"Exactly. He's precise. He’s smart. Leaves no evidence. Some found dead for mere hours, others for weeks, but no sexual assault with any of the victims. So why keep them?"
"They're his trophies. Maybe he gets off on the power. Who knows, man? You know how these motherfuckers are. There's no rhyme or reason to it."
"But that's where I think you're wrong, my friend," I say, closing the file and stuffing it into my briefcase. "I think there is a pattern to it. It's a game he's playing. And I get the feeling he knows exactly what he's doing." I stand, remove my coat from the rack, and slip it on. "Let's go down to Tenth Street and talk to some of the regulars. See if they've seen anything strange with any of their Johns. We can swing by the crime scene too."
Tommy stands too, rubbing his hands together. "Hooker patrol, let's do it! I'll get the car warmed up."
He turns and heads out the door. I don't move right away. Instead I let the four years I've spent chasing this killer wash over me in a flood of fucked up reminiscence. Four years of torture, mutilation, and death. Four years of missed chances and blown opportunities. I'm still no closer to catching him than the day I started, but it's what drives me.
That—and this motherfucker killed my baby sister. For that, he will be caught. It’s just a matter of when.
“Pretty Monster”—Reckless Serenade
Thirty minutes ago, the taxi pulled off the main highway onto this narrow side road. I always feel so awkward in the back of a cab. Do you attempt to strike up a conversation with the driver or not? It feels rude not to but overly friendly if you do. I decide to keep quiet, resting my forehead against the window as I watch the turning autumn trees whizz past.
Am I excited? Of course. Excited. Nervous—no, I'm terrified. Mr. Mercer chose me out of all the applicants—not fucking Margaret Stanley. But what does that mean anyway?
To say he left me unnerved at the coffee shop is an understatement. There is something about him, something deep-seated within him—in his eyes—that scares me a little. Maybe it's arrogance or intelligence or my own obsession with him, but something about him leaves me utterly mortified to be in his presence, yet here I am on my way to his cabin to write an entire novel alongside him. It makes my stomach kink. I'm worried he'll realize on day one what a shitty writer I am and send me packing. I debated asking if we could do this co-author deal via email or fucking Google docs, but after thinking that over, I figured it would only aggravate him if I asked. For some reason, I think he may have very little patience.
The cab takes a sharp right turn, and begins weaving up a twisting mountain ridge. The farther up we go, the thicker the trees grow, and a slight drizzle begins to fall. The driver flicks a knob on the steering wheel, and the windshield wipers screech over the glass. The noise makes my skin prickle. My phone buzzes, and when I see it's my mother, I press Ignore. The last thing I want her to know is that I'm here. She'll see it as her jackpot.
"Hell, this is out in the middle of nowhere, huh?" the pudgy man crammed into the driver's seat mumbles.
"Yeah…"
He chuckles. "Why'd the hell would somebody want to live this far from town? They killing people or somethin'?"
Chill bumps sweep over my skin, and I laugh to ease the tension. "Maybe." Maybe…
After driving several miles up the mountain in silence, we turn onto a one-lane road. I can barely see the outline of the road from the pile of leaves covering it. Woods. Thick woods surround us for a good five minutes before the taxi rolls to a stop, brakes squeaking. I glance out of the window at a small cabin, my breath fogging over the glass. My brow wrinkles. I’d expected something more… extravagant. Edwin Mercer is a eight-time number-one NYT best-selling author. He's made millions of dollars, and this—I narrow my gaze at the log cabin with smoke billowing from the stone chimney—this is what he lives in? Almost immediately, I chastise myself. Simplicity. That’s respectable.
I pay the driver, grab my luggage from the back, and slam the trunk. The tires crunch over gravel as he pulls away, and once the hum of the engine disappears down the road, I realize how silent it is out here.
I glance at the thick woods lining his property. I can just make out a tiny shed nestled by the tree line. My heart rate kicks up a notch, and I'm not even sure why I have this apprehension—it's only my entire future that hinges upon this project.