Suddenly, Brynn’s phone chimed. She pulled it out and frowned.
Across the room, Savannah saw Hunt do the same thing. Her gut knotted. “What is it?”
“A murder,” Brynn said.
Hunt strode over and Savannah’s belly did a sickening turn. “It’s Walkson.”
Hunt took her hand and pulled her out of the living area. They crossed the central landing and entered a more formal living room.
It was a cooler, more elegant space, with large windows that framed the Bay.
“Tell me,” she whispered.
He cupped her cheeks. “There was a break-in at the De Winter. It’s a small art museum.”
“God.”
“There’s been a murder. A young, blonde woman, no ID yet.”
Savannah jerked and Hunt pulled her close.
“Another death,” she whispered.
“Which is on whoever killed her. We don’t know that it’s Walkson, yet.”
But they both knew it was. She grabbed the lapels of Hunt’s shirt. “This could be bait, to lure you out so he can get to you.”
“I know. I’ll take precautions, but I have to go.”
She nodded reluctantly.
“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll come and get you after.”
After he’d seen to a dead woman who needed justice.
Hunt kissed her. Vander and Brynn appeared in the door.
“Cam and I are coming, too,” Vander said. “And Ace will put up a surveillance drone. This asshole won’t take you by surprise again.”
Brynn was right, they all had Hunt’s back.
But that didn’t stop Savannah’s fear. She knew in her heart what Walkson was capable of.
“Stay safe.” She gave Hunt another kiss, and then he and the others were gone. She turned and stared at the city lights. They blurred.
She felt so alone.
Then, the voices of the women sounded in the doorway. A moment later, they piled into the room.
Haven grabbed one of Savannah’s hands and Harlow the other. Gia lifted her chin. “We’re going to have another drink.” Her firm tone dared anyone to argue.
Warmth cut through the ice in Savannah’s chest.
Surrounded by support, she let them pull her out of the room.
Chapter Fifteen
Hunt walked into the De Winter Museum and took it in. It was a small place on the edge of Golden Gate Park that specialized in modern art.
Light from the police cruisers outside strobed through the plate-glass windows in red and blue.
“What the hell?” Cam muttered.
Hunt saw his brother eyeing a sculpture that looked like two people melted together and topped by colored circles that looked like fried eggs.
He liked Savannah’s art style better.
He headed through an arch into the next room. Brynn and Vander followed right behind him.
Cam brought up the rear, alert as always. On the watch for any sign of Walkson.
Some officers were gathered in a small group. A young one looked pretty pale in the face, but was holding it together. You never forgot your first murder scene.
“Where’s the victim?” Hunt asked.
“Through there,” a female officer said. “It’s a real mess, Detective.”
“Who found her?”
“The cleaning crew. The museum was closed for the night and locked up tight. They come in to clean every night.”
“ID?”
The officer nodded. “Eloise Walters. She works here part-time, and is a budding artist. She takes classes at the San Francisco Art Institute.”
He noted her badge. “Thanks, Dempsey.” Hunt dragged in a breath and strode through into the room.
In the center stood a pedestal holding a large, blue box, topped with a yellow sphere, topped with a small, green pyramid. The label said it was called Finding Home.
Beside him, Vander grunted.
“Not your style, Norcross?” Brynn asked.
“No.”
Hunt took another step, and then he saw her. A spray of blood covered the wall. It almost looked like paint.
The woman lay sprawled on the glossy tile floor, her legs and arms askew like a broken doll.
Her skirt, once white, was now red. Her shirt was cut open and when he saw the fine slash marks—akin to the scars on Savannah’s belly—his chest hardened.
“Her throat was cut,” Brynn said dispassionately.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care. Hunt knew his cousin cared too much sometimes. No, in their job, they had to learn to switch off and compartmentalize. One, to get the job done, and two, to cope with the things that they saw.
“The murderer left you a message.” Vander shifted, deftly avoiding the blood. He crouched.
Frowning, Hunt followed. His gut cramped.
Walkson had written on the wall, using the victim’s blood.
“Asshole,” Brynn muttered.
Yeah, he was.
Susannah is mine.
You can’t have her.
Soon, I’ll have her under my blade. Her sweet, red blood will flow for me.
You can’t stop me.
You can’t stop destiny.
Hunt’s fingers curled into a fist. He fought hard to control his rage.
“The guy’s totally unhinged,” Brynn said. “He thinks Savannah is his destiny.” Brynn shook her head.
“Walkson is not getting near her,” Hunt growled.
Both Vander’s and Brynn’s heads whipped around.
“Deep breath, Hunt.” Worry crossed Brynn’s face.
Vander rose. “You can’t lose it. She needs you to keep your head clear, so you can track Walkson down and lock him up.”
“I’ll kill him.” Hunt’s hand flexed.
In his job, he tried to be black-and-white and follow the rules. He was a cop. But he knew there was gray in the world as well. Hell, Vander made a career out of operating in the gray.
“Hunt…” Brynn’s voice was full of concern.
“Walkson has murdered and terrorized across the damn country, and unfortunately, gotten away with it for years. He’s ended the lives of promising young women, and he’s destroyed Savannah’s life. Why should he live?”
“Hey.” Brynn grabbed Hunt’s arm. “I know you’re angry, and I know that under the mad is fear for Savannah. You aren’t alone on this, Hunt.”
Camden walked into the room and crossed his arms over his chest. He glanced at the victim, then the message, his scarred face grim.
“We’re all with you on this,” Vander said. “All of us. To help catch Walkson and help keep Savannah safe.”
Hunt let out a breath. He pressed a hand over Brynn’s and squeezed. His rage simmered down—still there, still white-hot—but in control enough so he could function.
“I’m falling in love with her.” Hell, he was pretty much there.
Brynn’s lips quirked. “Only just working that out? You’re a good detective, Hunt, you should’ve realized.”
Vander smiled. “I knew you’d go down eventually. Figured you’d do it before me, and have a house in the ‘burbs.”
“With a picket fence,” Cam added. “And a pregnant wife.”
The image of Savannah pregnant hit Hunt and he straightened. He imagined her at her easel, one of his shirts falling over her round belly.