Detective Schuster followed Bex as she rode her bike the three blocks to Kill Devil Coffee. He had offered to drive her, even insisted, but she refused to get in his car, intent on making a quick getaway if the need arose. As she rode, her mind was trilling, dropping pieces into place in her memory—the first time she saw Detective Schuster, how he looked at her father’s arraignment. She trusted him, just not enough to get in the car and ride with him.
Bex rode into Kill Devil Coffee following behind the detective’s car. She locked up her bike and steadied herself with a deep breath before pulling open the coffeehouse door. Her heart started to tick again when she saw the detective at the counter. What am I getting myself into?
“Did you want something, ah—”
Bex could tell he was trying to figure out what to call her. She had no inclination to help him. “I’m good, thanks.”
She sat down and Schuster came over with a steaming cup of black coffee. Bex watched him stir in a handful of sugar packs, her tension and anxiety throbbing until it was all she could think about.
“What do you want me to do?” she said again.
Schuster sucked on the stir stick and raised his eyebrows as if the subject of their conversation hadn’t been gnawing at the back of Bex’s mind every minute of the last ten years. He leaned closer to her, wriggled a manila file folder from his messenger bag, and dropped it on the table, covering it with his hands.
“We’re not entirely sure of the exact date your father appeared back in North Carolina.”
Bex felt herself gape. “Good tracking work.”
Schuster bobbed his head apologetically. “Believe me, I had the same reaction. But, again, he did reappear.”
“You have reason to believe he has reappeared.” Her voice was snide.
“It’s been ten years, Beth Anne.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Sorry. Bex. It’s not that easy to find someone who doesn’t want to be found.”
“I didn’t want to be found.”
Schuster didn’t make eye contact while he raked a hand through his hair.
“Okay, fine,” Bex said, shaking her head. “What does any of this have to do with me?”
“Nothing, we hope,” Schuster said, taking a sip of his coffee. “But there is the chance that he’ll contact you. I’m thinking that might be why he came back into town.”
A shudder went through Bex—something between hope and disgust. Did her dad know that her gran had died, that she would be all alone? Did he want to help her—or hurt her?
“We’re thinking maybe you could be the one to draw him out.”
Bex’s gut lurched. It wasn’t a sinking feeling; it wasn’t fear; it wasn’t anxiety—it was something else entirely.
Would he want to see me?
A tiny spark of hope flickered but was just as quickly stamped out by guilt.
He murdered six women…
Or didn’t he?
“Bex?” Schuster touched her hand. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry.”
“We’re not sure what he’s going to do—if he wants to disappear again, if he wants to make contact with you, if he wants to…” He wouldn’t look at Bex.
“If he wants to kill again,” she supplied.
Schuster nodded and Darla’s crumpled image washed over her again. Had he killed again already?
“Has anyone tried to contact you?”
“You know, Darla wasn’t his typical”—Bex choked on the word—“victim. Maybe it’s not him, just a—”
“Copycat? Believe me, we’ve considered all the possibilities.”
“And?”
“Has anyone tried to contact you?” Schuster asked again.
Bex picked up a napkin, rolling the fibers between her fingers. “Other than you, no.”
“Anything strange, out of the ordinary happening around here?”
Bex thought about the postcard with its glaring, overly cheerful “Greetings from the Research Triangle” moniker.
“No, nothing like that at all.” She didn’t know why, but the words were out of her mouth before she could consider them.
Detective Schuster held her gaze and Bex felt as though he were looking right through her, reading her mind to know she was lying. She cleared her throat, looked at the napkin, and kept rolling it between her fingers.
“A body was found on the beach not too far from here?”
“Stop! What is that?”
Headlights glaring over the dunes.
A single foot, big toe buried in the sand.
“Yeah. I know. We’re not certain it’s him, of course, but the timing and the victimology do line up.”
Victim. Darla was a teenager, a high school cheerleader who sat at the popular table and threw tremendous house parties, and now she was a victim. She wasn’t a person anymore. She was a type, a specimen to be dissected and catalogued and discussed as though all that mattered about her were the things that mattered to her killer: blond hair, big blue eyes, sixteen to twenty-two years old, missing ring finger.
Bex sucked in a sharp breath. “Was her ring finger missing?”