Where the Truth Lives - Mia Sheridan Page 0,57

for another moment and he could hear the very soft drone of what sounded like a television in the background that she’d just turned up. “Reed, are you there? At the crime scene downtown?”

He stilled. He hadn’t intended on telling her about this third victim found in the same condition as her boss in the wake of what she’d gone through last night. And until they knew who the victim was and might have reason to question her about the crime that was obviously committed by the same man who’d killed Steven Sadowski. “Yeah.” He sighed, figuring the news was reporting based on what vehicles could be seen entering the scene. When a body bag got pulled out of an ambulance, it was a sure sign there was a dead body. Generally, though, a murder with no details didn’t make the news. For all they knew, a homeless person had OD’d, not that that wasn’t sad in and of itself, but it generally wasn’t breaking news.

“My God, it’s the same,” she said. “Reed, they’re showing a picture of the body. It . . . it has no eyes. The same person did this.”

He was suddenly on alert, his jaw tight as he looked around at all the people in the garage. But none of them looked out of place. “Liza, are you telling me there’s a picture on the news of a body that looks just like Steven Sadowski’s did?”

“Yes,” she said, and she sounded slightly breathless. He heard a click. “I turned it off. But, Reed, my God, again? This is the third victim. They’re saying there’s a serial killer on the loose in Cincinnati.”

“That picture was not supposed to get out. I’m so sorry you saw that. Someone leaked it. Listen, I have to go, okay? Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. You go.”

He hung up, sticking his phone in his pocket, and swearing violently under his breath. Fucking Daphne. She’d somehow snuck a picture while she was down in the garage.

And it’d only taken her five minutes to upload it to her news station so they could broadcast it out to the city using whatever hysteria-inducing language they thought would bring the best ratings.

He felt like throttling her.

Now the CPD had a big fucking mess on its hands.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Reed closed his door behind him and engaged the lock, rotating his shoulders in an attempt to work out the tension. What a clusterfuck the day had been.

He’d tried to call Daphne so he could chew her out, but as expected, she wasn’t answering his calls, or returning his messages. Which verified exactly what he’d known. She’d snapped a picture of the victim when she’d snuck into the crime scene, uploaded it along with her unconfirmed theories, and completely upended their investigation. He and his team had spent the remainder of the day attempting to get in front of the mess and making statements to the media. The investigation itself had had to take a backseat. And they couldn’t afford that. Not when the older a murder got—even by hours—the more difficult it became to collect information.

The less likely it was to be solved.

They didn’t even know who the fuck the victim was yet.

With another muttered curse, seemingly his hundredth that day, he tossed his badge, wallet, and phone onto the kitchen counter, removing his gun and holster and placing those beside the other items.

The contents of his refrigerator spoke to his current lifestyle—a bottle of ketchup, a half-eaten burger still in its take-out box, an almost-empty bag of coffee beans, a shriveled apple, and two bottles of Heineken. He grabbed one of the beers and shut his refrigerator, using an opener to flip off the cap and taking a long drink.

Reed leaned against his counter and rolled the cold bottle over his forehead, and then stretched his neck one more time. Better.

His phone rang and he glanced back at it, the word Mom flashing on the screen. He picked it up. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, sweetheart. How are you?”

“I’m good.”

She paused. “You sound tired.”

He breathed out a small smile. Leave it to his mom to hear his exhaustion in two words over a telephone line. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I am. Long day.” Long week. Long . . . month as a matter of fact.

“Your father and I saw that murder victim found downtown. It was awful.” It sounded like she let out a shudder as she said the last word. “That’s the case you’re working, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, Lord.” She

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