“Any priors?” I asked, unable to stop myself from drawing the differences between him and Noah.
“A couple of misdemeanors for getting into fights after his time in the army, but nothing major.”
“Instigator or defender in those cases?” I asked, scrolling through the general information assembled on Sullivan.
“Instigator.”
“So he’s got a temper. Lacks self-control,” I listed off, keeping my notes to myself when a couple of heads turned my way, eyes narrowed just enough. These people were acting like they were witnessing their child’s baptism and Conner and I were the black sheep members of the family smoking and cackling in the back pew.
“Has an on-again, off-again relationship with a tire iron.”
I frowned at Connor. “Is anyone raising any questions or doubts as to his role in the murders?” I handed Connor back his phone.
“What’s to question? He was caught in the middle of an attack and confessed to the killings.” Connor blinked at me. “In our world, we’d slap a bow on that and put it under the Christmas tree for Father Prosecutor himself.”
“Seriously, Connor. Because this guy is found taking out his anger issues on a known pedophile and claims to be the Huntsman, the whole world is signing off on his confession as the be-all-end-all?”
He was still blinking at me. “Since when did you start questioning the confessions of criminals?”
“I’m not questioning it. I’m just wondering if anyone else is.” I nudged him. “There’s a difference.”
“To my knowledge, everyone is happy someone caught the bastard.” He gestured at the television. “Well, except for those swarms of people who are about to begin tearing down the jail walls holding him.”
My phone was vibrating with more messages coming in, and I had a hundred different things to get caught up on at work after taking yesterday off, but I couldn’t tear myself away from the news. Around the office, phones rang and calendar alarms chimed, but there was no one nearby to acknowledge them. It reminded me of September 11th, 2001, when the entire nation had stood dumbfounded in front of their television sets, questioning the reality of the situation.
“It’s crazy after all of the things you wonder, all of the faces you imagine, that the curtain’s been dropped.” Connor’s eyes narrowed at the video footage of Sullivan being escorted into the LA precinct. “Does he at all match the image you had for our mass killer?”
I hesitated. “Maybe a little. Not really.”
“Me either.” His nose creased. “I pictured someone a little less GI Joe and more Loki, I guess. I expect to look at a serial killer’s face, and think, okay, yeah, you kill people on the regular. Buzz cut and cleft chin wasn’t filed in my mass murderer stereotype bookcase.” He shook his head when a picture of Sullivan’s army ID popped up on the television. “Dark, brooding, nerdy by day, hunter by night, basically a villain version of Clark Kent. That’s what I expected the Huntsman to be.”
When Connor glanced at me, I diverted my attention to the television, shifting in place. “You were way off. Sorry.”
Connor swatted the air in my direction while I succumbed to the inevitableness of my missed messages, wandering back to my office to sort through the day.
A string of messages from the task force group had started coming in sometime around ten last night and hadn’t stopped pinging twelve hours later. I knew we’d be assembling soon for our final meeting to rehash the past twelve hours, so I moved to the next string of texts, which were from Noah.
The skin at the back of my neck prickled when I read the first few he’d sent while I’d been at the airport, phone powered off and brain reeling. The latest message from him had come in several minutes ago.
When are you free?
A fresh surge of adrenaline drained into my system when I considered the implications tied to our next conversation. An entire ocean of decisions separated us, and I wasn’t sure either of us were capable of swimming the vast expanse to reach the other shore.
Whenever. Now. I typed back.
Go about your day as planned. We can talk later.
Without stating it, I understood what his message implied. Both of us needed to go about our lives as normal, so as to arise no suspicion should any filter our direction.
I should be finished at the office by six. I responded.
I’ve got a group meeting that runs until 7. I’ll come home right after.
My eyes lifted to the door, anxious someone, somehow, knew the truth. There was no one there, not even the steady flow of bodies milling down the hall.
See you then.
I stalled as I was about to hit Send, the instinct to attach a sentiment I hadn’t included in my messages to him in years pricking to the surface. It seemed the worst possible time for something so simple and yet so complicated where Noah and I were involved to make its revival. Ten hours ago, he’d confessed to the murders of over thirty lives. In so doing, he’d admitted he’d been keeping secrets from me for years, lying to me, keeping me in the dark as to his darkness.
I should have been feeling any other emotion than the one I did. Any other one.
Yet there was no mistaking it. The surge swelling inside me, the tug of the current I felt pulling me under. Love. It was so similar to drowning—struggling for breath, both floating and sinking as invisible waves ebbed over you, drawing you deeper into its depths.
Maybe I’d drowned, where Noah was concerned, years ago. Maybe only recently. I didn’t know.
We humans were odd creatures. For being as advanced as the race was ascribed to be, more often than not, our emotions did not align with the actions that created them. For our ability to reason, we were quite irrational at times.
I pressed Send before I could contemplate my parting words any longer.
Ignoring the harsh, yet brief, messages my dad had fired off sometime this morning, likely explaining away his behavior last night, and yet still finding some way to blame me for it, I was about to give a client an update on her case when another message chimed across my screen.
It was from Ed Baker. I assumed it would be a brief message letting me know there was nothing left to investigate on the Skovil murder now that the Huntsman had been caught, but his text was brief. Bordering on cryptic.
We need to meet. Today.
A moment later, a follow-up message came.
It’s urgent.
My fingers froze around the phone. Nothing good had ever been ascribed to that two-word qualifier.
What time? I wrote back, thoughts spinning as to what this could be about, every one of them revolving around Noah and his secret identity.
Ed couldn’t know about Noah. This had to do with one of my open cases.
As soon as you can get here.
The urgency did nothing to calm my nerves.
I can be at the precinct in thirty minutes, I typed, already rising from my chair and collecting my purse. Apparently this was not the day for catching up on official work business.
Don’t come to the precinct. Another message came a few moments later. Meet me at the diner a few blocks north.
After confirming with a quick ok, I rushed out of my office, unhindered by anyone needing a signature or to soundboard an idea or to impart a brief greeting. Everyone was still stuffed in the conference room, watching one of the news stories of our lifetimes unfold.