Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 146477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
How the hell did this happen?
My stomach sinks at the realization that my DNA will be all over his body, and there’s no doubt that, sooner or later, the detective will come knocking at my door to ask questions. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to tell them. The last time I saw him, he was perfectly fine.
I get started, documenting everything as I go and making sure not to miss a thing. I remove his clothes, placing each article in its own evidence bag before setting it aside and getting started on any jewelry or foreign objects attached to his person.
Heaviness pulses through my chest, recognizing the familiar cuts across his skin. They’re not quite as vicious as the ones I saw on the previous body, but there’s no denying they were created by the same weapon and delivered by the same hand.
This was the work of my stalker.
Bile rises in my throat, but I keep going, certain that there will be a message left behind, but where? I try to put my personal feelings aside, being professional with every second of this autopsy, and yet there’s a sharp pang of guilt resting in my chest. This man is dead simply for dancing with me in a club.
Tears form in my eyes, but I blink them away, trying to be strong. I won’t fall apart. I can do that when I get home. Right now, I have a job to do.
I get to work, documenting every wound on his skin, measuring the length, depth, and width of each one, and as I work my way down the front of his arms, I see strange burn marks on his palms.
My brows furrow, and I lift the victim’s hand to get a better look, and I find the palm of his hand completely singed. “What the fuck?” I breathe, taking it in with unease, not able to make sense of any of it.
My gaze continues over his arm, and as I look further down his wrist, I notice that the cuts are deeper, more purposeful, and I can’t help but flip the victim over to get a better idea of what’s going on here. As I look over him, I start making out little letters in the vicious carvings, and my stomach knots with dread. Writing down each letter at a time, first down his left arm and then the right, I come up with two lines of words.
His hands were burned to a crisp simply for having his hands on me as we danced. It’s my fault. I knew he was there watching, and I used this man to tease him. I let him touch me, let him grind against me as I tried to gain a reaction out of my stalker.
This man lost his life because of me.
I can’t hold back a second longer, and the tears finally fall when I remember the second body that was just delivered. The coroner mentioned it was a double homicide, and that snippet of information makes my stomach jolt. A double homicide could only mean . . . fuck.
I move across the room, positioning myself beside the second body as I hastily grab the zipper and pull it down, desperate to reveal the face hidden beneath, and just as I thought, horror blasts through my veins, making me sick.
The second man I was dancing with stares back at me, his cold, lifeless body covered in the same vicious cuts, and I know without a doubt that somewhere hidden beneath his clothes is another foul message that I don’t have the strength to look for just yet.
“No. No, no, no,” I cry, the weight of their lives resting heavily on my shoulders. I didn’t use this man in the same way that I used the other, but apparently that doesn’t matter. He danced with me, so that must mean his life should be taken from him.
Big fat tears fall down my cheeks, and I drop to my knees, wondering how the fuck I got here. I knew my stalker was capable of this. Of course I did. I saw the body with my own eyes, but a part of me hoped that if I played his game and followed his rules that nobody else would get hurt. But I’m playing a game of checkers while he’s playing chess. There are rules I didn’t even know to look out for, and now two more men have lost their lives.
A thick lump forms in my throat, making it hard to breathe, and I realize how foolish I was to assume that Knight had anything to do with this. This isn’t the act of a highly respected SWAT officer at the top of his game. It’s the act of a cruel, callous man who’s sick in the head.