Dante had no idea how accurate that picture was, so he gave it no credence, but he did set it aside in his mind in case he got some sort of proof at a later date.
“There’s nothing else we can do here,” he said briskly. There already weren’t enough hours in the day to get all the work done that was on his plate, so he never let a second go to waste.
“What about the couple who found the body?” Milla asked when he stood and started for the car.
“You talk to them,” he called over his shoulder. He hated dealing with victims and witnesses. Victims and witnesses were suffering; they were traumatized; they were in shock, and that was way too many emotions for him to deal with.
At his car, he paused.
Eyes.
He could feel eyes watching him.
The killer?
Dante scanned the woods, searching for anything out of place—any lump, any figure, any shadows, any movement, but he didn’t see any.
Still, that feeling of being watched didn’t leave him.
The killer was out there. He could feel it. The man was watching his handiwork be discovered. He was getting off on knowing that the cops didn’t know who he was.
They were opponents—on opposite sides of the law—and yet, Dante felt some sort of connection to the man. No matter how this turned out—and he would make sure it ended in his favor—they would forever be connected. He had seen inside this man, seen the darkness that lurked there, and the man had seen him too. Seen the darkness inside him.
Darkness was infectious.
Once you came into contact with it, it got inside you, it grew, and he didn’t think there was any cure for it.
With a nod of his head to his watching adversary, Dante got into his car and drove off.
11:18 A.M.
* * *
Sydney Carriere hummed “I’m a Little Teapot” as she put a stack of picture books back on the shelf. She loved story time at the library where she worked; it was always her favorite day of the week. She had loved books ever since she was a small girl, and when she led story time, she got to impart that same love of books to other children.
The looks of joy on their faces when she picked up a new book, and the squeals of delight that came out of their little mouths when they got excited, there was nothing in the world like it.
Working in a library was her dream job and she loved coming here every single day. She felt so lucky that she got to do what she loved. Spending her days surrounded by books, reading to children, leading a book club, tutoring kids with disabilities, chatting with other people who loved reading as much as she did—it made work not even seem like work. Whenever she gave a recommendation of a book she thought someone would like based on their other book and author preferences, and that person came back and told her how much they loved the book, she felt a little rush like she had just saved an animal from extinction or something.
Now, if only she could get the rest of her life to fall in line with her work life.
While the job box was ticked, nothing else in her life was. Okay, well, that wasn’t quite true. She had a family she loved, Mom and Dad still together, three brothers and two sisters whom she fought with but would also die for, and friends who drove her crazy, made her laugh, and were always there when she needed them.
But she wanted more.
She wanted a boyfriend and one day a husband and a family of her own. She had just turned thirty; all her friends and all her siblings were either married or in a serious relationship and she was all alone.
It was almost five years now since her husband had been killed—just two months after they were married.
Five very long years.
But through it all, she’d had her books, and she was so very grateful for them. She might be lonely and alone, but she had vicariously lived hundreds of fictitious love stories. She had cried when they cried, laughed when they laughed, and rejoiced with them when they got their happy endings. They were as real to her as her family and friends. She had even tried writing her own romance book, but she was way too self-conscious to try publishing it. Maybe one day.
“Ms. Sydney.” A small hand tugged on her skirt, and she looked down to find one of the little boys who came to story time with his mom and baby sister every single week.
“Yes, Jimmy?” She crouched down so she was eye to eye with the three-year-old.
“I made you a teapot,” he said, holding out the paper teapot with moving spout that they’d made as part of today’s craft activity.
“Oh it’s great, you did such a good job with your cutting,” she praised the child. “But don’t you want to take it home and show your daddy?” Her refrigerator at home was filled with artwork from the children who came to her story time, but she always made sure that the children were positive before accepting any of their work.
“For you,” Jimmy insisted.
“He said as soon as he picked up a crayon that he was making this for Ms. Sydney,” his mom added.
“Then I would love to take this home and hang it on my fridge,” she told him, taking the brightly colored piece of paper. She loved these moments. She loved introducing children to books so they could grow up to love them as much as she did, and she loved their enthusiasm and curiosity about life. Sydney couldn’t wait to have kids of her own one day, but first, she had to find someone she wanted to have them with.
“Before we go,” Jimmy’s mother said, strapping the baby into the stroller, “I need some more book recommendations. I’ve already devoured every book by the last author you told me about and loved every one of them. Now I need something to keep me going until her next book comes out.”
“Same genre?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, let me think on it. I’ll have a list waiting for you when you come to story time next week.”
Sydney said goodbye to the family, watching a little wistfully as Jimmy took his mother’s hand and chattered away with her as they walked out of the library. She couldn’t wait to be a mommy.
“Did you hear?”
She looked at her colleague, Lex, as he came up beside her, a huge stack of books in his arms. She took the top half and asked, “Hear what?”
“There was another one,” Lex said, leaning in conspiratorially.
“Another what?” She had no idea what he was talking about.
“Another murder.”
“Oh no,” she said as she finally caught on. “Another librarian was murdered?”
“Yep,” he nodded gravely.
“Do we know them?”
“It was Kim Johnson.”
They did know her. She was a lovely lady who had worked here for a while before transferring to a library on the other side of the city about a year ago. Kim had been married for thirty years. She had four grown-up children, and nine grandchildren, and she was kind, always looking out for everyone and would give the shirt off her back to help someone in need.
“That’s three now,” Lex said.
“You think that someone is targeting them because they’re librarians?” They had all heard about the previous two librarians murdered. At first they had assumed the victim was targeted for some other reason. After the second murder, they had all assumed there was a connection of some sort between the victims and that was what had gotten them killed.