I’m clear on all these points from the very beginning and during the contract-signing stage, so I never have any issues.
A loud sigh followed by a sneeze echoes in the room, and I glance on my laptop where Zeke looks back at me, almost snoozing his ass off on the couch. “There is nothing, Zach. I’ve searched. All these people have good jobs and a stable family life.”
“Yeah, well, you’d be surprised how many ‘perfect’ people are capable of crimes.”
Whenever we think about serial killers, in most cases, some creepy guy who wears dirty clothes, lives in a basement, and barely has any social skills comes to mind. We expect to be afraid of them the minute our eyes land on them or expect something suspicious just from their appearance.
We think they have an evil laugh, smell disgusting, and are probably poor guys who feel wronged in this world.
Well, there are cases like those, of course, but a lot of times, these people who are capable of hideous crimes are perfect family men or women, leading their lives under everyone’s nose, having friends and loved ones who trust them.
You might have a barbecue with them every Sunday and not know that he might chop up his victims every month, getting off on their screams and cries for help.
When one investigates crimes, he cannot put labels on anyone and expect for the serial killer to stick out like a sore thumb. No, they are masters of manipulation, deceit, and cover, knowing far more about human psychology than most of us. They know how to blend in and, in this, never fear their cover being blown or their victims to suspect anything.
Serial killers are not fools led by their desires to kill, where everything and everyone will do.
No, they are smart, and in such, I have to play this dangerous game carefully, thoughtfully, and void of any emotional attachments.
After all, whoever he is, he doesn’t have any; that much is clear.
When dealing with a psychopath… think like a psychopath.
Zeke yawns, mumbling through it. “It might be true, but we’ve got nothing. Why do you even think it’s someone you fired?”
“The agents think it’s personal.”
Zeke barks a laugh. “Hate to break it to you, man, but you have a lot of enemies. I think people you fired are the least of your worries.”
Closing the last folder, I throw them on the floor and drum my fingers on the desk, considering his words, but my gut just doesn’t agree with it.
Granted, a lot of people hate me and would love for me to die in agony while they take away my company or connections, eliminating me from the business world, but why bother with such an elaborate plan like killing my wife?
No, all these people would have gone after me. Besides, I’m a ruthless businessman, never played it dirty, so this amount of disdain doesn’t fit the crime.
“Dig deeper. Make sure these are all the names. There has to be an answer here.”
“Zach.”
“A rich man didn’t do it, Zeke. This crime reeks of the desire to hurt me in the worst imaginable way and strip me of everything human for how hard I decided to punish Phoenix for the crime she didn’t commit.” My jaw tics while my fists clench, furry washing over me in a wave at just the reminder of her earlier hysterical outburst in the FBI office.
Not because of her words or the scratches on my cheek that sting like a bitch; I welcome them. No, it’s the unbearable pain that poured from her so much I could physically feel it.
I have never admitted it to myself, but I would have never touched her if I knew about her pregnancy. These emotions were weak, and she, in my mind, didn’t deserve my compassion. I hid my guilt in more anger and resentment, but I took care of her child.
The doctors in prison had no recourse but to save her anyway. In a way, helping Emmaline was my atonement for the crime.
However, the moment my eyes landed on her as she was lying in the incubator barely breathing, her tiny hand sticking out from it, and I touched it… I knew I was a goner.
This little, innocent creature needed me as much as I did her, and I think that thanks to her I stayed sane.
I’m a monster indeed just as Phoenix calls me, yet I will never apologize for what I’ve done.
Zeke clears his throat, pulling me back from my dark thoughts, and he huffs in exasperation. “Okay, I’m gonna search one last time. Anything else? I’d really like to go to sleep.”
“That’s it.” Without saying goodbye, I end the connection and lean back in my chair, needing to go to fucking sleep, yet not finding the desire to do so.
Noah’s words before we left headquarters come to my mind, unsettling me even more.
“He is losing control fast. His killings have escalated twice from last year, and now he leaves messages for Phoenix? This is a bad sign. He’s trying to connect with her. This whole thing with Rafe happened only because he wants her to know he watches over her. If he did it for his own gratification, the guy would have been dead. He is emotionally attached to her for now. But his emotions will change in the blink of an eye the minute he knows she doesn’t share his affections.” Noah hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his slacks. “And this will be her death sentence.”
Resting my arm on the roof of the car, I ask him, digesting this information, “Do you think if we prompt him to lose even more control, he’ll become more reckless?”
Noah frowns. “Depends on what happens. His recklessness, though, won’t mean it’s easy to catch him. He isn’t stupid.”
“But it will unsettle him enough to make a wrong move, which might allow us to catch him. Or shift the variables of his equation.”
The sound of something crashing echoes through the walls, and I shoot from my chair, opening the desk drawer and taking out my gun then flipping off the safety swiftly.
Another crash, and I swing the door open, running toward the kitchen where the sound comes from. I see a bright light, and realization dawns on me a second before I dash inside and see Phoenix kneeling over the various pans scattered on the floor.
She mutters, “Crap!” but then freezes as her head slowly rises and her chocolate eyes land on me, mild annoyance reflecting back at me from them. But then they widen when she spots the gun in my hand. “What in the hell do you need that for?”
I put the safety back in place, dropping it with a loud clatter on the table. “I heard a sound. My staff is asleep at this time of night, so I came to look.”
The corner of her mouth lifts up. “You thought I was a serial killer.” An amused chuckle slips past her lips, melodic in its nature, and so different from the hollow ones I’ve heard before. I wonder what it takes to hear her full-on laughter. It probably sounds like beautiful music that a person might get addicted to. “I don’t think the kitchen would have been a place he’d go for.”
“I’d prefer not to take any chances.”
With this, her smile is gone as if she remembered I’m her enemy, and she starts to pick up all the pans. “My body is exhausted, yet I can’t fall asleep, so I thought I’d have some milk.” She avoids my gaze, quickly putting everything in place and choosing a small saucepan, adjusting it on the stove.
What a beautiful lie.
I walk to the refrigerator, snatch the milk, and give it to her.
“Do you want one?”
“Yeah, why not.” I fucking hate milk ever since one of my nannies forced me to drink it, but I’ll take any olive branch she’ll give me.