“Come here, sweetheart.” She waves for me to join her by the front desk, and when I hesitate, her face crumples. “You should be front and center for this…”
She doesn’t have a weapon and half the guns in the room could be pointed at her in under a second. Jordan’s eyes meet mine and they plead with me not to go—he gives a stiff shake of his head. I look back to Stacia. If me standing beside her will get her to explain what happened tonight, then—for Mr. Masters—it’s worth any risk.
I slowly walk toward her and Jordan tries to come after me, but his dad stops him. He whispers something back to Jordan that makes him stop fighting.
“I’m here.” I stop a few feet away and try to look calm. “Why are you here? What do you want to tell me?”
“I know you saw me at the park so you know already—” A half sob escapes her chest before she smiles ruefully. “That I’m a killer.”
My heart burns with pain and anger in my chest. The bizarre thought that confessions aren’t supposed to be like this crosses my mind before I bite my tongue and wait for her to continue. She doesn’t, so I say, “Why did you kill him?”
“Them,” she corrects me immediately. “Why did I kill them.”
“Why did you kill them?” I repeat, feeling sick to my stomach, but I force myself not to turn away or run.
“Because it helps me feel better when I don’t feel—happy.” Stacia closes her eyes for a second and I see Vega moving a few feet closer. When she hears his shoe squeak, Stacia opens her eyes and grabs a pair of scissors off the front desk. She holds them out toward me. Then she grabs me and wraps her arm around my neck when I try to step away. Every gun in the room is lifted to point at her.
“Let her go, Stacia.” Chief Vega sounds perfectly calm.
She growls into my face and the hair on my body stands on end. She presses the scissors against my throat. “I thought you wanted to hear my story!”
“I do,” I answer quickly. “I don’t like scissors, but I’m not going anywhere.”
Stacia calms down immediately and loosens her grip on my neck, pulling the scissors a few inches away from my skin. “Good.”
“Who did you kill, Stacia?” I ask softly, careful not to move or even breathe very loudly. With enormous effort, I manage to keep my eyes toward Stacia and not on the silver sheen of the scissors she holds in front of my face or on the many guns in the room now pointed toward us.
“I knew since you saw me with Mr. Masters that I wouldn’t get away with it. But if I’m getting credit for him, I want credit for the rest.” She laughs softly and moves the scissors through the air like she is tracing an infinity sign. “I killed all of them.”
My throat closes up and she suddenly looks less like Daddy’s weird mistress or his assistant—and more like a dangerous psychopath who is waving a sharp object in my face. I start to tremble again before I lock up all my joints in an effort to stop it.
The next time the blade moves before my eyes, I flinch and she freezes, looking sad. Then she lifts the scissors to her neck and drops her arm so I can take a step away. I turn to see her touching the scissor tips to her earrings and then her necklace. She grabs hold of my arm. “Did you see?”
“Yes, very nice,” I answer immediately, but then the earrings catch the light and I actually look closer at them. They’re high quality and look very expensive. My hand covers my mouth and my eyes go wide. “Oh my God. A—are those Valynne Kemp’s earrings?”
Stacia nods with approval like I’ve finally reached the right answer. “And…?”
My eyes quickly scan her other jewelry, and I see she has a necklace that could be Hillary Vanderstaff’s, a ring that could be Sarah Casey’s—even a watch that isn’t her usual one. It must be Maren Jameson’s watch. Stacia has the trophies from all the victims, both the ones Daddy was convicted of murdering and the newest one. And she just wore them all into the police station. Could Stacia have been the East End Killer this whole time?
I glance over at Jordan and his father. They both have looks of complete shock on their faces. From the edge of my vision, I see an officer sneaking around the corner of the desk toward her.
“How did you get this jewelry?” I ask, forcing myself not to bite at the hope that dangles itself like bait before my nose.
Stacia looks at me like my question disappoints her, and she shakes her head. “I’ve always had it—ever since the nights I killed them. Vega is a fool, putting your daddy away when he had nothing to do with it. I hoped they would eventually figure out he was innocent, but they didn’t. After he was arrested, I tried so hard to stop. But then I had to start killing again, to give them a clue.” She looks at me and shrugs. The combination of madness and utter sorrow behind her gaze is terrifying. “I couldn’t let them execute him for something I did. I guess we do crazy things for the people we love.”