“Like?”
“Ah,” he rubbed his arm, “look, the news said one woman was found, but this dude looked like he had a second person.”
My chest tightened. He had witnessed Spencer over the killer’s shoulder? Shit, had this kid really seen the killer? “Okay, so he comes back out of the woods with a second possible person. Then what?”
“He, ah, he dumped ’em in a different spot. I couldn’t see. It was down farther.”
My phone started to ring. It was Spencer. I wanted to answer it, but this was important.
I nodded with the realization that this kid did indeed witness something valuable. “Look…” I paused when my phone rang again. Spencer’s name flashed at me. Shit. “Do you have a cell phone on you, Julian?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I need to return this phone call, and I need you to call your parents. I will get an officer to get your statement, but I want your parents here for it, okay?”
He nodded but looked stressed out.
“Hey,” I tapped his shoulder as I rose to open the door, “you will not get into trouble. I’ll make sure of it.”
Just as the door swung open, I saw Spencer frantically speaking to G in his office. Something set my nerves on fire. I knew something was wrong.
“Jackson!” I called him over before I turned to Julian. “I need you to stay with Officer Jackson for a few moments. In the meantime, get hold of your parents.”
“Everything okay, Blake?”
“I don’t think so.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Spencer
My head spun. How did I not see this? How did I not connect the dots while seeing what Claire did? I wrote the damn thing!
I stood in the corner of the office while G digested what I just shared. Once again, the horrible stress lines that had haunted my uncle’s eyes returned, and if possible, they’d deepened.
My knees felt like they were holding up the world, and my stomach decided to set up shop in my throat.
“Say something, G,” I whispered. “Yell at me or something, because the demons that are running inside me have a hell of a grip on my sanity.”
“I…” He tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“G!” I shouted through a plea. “Give me something!”
“I’m so fucking pissed!” he shouted and slammed his fists onto his desk. “How? How the hell did this happen?”
“It was through—”
“I wasn’t asking!” he shot back.
“Okay.” I nodded.
His face turned red, and his chest heaved. “Christ, this is bad, Spencer.”
“I know.” I slowly sat. My foundation seemed to crack, and I felt myself crumble.
“Hey,” Blake was suddenly at the door, and I froze, stiff as a board. I wanted to explode with the whole story, but I couldn’t because of three little letters.
NDA.
“Sorry I couldn’t your take your call. Everything okay? Is it bad?” He glanced between the two of us.
“Depends on how you define bad.” My dark sarcasm came on at the worst times. I was petrified right now, and here I was cracking a joke at my own expense.
G scowled at me then said, “You should come in, Blake.”
Blake cautiously stepped inside the office and closed the door behind him. He sat on the arm of the couch and waited.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and my throat was dry as paper.
“Spencer.” G gave a tight nod.
Huh?
“I can’t.” I shifted my gaze between the two of them. “You know I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” Blake tried to follow.
“Spencer, at any point, does the NDA say anything about protecting a real killer?” he challenged me.
“No,” I licked around my desert mouth, desperate for moisture, “I suppose it doesn’t.”
Blake stood and crossed his arms. “NDA and a killer? Okay, you certainly have my attention.”
G nodded for me to go on. He was right. It was time. Things were different now.
“I don’t just write for the newspaper, Blake, I also still write novels.” Blake’s eyebrows drew together. “I ghostwrite for authors.” I felt a line of sweat break along my forehead. “And I think I just might be writing for the Whiskey Lake Killer.”
Blake let out a laugh but swallowed it with a cough and shook his head. “Why do you think this?”
Here we go.
I pulled out the first book in the series and tossed it on the coffee table. “Because I am writing his murders.”
Blake snatched the book up and flipped through a couple pages. “It could be a copycat.”
“It’s not. The murders are happening between the time I submit them to him and when they go to print.”
He glanced at G then went back to staring at the book cover. “Okay,” he held up hands, “let’s say it is him.” He pressed his lips into a tight line as he thought. “Let’s just pull his info and grab him.”
“That’s where it gets tricky,” G chimed in. “Over the past year, Spencer’s website has become popular. She is now a well-known ghostwriter, and she keeps everything anonymous. Every deal is highly protected through an NDA and safe chat rooms. No one knows her, and she doesn’t know them.”
Blake rubbed his head. “So, you’re telling me you’re in contact with the one man we’ve been chasing?”
“It appears that way, yes.” I shifted uncomfortably.
“The man who hit you in the head while killing another woman several feet away?”
“Yes.”
“And this doesn’t scare you?”
“Yes, it scares me! It scares the hell out of me, Blake.” I jumped up and wrapped my arms around my midsection. I felt cold from deep inside. “I’m frozen in shock one minute, and the next I’m freaking the fuck out. Hence the three back-to-back calls on my way over here.”
“It just seems a little unbelievable.” He looked at G for some guidance.
“Unbelievable?” I snapped and snatched the book out of his hand. I grabbed the red whiteboard marker and used my arm to clear G’s table.
“Book one, Mist,” I scribbled at the top. “We have three POVs, always three POVs.” I made sure they were paying attention by repeating myself. “The killer, the female officer, and the male officer. The killer is dropping clues as the book goes on, and Officer Claire has to chase them in order to save her victims. So far, they have been too late. He slips right by them every time.” I started to write more but stopped. “Blake, the first victim was found between two buildings just a few feet from the lake’s edge, right?”
“Yes.”
“Seventeen-point-three feet.” I reached into my bag and pulled out the file I had been working on. G tugged it from my fingers and opened to the first page.
“Seventeen-point-three feet,” he repeated.
I flipped the book to the first Post-it and turned it around to show them before I set it on top of the file. “Jamie Jones, thirty-one, a dancer, puncture wound to the lung. Lungs filled up, and she drowned. Scrape on thigh, shoes removed, no witness, no signs of rape.” I jotted down my findings.