Dayna looked back up at the wall, letting out a breath. “Yeah, I know.”
Sam took a tentative step forward and touched her arm. “Hey, you okay?” When she turned, he took her other arm, feeling another surge of guilt. Her face was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
“I’m fine.” She didn’t shake him off; in fact, his stomach swooped as she wrapped her fingers around his briefly before drawing away.
This was it; this was his chance. “I miss you, you know. A lot. I know you said you needed to think about it, but…it’s been a little while…” He trailed off, heart sinking. Dayna was shaking her head.
“Please don’t, Sam. I can’t think about this right now. With Fiona and then this and…It’s too much.”
He forced himself to simply nod, to push down the disappointment.
Dayna turned back to the charts, clearing her throat. “Walk me through this. You’ve been obsessed with this guy forever. Tell me everything.”
He brought her up to speed. On his theory that the Butcher was obsessed with the women he killed, stalking them for days beforehand. That each victim was special to him in some way. Even with the disappointment squeezing his chest, it was easy to talk about this; he knew the timeline inside and out, knew every theory. Every suspect.
This was his expertise.
“I’m just not sure how,” he finished. “Most serial killers have a type. They’re murdering for bloodlust, or sexual gratification, or the feeling of power. But the Butcher seems…random. But he’s not—not with the way he stalks them. It’s frustratingly elusive, his motive. Of course, these are only things I’ve pieced together from blogs and articles.” He stood on his tiptoes, reaching up to touch one of the articles he’d pinned to the top. “But…I’m working on a theory. I’ve found other murders way back. As far back as the sixties.” He searched Dayna’s face, looking for some kind of sign she was taking this seriously. That she wasn’t about to tell him he was a lunatic.
“The pattern matches. No discernible victim type except that they were women, and six murders each time, then a period of ten years between the next six.”
Dayna was staring at him wide-eyed, and he continued hurriedly before she could interrupt.
“All in England, northern England to be precise. Closer and closer to the northern shore each time.” He took a breath. “It’s like…he kills in cycles.”
The cycles. The pattern that had drawn him to this case more than any other. The reason he couldn’t seem to let it go.
Dayna’s brows were knitted together, but to his relief she looked thoughtful rather than incredulous. “Killing in cycles, and…you think his cycle in Manchester was when they started calling him the Butcher, and he started drawing the symbol.”
“Right.”
She looked back up at the charts again. “But there were only five victims on the Isle of Man.”
Sam nodded, tracing a finger over the dates. “His last cycle. The sixth murder scene was in an old barn, where they found his symbol on the wall. There were also two different types of blood, and several long strands of gray hair. They couldn’t find him or the victim, but they think she may have wounded or killed him, because he stopped after that.”
“Until now,” Dayna said grimly.
“Until now.” Sam stepped back, examining the map just below the timeline. He’d marked each cycle with a red pin, which laid out the trail of death along England’s northern shoreline, leading up to the Isle of Man between Ireland and England. Dayna followed his gaze, frowning.
“It’s like…”
“Like he’s been making his way here, to Ireland?”
“Yeah, but…why here?” Dayna said.
His chest swelled. The fact that she hadn’t brushed his theory off, the fact she had seen it, too. He had to work to keep his voice even. “Exactly. Why Carman? This town is small enough that there’s a chance of getting caught, and it doesn’t have a good victim pool. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Victim pool?” Dayna made a face at him.
“You know what I mean. He has to be here for something specific.” Like unfinished business. Sam frowned up at the charts.
Dayna hesitated. “Um, when…when do you think he’ll kill next?”
“He’ll have a cool-off period, they all do. There were three weeks between each murder last time.”
“And this time?”
Sam folded his arms over his chest and blew out a heavy breath. “That’s the question.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DAYNA
The witches were getting ready for the ascension when Dayna arrived. Yemi had put Cora and Meiner to work pouring great quantities of steaming tea into metal thermoses and shoved several bundles of bay leaves into Reagan’s arms. “Brenna, if you’d get the basin, I’ll bring the rest. I can’t believe my baby witchlings are finally ascending!”
Cora grimaced horribly at this, chin in her hands as she slumped at the table, and Reagan shot her a narrow look and turned to Dayna. “Oya, set your bag there and help me with the bay leaves, will you?”
Dayna followed her out onto the back porch. In spite of the coolness of the night, Reagan had set up her workspace outside. She’d laid newspapers and mixing bowls out to shred the bay leaves into. This would later be mixed into a carrier oil and sprinkled around the ascension circle for protection.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Reagan sat on the edge of the newspapers. Folding her legs, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You have that look on your face. Was she there when you got home?”
Dayna sighed, sinking down across from her. She picked up a bundle of sage and began shredding it into the bowl, keeping her gaze on her hands as she worked. Reagan knew about Fiona coming home, but to be honest, Dayna had sort of hoped she had forgotten, because a part of her really didn’t want to talk about it now that she was here.
She wanted to focus on something good. On the ascension. But when she glanced up at Reagan it was to see her waiting expectantly, her face grave. “I wasn’t going to tell the others until after, but…” Dayna hesitated, then blurted out, “She’s back. And she looks bad, like…really bad. I hate to think what camp was like.”
She wasn’t exaggerating; just thinking about camp made her stomach churn.
“God, I still can’t believe he just sprang this on you.” Reagan’s eyes were wide. For a moment she watched Dayna shred leaves in silence. Then she said slowly, “How are you dealing with seeing her again? Emotionally, I mean.”
Dayna shrugged, watching flecks of pale green dot the white insides of the bowl. She really didn’t want to talk about that part. All right, yes, maybe she’d felt betrayed when she was younger, not understanding why her mother had abandoned her. Maybe she’d even felt bitter at being left with the reverend. But those feelings had dulled with age, and she had no desire to revisit them. It was the same with her OCD; if she could push the thoughts away, at least temporarily, then she didn’t have to deal with them.
Again, it was quiet for a moment, and then Reagan leaned over, poking Dayna gently in the ribs. “Have you thought about looking into meds again lately? You’re going through a lot; it’s allowed, you know.”