I almost overlooked it. I almost walked right past it. But luckily, as I glanced down to pick out the door key from my keychain, I noticed the small brown envelope on the ground right next to the doormat.
It didn’t have any writing or postage. I bent over and gingerly picked it up.
It felt light, but there was something clearly inside it.
Curious, I tore open the top and reached inside.
It was square and plastic-feeling. I pulled it out.
My fucking heart almost stopped.
I dropped it instantly, my eyes wide, shock ringing through my core.
On the ground, staring up at me, was my dead partner’s face immortalized in his FBI badge.
Martin’s FBI badge.
My old partner’s badge sat alone on my front door step, staring back at me from the past.
21
Laney
I heard the door open downstairs and the alarm go off. Fear shot through me briefly until the system was disabled a second later.
“Dad?” I called out. “Easton?”
I walked down the stairs and saw him. He looked haggard, and the look in his eyes sent shivers down my spine.
“Easton, what’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “I . . . fuck,” he mumbled, trailing off. He held out a brown envelope.
I took it and looked inside. Worry flooded my mind. I’d never seen Easton speechless before, much less not trying to hide it. Inside the envelope, I found a plastic badge and pulled it out.
“Martin Rodriguez? Is this your partner?”
He nodded slowly. “That’s his badge.”
“How could his badge end up here?”
“I don’t know, Laney. I found it outside on the steps.”
It hit me immediately. “The killer?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. The killer.”
Chills ran down my spine. “He was here.”
“Right outside.”
“Easton.” My eyes went wide. “What does this mean?”
The fear in his expression was slowly being replaced by anger and exhaustion. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come on.” He led me away from the door and into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed himself a beer, cracking it open. I shook my head when he offered me one. “It’s a long story,” he said, sitting down across from me.
“I read about what happened. In the files.”
“The files are wrong.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Aren’t they based on what you said happened?”
“Laney,” he said slowly, “I lied about what happened that night.”
“What? Why would you do that?”
He sighed. “Most of what I said happened, but one key detail is different. Just . . . listen.”
I sat back, afraid and mystified, as he began to talk. I could see it all, every detail, almost like a movie in my head.
Martin was older, in his fifties, and was on his way out, which was part of why they matched him up with Easton to begin with. Easton figured they wanted to try to teach him something, maybe give him some wisdom from the old guard.
The only thing Easton had learned so far was that Martin hated the rain.
“It’s always like this when we’re on a stakeout,” he grumbled.
“Nah,” Easton said. “It’s just that you only ever notice when it is.”
Martin gave him a look. “I know the psychology behind it, kid.”
Easton just shrugged and leaned back in his seat. He’d been on edge, heavily on edge, ever since they’d pulled up outside the totally boring suburban house. They’d been sitting there for a few hours,
“Where the hell are they?” Martin said after a long stretch of silence.
“They’re coming,” Easton replied.
“We called over an hour ago. There’s no reason they’re not here yet.”
“We did say that it wasn’t important,” Easton said.
“So? We’re the fucking FBI. When we call, you come running.”
“Could be something else happening. It’s a small town, after all.”
Martin just cursed and crossed his arms.
Easton knew what that look meant, and he had a bad feeling. The years had not tempered Martin’s impatience or his hatred of murderers. In fact, as far as Easton could tell, Martin was one of the most intense and passionate agents in his section.
Still, it was his case. Easton had tracked this scumbag, had gotten so obsessed that he began to think like that guy. He had found the new body, had found the extra evidence. It was his operation.
But that never mattered to Martin.
“We have to wait,” Easton said. “We need backup before we talk with this guy.”
“Come on, kid, haven’t I taught you anything?” Martin said. “This is just some old, fat fucking guy. We’re not even here to arrest him.”
“Still,” Easton said, “he’s dangerous.”
“Maybe. We’re not sure he’s the killer.”
“He is. DNA doesn’t lie.”
“Okay,” Martin said, “maybe he is. How do you think he’ll react when a cop car pulls up outside his house?”
Easton sighed, shaking his head. “Come on, Mart. Forget it.”
“Fuck it,” Martin said, opening the door. “I’m going.”
“Martin, fuck you. Wait!”
But Martin had already climbed out of the car.
Easton had no other choice. He followed quickly, his nerves flaring. They were about to come face to face with a killer, and Martin barely seemed to care.
He caught up with Martin, and they ascended the front steps together. Martin opened the screen door and knocked a few times on the thick, green wooden door.
They waited, Easton leaning back on his heels. He subtly checked his gun, heart pounding.
The door opened a crack. “Yes?”
That voice. Those eyes. Easton’s heart was hammering like crazy. It was him. It had to be him. It was the killer Easton had been tracking for so damn long, had put so much energy into capturing.
“Lester Seed?” Martin asked.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Mr. Seed, my name is Special Agent Rodriguez, and this here is—”
The door slammed shut and Easton heard running inside the house.
“Shit,” Martin said. “Probable cause?”
Easton didn’t have a chance to reply, because Martin was already shoving open the door. Seed hadn’t locked it in his rush.
The rain started coming down heavier.
They moved into the house.
The first thing that struck Easton was how normal it looked. The man that lived there, Lester Seed, was a long-time serial killer. He was one of the most successful and sickest killers out there, and yet his home looked like any other middle class, white collar worker’s.
Clean living room. Clean kitchen. Pictures on the walls. There was a sound toward the back of the house.
“Seed, we just want to talk,” Martin called out, moving forward.
Easton put his hand on his weapon, unstrapping the catch. He was ready to draw.
“Hold on,” he said, but Martin wasn’t listening. He strode forward, toward the noise.