Then, three days ago, the blackouts started.
They’re carnivores with teeth—pouncing when I least expect them to sink their canines into me—slashing me with terrifying visions and shaking me to the core. I see snapshots of the Divine Disciples murders, but nothing makes sense. They’re depicting crime scenes I don’t remember. Of eleven dying men all pleading for their lives.
Are these forgotten facts from the case? Fictions? Wild imaginings?
When I come around, I’m always standing in front of a bathroom sink, scrubbing invisible sin from my skin like I’m some kind of real-life, screwed-up manifestation of Lady Macbeth.
I’m getting clumsy too. Bruises have started appearing on my body, and I don’t remember the hits. My hands shake permanently like I’m an alcoholic... And then there was last night.
Last night was the worst.
My cell starts ringing.
Swiping for it, I manage to knock the dregs of my Starbucks latte all over my desk.
“Shit... Hello?”
“Miss Bailey?”
The brisk familiarity of Detective Hunter’s voice instantly dries my mouth to the texture of sand.
“Detective... How can I be of assistance?”
“I’ll get straight to the point, Miss Bailey. There’s been another murder.”
“When?” I drop my coffee-stained pile of papers like a stone.
“This morning. Forensics put the time of death at around three a.m.”
Always three a.m.
“Same markings?”
“Same markings.”
“Enzo Vincent?” I croak, like it’s painful for me to say the name. I can forgive him for dying without me, but not for living.
“Still out of state, as far as we’re aware. This one was different. That’s why I’m calling you. Have you seen him recently?”
“No, not since his acquittal in court. How is it different, detective?”
“The murder was more frenzied.” She slows her words to wrap an extra layer of sinister around her implication. “The puncture wounds weren’t as neat. In truth, they were downright messy. It’s almost as if the killer was disturbed, or—”
“Or it was another copycat,” I say, finishing her sentence for her.
“Exactly. Listen, if Vincent gets in contact for any reason, I’d appreciate a call back. Quid pro quo... You owe me.”
I owe him too.
“Was there anything else?”
There’s a weighted pause. “How are you doing, Miss Bailey?”
“Call me Madigan,” I say automatically.
“Last time we met, you seemed—”
“I’m very busy, detective,” I interrupt. Questions about my state of mind are never welcome. “So if you don’t mind...”
There’s another pause. “Can I ask where you were last night?”
“Is this your clumsy attempt at telling me I’m a suspect?” I force a laugh. “Your department is grasping at straws if you’re targeting the lawyer of the falsely accused. Twelve unsolved murders, a collapsed trial...”
“No, it’s just—”
“Just what?” I snap, not stopping to let her reply. “I said I’d let you know if he gets in touch. If you want to arrest me, you have my work address. If not, I suggest you turn your attention to the next move this serial killer will make.”
“Do you think he’ll be making any more moves, Madigan?” she asks thoughtfully. “He’s pretty fixated with the number twelve. I’d say he has all the victims he needs right now.”
I’m tempted to laugh for real. Doesn’t she know he will never be done? There are too many true sinners in this world. Too many cast stones to sink the innocent with...
Not unless he sinks them first.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Luca
Twelve Hours Earlier
PEOPLE ARE HARDWIRED to exaggerate.
This bag weighs a ton.
She’s as skinny as a toothpick.
Obviously, those aren’t true statements. No mere mortal could pick up a bag that actually weighed a ton, and if a woman’s body was really the size of a toothpick, she wouldn’t be skinny. She’d be dead.
However, the one that pisses me off the most is when some attention-seeking media whore compares a simple murder to a bloodbath. Getting blood on your hands is messy but expected, an inconvenience easily remedied with a towel or faucet.
But a bloodbath?
No.
A bloodbath is something meant to be savored. It’s something dreamt about for years, planned with precision down to the most minute detail. It’s choreographing every cut and writing every word so that nothing is left to chance. It’s desecrating someone so much that they stop looking human, instead becoming a canvas for revenge.
That is a bloodbath. It’s when your hair, your skin, and your clothes drip with the coppery scent of justice.
It’s the one I was nearly denied.
I’m a possessive man. I don’t share. What’s mine is mine, and God help whoever tries to take it away from me. Tonight belonged to me, and it nearly slipped through my fingers.
Luckily, I’m as demanding as I am selfish. I always get what I want.
Twirling the knife in my hand, I bend down on my haunches and stare at what used to be a man. “I learned,” I bite out between clenched teeth. “Just like you wanted. Every Sunday of every week for twenty years, I learned. I listened. I studied. You wanted me to become you.” I don’t recognize my own voice. Gripping the handle tighter, I point the blade downward and plunge it into what’s left of his chest. “But I became so much worse.”
A small part of me expects him to rise up and admonish me for breaking one of his precious Ten Commandments. Honor thy father and mother.
With my knife still skewering his heart, I start to laugh, and as the seconds tick by, it only becomes louder and more maniacal. It’s a little hard to honor thy mother when thy father put her six feet under twenty-two years ago.
It seems the Divine Disciples of God are allowed to cherry-pick which Commandments are enforceable and which ones aren’t. Apparently, Thou shalt not commit adultery and Thou shalt not murder are simply suggestions.
Biting down on one final laugh, I grind my teeth so hard I can hear the enamel chipping away on my teeth. I haven’t thought about my mother in years. Thinking about her conjures memories I’ve kept locked away in the back of my mind.
“No, David! You can’t let them touch him! He’s just a boy!”
My father strikes her across the face with the back of his hand so hard she stumbles backward, shoving me into the wall. “Shut up, whore. It’s God’s will.”
“You’re wrong!” she cries, squishing me even harder. “God would never allow a child to endure something so vile!”
Heavy footsteps move closer. I can smell the smoke on Father’s robe. The Twelve have been outside again. I saw the bright blaze from my window. “Move, or I’ll move you myself,” he says calmly.
Too calmly.
My mother stiffens. I don’t understand what’s happening, but it makes the hairs on my arms stand up. “If you want Luca, you’ll have to go through me first.”