“No need. I have his address.”
“He looks pretty sketchy.” Aria’s mouth dropped open. “It says here that he attended Chico State University.”
Sawyer went to stand over Aria again. Aria had clicked on a photo that showed him shirtless, holding a beer, and laughing. He was about five foot nine, his dark hair peppered with silver streaks. He had a bony chest and arms. Sawyer winced.
Aria scrolled through a few more pictures, each one worse than the last. Felix pointing a BB gun at the back of his friend’s head. Felix guzzling wine from a box. Felix firmly clutching his balls as he looked directly into the lens of the camera.
“Okay. I’ll bring my pepper spray and Taser, just in case.”
“Guess I’ll go to the coffee shop early.” Aria shut down her laptop, gathered her things, and got to her feet. “Text me later so I know you made it home.”
“I’ll be fine. But okay. I’ll text you. And good luck with Corey Moran.”
Sawyer stared at her sister for a moment too long, prompting Aria to raise her hands and say, “What?”
“Just be careful.”
Aria chuckled. “I’m meeting a guy for coffee, and you’re telling me to be careful? You’re the one traipsing off to see a possible killer.”
“I don’t think Felix Iverson is a killer. I think he could be in danger, and I need to warn him.”
“Text me when you get home,” Aria said before she walked out the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Cleo stood in front of a tall, rectangular mirror propped against the wall in her bedroom—the bedroom she used to share with her husband. It was hard to believe that she’d had a taste of normalcy—a kind, gentle man and two perfect children—and then threw it all away. Somehow, the people she loved most hadn’t been enough to stop her from drowning in her past. Why hadn’t she been able to reach out, just one more time, and grasp on to the lifeline her family had tossed her way?
She had no idea. But she did know it was a miracle she’d lasted this long and still walked among the living. And yet that didn’t stop her from wondering when, exactly, she’d passed the point of no return.
Taking more care than usual to put on her wig, she flattened and prepped her long black hair, twisting and twirling before pulling on a black cap. Over the cap she placed the wig on her head, starting at the front. Using a wide-tooth comb, she brushed the shiny black hair into place. There. She was ready to go.
Next, she picked up the tube of lipstick and began to apply the color she’d seen on the slightly fuzzy image of the person leaving the home of a dead man. The photograph had been caught from a security camera, then leaked to the media. She found it humorous that she was copycatting a copycat.
What was his or her deal? she wondered. Did the Copycat Killer have a list of people to go after? Or were the victims random?
Starting at the center of the upper lip, she then moved the creamy red lipstick outward toward one corner of her mouth and then the other. After using a tissue to blot her lips, she gazed at her reflection. Exotic is what many called her. Her father was white. Her mother was Asian. Cleo was neither, yet both. Either way, the woman staring back at her didn’t look anything like the horribly wretched woman she always saw in her mind’s eye.
Once, a therapist had asked her how she envisioned herself, and Cleo had told the therapist that when she spoke, she heard a voice of thunder. And when she closed her eyes, she saw herself as a woman with flaming red eyes and clenched fists.
Nothing about her reflection hinted at the rampant madness that resided inside her. Even now the rage tossed and turned, bubbling over, creeping into every nook and cranny within. Anger had been building inside her for so long that it had become a limb, an organ, a part of her.
An uncontrollable tremor got her moving and set her on her way. She walked determinedly to the steel safe hidden away in the bedroom closet, used the key around her neck to open the small but heavy door. Reaching inside, she grabbed hold of the Zip Blade Tiny Knife and put it in her front pants pocket. She then guided the KA-BAR Becker hunting knife with the chromium vanadium drop point steel blade, full tang, into the leather sheath around her waist. Next came the Havalon Piranta Z skinning knife with its unassuming but extremely sharp blade. That went into her leather bag along with her Glock 43X.
A short time later she was in her car, her mind focused on one thing.
Don Fulton. Number two on her list.
She didn’t need The Crew.
She had realized that after Psycho had left her alone in the warehouse with Eddie Carter. She’d lied about him running off. After cutting the zip ties, she’d dragged him to Otto Radley’s burial site. When he tried to crawl away on all fours, she’d followed him deeper into the woods where the moonlight was blocked by fluttering leaves. She’d pulled out a knife from her ankle strap and slit his throat, severing his trachea. He had managed to rip the duct tape from his mouth and take a few giant, gasping breaths. He’d gargled blood and coughed. Within thirty seconds, he’d fallen unconscious. Died while she collected broken branches and piles of twigs to cover his body with. She’d considered burying him atop Otto Radley. The dirt had still been semisoft, but she needed to clean the warehouse and return to her apartment before dawn.
The trek back home had been a long one. Once she got as far as Sutterville Road, she’d called Lyft and gotten a ride to Treetop Apartments in West Sacramento.
Overall, getting rid of Eddie Carter had been surprisingly easy.
In fact, she should have taken care of Eddie, Don, and Felix a long time ago. Maybe then things would have turned out differently. Maybe she would be happily married, at home with her family. Maybe. Just maybe.
If only.
A few houses away from Don Fulton’s house, she pulled to the side of the road. It was a nice house. A large house. Too big, in her opinion, for a single man without children. From the road, the home looked like a European country estate, stretched out on an acre of green grass and tall redwoods.
Before she could make a decision as to whether she would walk from here or pull closer, Don Fulton walked right out the front door. From where she sat, it looked as if he hadn’t changed much over the years. He still had a full head of hair. He was wearing baseball pants and a jersey, and carrying a duffel bag.
He walked with confidence. At a good clip with shoulders upright, looking straight ahead. The lift gate on his Cayenne popped open, and he slung his bag inside and shut the trunk and then walked around the Porsche and climbed in behind the wheel.
She was glad she hadn’t yet gotten out of her car. From where she sat, the acoustics coming from the Porsche sounded smooth, impressive. He didn’t just drive off. He took off, leaving her in the dust.
Shit.
Thank God for speed bumps and stop signs because she might not have caught up to him without them. Her 1.6-liter engine didn’t stand a chance against his Cayenne. Once they hit the main road, she was sure she’d lost him until she spotted his bright-red shiny Porsche in the gas station.
Back on the road, she lucked out when less than five miles from the gas station, he pulled into a baseball park. He had a choice of three different parking lots, none of which were paved. She followed him to the lot farthest from the baseball field. He found a spot in the shade. A lot of guys with expensive cars tried to stay away from other cars to avoid getting their car dinged by careless people. Whatever the reason, his parking choice made her job easier.