“Oh. Like outside the Garden of Eden.” She chuckled at Daisy’s look of surprise. “I went to CCD every week like every good Catholic girl. I was even confirmed. Do not say what you’re thinking. I was a good kid. Things didn’t get squirrelly until later.”
Daisy dutifully mimed locking her lips, but it was all for show. Sasha’s rebellious phase had been intense, but relatively short. She’d never had to go to rehab, at least. Not like Daisy had.
“Olive trees are religiously significant, too,” Sasha went on, “but I don’t remember how.”
“That’s what I was reading about. The oil is used to anoint priests and was also used to light the temple. The wood is used for a lot of things. But when you cross-reference the angel with olive trees, it turns out there are some who think the olive tree was the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden. I’m wondering if the locket wasn’t some kind of church thing. I don’t know, like maybe a rosary or something. It was significant enough for Rafe to drag Gideon into the station late on a weeknight.”
Sasha regarded her seriously. “Why is this important to you? Or are you just keeping your mind busy so you don’t have to sleep?”
Daisy shrugged. “It’s a mystery, the only lead to the man who attacked me. Who might have . . . I don’t know what. Raped me? Killed me? That alone is reason enough. Finding the guy so that he can’t hurt anyone else. Or come back and hurt me.”
“That’s a very good reason. But don’t you trust Rafe and Erin to find him?”
“I guess I do. But I’m my father’s daughter. I don’t like to cede control.”
“No,” Sasha deadpanned, chuckling when Daisy flipped her the bird. “But I get it. It gives you back some semblance of control, and you must have felt you kind of lost that when you were attacked tonight.”
“Yeah. But it’s also curiosity,” she admitted. “I hate not having the information. Rafe made me leave before they said anything really good. Or before Gideon accidentally blurted out anything else.”
“That in and of itself is significant. Gideon doesn’t blurt. Ever.”
“He did tonight.” Daisy bit her lip. “When he got lost there at the end—after he said the man was dead—I put my hand over his fist. He’d clenched his hands so hard that his knuckles were bright white. As I was leaving he . . . thanked me. It meant something—you know, to me. I just don’t know what.”
Sasha nodded knowingly. “Ah. I get it. Someone like Gideon, so self-contained, thanking you. It’s nice. Makes you feel like you earned something.”
“Yeah.” That was it. She’d felt special. “And, if I’m honest, some of it is that I don’t want to go to sleep. I’m afraid of what I’ll dream.”
“You want me to stay with you?”
“You don’t have to.” But Daisy wished she would.
Sasha rolled her eyes. “What time do you have to be out of here for work?”
“Four twenty-five.” It was less than three hours. “Hardly seems worth trying to sleep at this point.”
“Rafe’s here,” Sasha said. “He came in when I was making the tea. Said he was going to grab a few hours in his old room. If you want to stay up until it’s time to leave, I’ll stay with you. We can play cards and braid each other’s hair. Or Brutus’s hair.”
“She’d let you, too. Cards would be nice.” Daisy logged out of her e-mail and handed the laptop to Sasha. “Thank you.”
Sasha drew a pack out of the pocket of her robe. “I thought you’d say yes. Rummy Five Hundred okay with you?” She shuffled and dealt, then waited until Daisy was studying her hand before murmuring, “So . . . Gideon. He’s not my cup of tea, but I have to admit he is easy on the eyes, wouldn’t you say?”
Daisy thought about the man’s strong jaw, clear green eyes, and the threads of silver in his black hair. She wasn’t going to even think about what was under that suit he wore like it was made for him. “Enough, I guess. Sure.”
Sasha snorted. “Right. He is very pretty, DD. You can admit that my mother was right. I promise not to tell her.”
Daisy glared at her over the cards. “Be. Quiet.” She dropped her gaze to her hand. “Fine. He’s very, very pretty.”
And he’d blurted out things when that wasn’t his norm. She wanted to believe she’d had something to do with that, but it was far more likely that he had been rattled about something else.
She glanced at the laptop. What had she expected to find? A lead to her attacker or a glimpse into the man who’d all but taken her breath away when he’d walked into that little interview room? She still wasn’t certain.
A smirk bent Sasha’s lips. “Ooh, very very? I say the girl is smitten.”
Daisy glared daggers. “And I say if you say one word to your mother, no one will ever find your body.”
“Fine. Just for that, I’m going first.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 4:05 A.M.
He staggered back, breathing hard. His back hurt, his hands hurt, his jaws hurt. He was covered in blood and he didn’t give a shit. He stared at the woman in his bed and grinned from the pure joy of it all. Catching a glimpse of his face in the mirror on the wall, he broadened his grin, admiring his own image. Wild-eyed, covered in blood . . .
He looked insane.
He felt exhilarated.
Throwing a fist into the air, he laughed, exultant. This moment. This was the best moment. When he’d just finished and the endorphins were running through him like fire . . .
It was like he could fly, all by himself.
He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling for a few moments longer. It would be a while before he felt it again. Yes, he’d fly again, but not all by himself. Not like this.
His breathing began to level off and he opened his eyes. The woman stared up at the ceiling, her eyes open. Glassy. Dead.
Because she was dead. He’d gotten too into it, he supposed. He used to make them last. For days. But now they seemed to give up so quickly. Took a lot of the joy out of it, so he had to up his game. Had to get what he needed more efficiently since the women seemed to be growing frailer every time he hunted.
Rolling his head on his shoulders, he shook out his sore muscles and went into the shower to wash the blood off his skin. The hot water felt good on his exhausted body. Between the blonde in the alley and the one in his bed, he’d gotten one hell of a workout. He’d be able to sleep now.
And to think. He really needed to think about finding that damn blonde. He had to think about his job. What would he do now? He’d given the best part of his life to one fucking employer. It was supposed to be his only job.
I was supposed to retire with this fucking company.
Fucking bastard. We’re watching you, his old man had said. Just a little more experience. You’re next on the promotion list. Take on extra hours, extra shifts. Work holidays so the family men don’t have to. Be patient. It’ll happen for you soon.
Soon. Soon. Soon.
More like never, never, never. He winced, realizing he’d scrubbed his skin raw. He turned off the water and got out of the shower, drying himself off, then went to the bed and examined the woman one more time. She’d barely put up any fight at all, saying she was sorry and begging his forgiveness with the very first slice into her skin. She was kind of skinny, her torso so narrow that he hadn’t been able to get all the letters carved in.
“S-Y-D-N” sprawled across her stomach. He’d added “E” on the right thigh and “Y” on the left. He made sure he got all the letters in each time, at least on the ones he brought back to his guest room. Otherwise it felt . . . incomplete.
This one had begun to beg before he’d finished the first curve of the “S.” By “D” she was already begging for death.
Miriam, on the other hand, had lasted two whole days. She’d had a will to live that almost made him regret having to break her. Almost. Because that was one of the best parts—when they finally gave up, recognizing that he alone held their lives in his hands.
That moment of surrender was what drove him, each and every time.
But this one was gone. Pulling the plastic sheet from the bed, he rolled the woman up like a burrito and dropped her into the chest freezer against the wall. She’d keep until he could dump her body.
He quickly sorted through her belongings. Her clothing and her backpack would go in the incinerator, as would most of the backpack’s contents, including the apron bearing the logo of a local bakery.
Huh. She’d had a day job. It wasn’t the first time one of the hookers had had a day job, but it wasn’t the norm. That meant someone would be looking for her. He wasn’t terribly bothered by this. He’d been driving the beige Chevy, which traced to someone else who wouldn’t be answering any more questions.
He glanced at her driver’s license, visible through the plastic sleeve in her wallet. Kaley Martell was twenty-nine and resided in Carmichael.
Thank you, Kaley. I really needed this tonight.
He went about cleaning around the bed, disinfecting the floor, the walls, and his tools with bleach. Just in case. Damn forensics were too good these days. But he kept one step ahead. He never left blood behind. Never left fingerprints.
He never left skin samples behind. Not until tonight.