What's up is that you're not at the penthouse. Where are you?"

I sigh. "I'm at the Forensics Building getting some clarification on things. What's the problem?" He doesn't need to know why I'm here.

"Good, stay there. I'm headed to you. Chris called and asked us to stop by."

My shoulders drop and I sag against the elevator walls. "Another body?"

"Maybe. I'll be there in five." Jay ends the call before I can ask any other questions and when the elevator stops at the lobby, I press the button that'll take me to Chris' office just one level below the lobby. "Hey Chris, you called?"

He looks up at me, surprise on his face. "That was fast."

I shrug. "I was already here."

Minutes later, Jay arrives out of breath with his brows furrowed into their usual scowl. "What's up, Doc?"

"I have a body I want you to check out."

My ears perk up and I step forward when he leads us to a table with a body draped in a sheet. "Why?"

"That's the thing," he sighs. "It's a ligature strangulation, which is off brand for your serial but then I found this." He shows us a few photos where his gloved hands pull the lips apart to show off a thick white substance on the inside of the lips. "Glue."

"Shit," Jay growls. "When did you find this body?"

"It wasn't found, not exactly."

"What the hell does that mean?" Jay asks impatiently.

"The guy was on a cruise. Elegant Luxury Excursions put up a fight and it took a few days for the body to get released." Chris peels back the white sheet.

Bile rises in my throat. I recognize the dead body instantly because I've seen him before. It's the loud man from the cruise and a sinking sensation takes over. This isn't just about the man on the table, this is about me, but more than that it's about Damien. The killer wants me to know that he can get to me, to Damien, whenever he wants.

"What's his name?" Jay's gruff question pulls me from my thoughts, and I take a closer look at the victim. An ugly purple line is slashed around his throat.

"Is there any DNA from the killer?"

"Unfortunately, no," Chris offers with a sympathetic smile.

"How is that possible? You can always count on a few cells with a strangulation."

"Usually, yes," he agrees. "But it looks like a blitz attack from behind. The ligature is perfect around the front with a slight tilt upward, which indicates he was attacked from behind. No time to defend himself. No defensive wounds."

"Who found him?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Girlfriend was on the yacht with him and wife came in earlier to identify the body."

"What a fucking mess," Jay growls.

"Yep. I think Adrian Sharma might be one of the serial's victims."

"Sharma." I say the name to myself a few times, wondering why it sounds so familiar since it's an uncommon name. I pull out my phone, going through the list of perps and victims on my current roster of cases.

"Frankie, what's going on?"

I ignore Jay because I know exactly why the name is familiar. I pull up the photos we got from Zeke, and I freeze.

"Frankie, are we interrupting you?"

"Yeah. No." I look up and shake my head, confusion winding its way through my body before it turns to fear. Tears fill my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not now. "I have to go. Thank you, Chris." I turn on my heels and rush through the doors, eager to get to Damien. We need to talk, and I won't be put off any longer.

"Dammit, Frankie," Jay calls after me. "If you keep running off like this, we'll have a morgue full of victims and no perp."

He's right. I stop and turn to face him, holding up my phone even though he's too far away to make anything of the image. "Adrian Sharma spent time at Hope House. He's in the photos Zeke gave us."

All the blood drains from Jay's face. "Oh, shit. You gonna talk to lover boy?"

I nod silently and take off, breaking several speed laws in my rush to the penthouse. I don't mention seeing Adrian on the cruise to Jay. It's a distraction I can't afford right now.

"Damien!" I call as I step inside. The lights are on, so I know he's home. "Damien!"

He appears in the doorway, his smile fading. "Francesca. You're home early."

"Yeah," I say, hands shaking. "We need to talk."

His brow furrows. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes, something is seriously wrong!"

"Are you mad at me?"

"No." My voice trembles under the weight of my worry. "I'm terrified your name is on someone's kill list, and you refuse to do anything to save your life!"

"Frankie," he begins, but I cut him off.

"No. I've let you get away with your excuses for too fucking long, but you know what I saw today, Damien?" I don't wait for him to respond. "The obnoxious prick from the cruise showed up on the ME's table."

He shakes his head, crossing his arms across his chest. "Francesca."

I set my bag down and toss out the photo I showed him earlier of him and the other kids from Hope House. "I knew his last name sounded familiar because Zeke, the other victim from Hope House, gave us these photos and the names he could remember. Adrian Sharma."

His gaze lands on the photo, scanning each face.

"They look familiar, don't they?"

"No." He lies about this so easily, so effortlessly, and it's starting to piss me off.

"Damien, please. The boys in this photo are being picked off, one by one." I show him a copy of the photo with the faces of each victim crossed off. "You're in this photo and these men right here are still alive, or they might be if you tell me who they are so we can warn them. So, I can save them." My chest is heaving and I'm out of breath from pleading with him so hard.

His phone rings, and he glances at it, irritation flashing across his face. "I have to take this."

"Sure," I scoff. "Go ahead, it's only a matter of life and death. Literally."

Damien answers the phone and his voice fades as he walks outside on the penthouse balcony.

Bastard! I'm angry. I'm worried and I'm damn scared that the killer was after Damien on that ship and he's so fucking nonchalant about it I want to scream. I pace the length of the living room, determined to find some argument that will get him to give me something that will help him and his former housemates.

After a few minutes, I stop pacing and drop down on the plush sofa, watching Damien's body language as he paces the balcony. "Why don't you care?" I ask out loud. He's a billionaire with his own protection, but the killer is an expert at getting into places he shouldn't.

Locked and secured homes. Suites on yachts. He's able to move around without being seen or, if seen, not remembered. He's a fucking ghost who can apparently walk through walls, skills that even the most highly trained bodyguards can't overcome.

The back of my eyes burns and before I know it, tears stream down my cheeks. Damien's life is in danger, dammit. Finally, after years of assholes and singledom, I'm in love with a man and he's going to die soon if I can't figure out who this killer is and why he's killing. I swipe at my tears, angry that this is how it's going to go. Angry that Damien doesn't care.

"Frankie." Damien's voice is so quiet I didn't even hear him approach. "I'm sorry."

I jump up from the couch, letting him see the raw fear and worry on my face, the tears I can't hold back. "I don't want your apology, Damien. I want a future with you—a real fucking future! But you're hell-bent on getting yourself killed!"

His eyes narrow as he scans my face. "Fine, Frankie," he snaps, his voice suddenly sharp. "Do you want me to tell you that's me and my sister in that fucking photo? Will that make you happy?" He jabs a finger at the images like they're poison, yet keeps his distance, as if getting too close to them might burn him.

"I want you to trust me with this."

"Trust you?" He lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. "You're trying to destroy everything, Frankie! My life. My career. My reputation!"

I'm shocked by the anger in his words. "Damien, I'm not trying to hurt you, I'm trying to keep you alive and if you know anything about these people you have to let me know. No one will care you were in foster care. That doesn't change who you are."

"Bullshit!" he roars, his voice echoing off the walls. "It's all bullshit."

"Jesus Christ, Damien. I can't protect you if you keep lying to me!"

He turns away, staring out at the city lights beyond the window. "Now you're calling me a liar. You know what? Just forget it, okay. I'll be fine."

"You don't know that!" My voice rises, shaking with urgency. "This killer is dangerous! I'm telling you—he was trying to poison you, to make it easier to kill you!"

"You still don't fucking get it, do you?" He steps back, pulling away from me, his anger boiling over. "This isn't just about you and me! This is fucking up everything I've built. I hope you're fucking happy!"

"Damien, please?—"

"No!" He cuts me off, storming toward the door. "I need to fix this myself. Stay out of it."

"Damien!" I shout after him, but it's too late. He's gone. The door slams behind him, leaving me alone with suffocating panic rising in my chest.

I stand there frozen. The artwork in the room feels like it's staring at me, watching my heart break. The knots in my stomach tighten until I can barely breathe. I want to scream, to run after him, but my legs are heavy, rooted to the spot.

The ringing phone snaps me out of my haze. I grab it, barely glancing at the screen. "Jay, what's going on?"

There's a long pause.

"Hello? Jay?"

"Frankie, I'm at your house."

"Why? What's happening?"

"I heard your address on the radio and rushed over. There was a fire. The house behind yours caught fire and it spread. Your place is gone. Shit, it's gone, kid."

Gone. My house is gone.

"Gone?" My voice is thin, like someone else is speaking.

"Yea. I'm sorry." Jay's voice is filled with regret, but it doesn't make any of this feel real.

No house. No home. No Damien. Just the clothes on my back. He won. The fucking killer won.

"Frankie, talk to me," Jay says, but I can't.

The phone slips from my hand, crashing to the floor as everything blurs and spins. My chest tightens, and panic overwhelms me, sharp and suffocating.

The killer's taken it all—my life, my security, my future.

I bet he's coming for me next.

Coming up next in the Shadows and Strings Trilogy is The Puppet Master!

Who is really pulling the strings?

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