Lost Boy - Ker Dukey Page 0,28

he asks.

“What? You think he would—will?” Hope blooms in my chest.

“I’m not sure. After the trauma of his abduction and captivity, he may not remember you, but if he does, he’s a man now, your age.”

“His birthday is before mine. He’s almost a year older than me.” I place a hand over my chest to stop the skin from tearing from the wild beating of my heart.

“You remember him well?” He studies me, surprise in his tone. I almost laugh at that question. Jack lives inside me. “Of course. We were best friends.”

“You were so young, Lizzy, it would be natural for you to have a patchy memory of that time.” The remark grates on my nerves.

“I have perfect clarity of ‘that time,’ Detective,” I grunt, throwing myself backward in my chair. I relive it over and over.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.” He shakes his head in regret.

“My memories are all I have.” I close my eyes briefly, the heavy weight in my chest compressing.

“Can you tell me how you knew the victim in your apartment tonight?”

No. Jerking a shoulder, I say, “I didn’t know him. He was from the neighboring building.”

His gaze drills into me, probing. “I see. So, he didn’t live in your building? Do you know why he was there?”

Sighing, I shake my head. “He was coming to help us. We saw someone in our apartment from the building opposite.”

This gives him pause. He looks over his file. “What were you doing over there?”

Exhaling, I hold in the rant I want to let free and answer his question. “We were checking on our neighbor across the block. We hadn’t seen her in a few days, and we were worried.”

Picking up a pen, he twists it through his fingers. “Did you report your concerns?”

“I spoke to your partner about it…or Charlotte did. Anyway, it turns out she’s just out of town.” I place both palms on the table.

“You don’t seem too sure?” He picks away at me like he knows me.

“There was a rose,” I swallow past the stone in my throat. “On the anniversary of my mother’s death, I received a black rose with no sender information.”

Sympathy overcomes his face. “Did it have any information on where it came from? What shop? Was it hand delivered?”

I think back to the night I opened the rose. It had nothing. “It was left at my work.” I shrug. “I placed a black rose on my mother’s coffee—and Jack’s mother’s. Only someone at the funeral would know that.”

“What does this have to do with your neighbor?” he sounds interested now, the detective in him piqued.

Licking my dry lips, I lean toward him. “I saw it in her window.”

“The same one as yours?”

“I don’t know. Hers seemed fresh, but it looked like it had blood on a petal.” He jots all this down on his notepad.

“Why now? Why would Willis even bother with me?” I ask, desperate for answers. It has to be him. Who else is there?

“We’re not sure this is even him. Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.”

He’s not the one with bodies dropping at his feet. “Humor me.”

Gathering the news clippings, he doesn’t look at me as he says, “He’s a psychotic serial killer. They don’t have logical reasons. It could be that he sees you as a loose end. Psychopaths who fixate on someone or something usually become obsessed with it. It’s what makes them so dangerous. If this is Willis, we will know soon enough.”

A cold river of fear snakes up my spine. When I’m dead?

“You have no clue where he is, do you?” I snort, amusement drumming through me at the absurdity of it all. “If you’re not sure it’s him, who else could it be?”

“Honestly? I’m hoping forensics is going to help me with that. We believe this may be linked to another case.”

“Really? Another murder?”

“One that didn’t receive as much attention but had similar markers.”

“Here in town?”

“No, just outside of town. A sex worker.”

“Oh god, so serial killer?”

“Lizzy, we’re not jumping to any conclusions. Let me do my job,” he states, matter-of-factly.

“And what about Charlotte and me? Do we just wait around for his next game?” I stand, leaning my hands on the table, my eyes cold and accusatory.

“I’m going to have one of the officers here checking in with you and patrolling your street.”

“What about our apartment?” I snap.

“You won’t be able to go back there until forensics clears the place. Maybe a couple more hours—a day at most.” He

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