35. Luke

Going backto my room for my kit, I slip back into Victoria’s room and into the en-suite. The message on the mirror is possessive, deadly. You are mine, petal.

The comma does it for me. This man is meticulous even when scrawling messages in blood on people’s mirrors. The first thing to check is if it’s actually blood and then narrow it down to human or animal.

I slip on latex gloves, a precaution against contaminating evidence. The sample scraper feels cold, clinical in my hands as I collect a bit of the dried substance. I’ll run tests back in my setup – a makeshift lab of sorts, filled with the latest tech.

This bastard wants to rattle us, but what he doesn’t realise is that we’re not the kind to cower or be intimidated.

Once the sample is secure, I take my camera out. Every angle needs capturing. This is more than evidence; it’s a psychological profile in the making.

Then, dusting for prints, although I’m fairly certain, like the boxes, it won’t bring anything up. It doesn’t.

When I’m done, I scrub the mirror clean and take the sample to my room to be tested. I brought all my lab shit earlier and set it up, ready for the next attack. We didn’t know it would be inside, but we should’ve anticipated it better. I’m still waiting for the inside cams to be delivered, they said tomorrow, so this fucker had good timing on his part. Utterly crap on ours.

Sitting in my room, surrounded by beeping equipment, I type furiously on my keyboard. My mind races with every possible scenario and contingency plan as I work. I’m not just the tech guy or Cian’s right-hand man; I’m part of a twisted family that relies on each other for protection, and Victoria is more than just an obsession or shared desire between us, she’s become someone we all rely on. As I work, I picture her lying between us, strong yet vulnerable. Suddenly, an alert pings from my computer - we have results. It’s human blood, AB negative - rare and the same type as the heart. Next step is to find if they belong to same poor asshole. It may be a small victory, but it’s something.

Hours blur until there’s knocking at my door. Cian stands there, face etched with lines of fatigue and fury. “Anything?”

“We’re dealing with someone who knows how to cover their tracks,” I admit, frustrated. “But not for long.”

He nods, glancing at my setup with an approving eye. “Keep pushing, Luke.”

“I will. Just waiting for this DNA testing to see if the heart and this blood belong to the same person.”

“Fucking hell,” he mutters and sits heavily on my bed as I go back to my makeshift lab.

Cian’s intense gaze follows my every move, the silence between us heavy and almost suffocating. His fingers drum anxiously on the mattress, a sign of his inner turmoil. He may thrive in chaos, but the uncertainty of Victoria being targeted is eating away at him.

The DNA analyser hums softly, every second counts as we wait for the results.

The machine beeps, and I check the results. I let out a low whistle. “It’s a match,” I say.

Cian stands up quickly, his fatigue replaced by a surge of adrenaline. “We need to find out who they were,” he says with a growl, his voice tight with restrained anger.

“Yeah, this isn’t random. Whoever this poor bastard was, it means something.”

“Exactly.”

We stare at each other for a few moments, and he lets me see the vulnerability in his eyes for those few seconds. Nothing in this world or the next will make me let him down. “I’ve got this. Go get some sleep. She needs you with her.”

“Thanks,” he mutters and slopes off, looking like a man defeated.

Turning back to my monitors, I re-focus on the task laid out. This fucker might be meticulous, but he doesn’t even know the meaning of the word compared to me. I’m on the hunt, and no stone is going to be left unturned. The silence of the room envelops me like a cloak, each click of the keyboard a confirmation of my purpose. I dive into the dark web, tapping into criminal databases, coroner reports, missing persons, anything that’ll give me a hint about our mystery victim. But it’s like chasing ghosts – nothing lines up.

More hours pass, and I’m neck-deep in data with no leads. But suddenly, the screen blinks, and a hit pops up. A name surfaces from the digital depths. Christopher Mullen, 48 years old, reported missing six days ago. Not from around here – he’s from up North, Manchester way.

“Who are you really, and what is your involvement with this?” I mutter and start to dig.

I’m beat and feeling more than just the lack of sleep in my bones when Victoria steps into my room without knocking, with dishevelled hair and wild eyes.

“Luke,” she says softly, her voice heavy with unsaid words.

“Does the name Christopher Mullen mean anything to you?”

Victoria’s gaze flickers, a flash of recognition before she masks it with indifference. “Should it?” Her tone is biting and defensive.

I study her for a moment, watching how she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, tension coiling in her frame. It tells me all I need to know. “It might,” I say, my voice steady as I swivel the screen towards her. “His heart was left in a box on your doorstep, and his blood was on your mirror.”

She steps closer, eyes scanning the information on the screen. A muscle twitches in her jaw, and for a fraction of a second, vulnerability bleeds through her tough exterior. It’s enough to tell me there’s more to this story.

“Talk to me, Victoria,” I press, knowing that between the lines of her silence lies the key to this puzzle.

“He was part of something bigger,” she starts hesitantly. “A move against my father that went south.”

The pieces begin to click into place, a dangerous game with even higher stakes than we imagined. “And now Quinn is using him to send a message. What’s the connection there?”

“That is a question I can’t answer,” she murmurs.

Sighing inwardly as my work isn’t done yet, I turn back to the screens. “We’ll find it.”

“Thank you, Luke,” she says and leaves me alone again to work my magic.