hands of a killer.
I’m about to suggest turning back when a small shack, with four sets of tire tracks out front, comes into view.
“Fuck. Saint, Priest,” I shout as I scan for a vehicle. Something made those tracks, but there’s nothing here.
Hearing their footsteps behind me, I turn to face them.
“Saint, go in the back. Priest, round the building keeping your eyes on the windows. I’m going in the front.”
I don’t wait for them to agree or disagree. We don’t have time for bullshitting. I draw my gun and make my way over to the door, not bothering with being quiet. They would have already heard me shout to the guys earlier, so no point in being stealthy now.
As soon as my feet hit the top step of the deck, I kick in the flimsy front door and watch with satisfaction as it swings open, splintering on its hinges. I move quickly, peeking around each corner to make sure I’m not about to get ambushed, but the small dated kitchen and the seventies style living room with mismatched furniture are empty.
I meet Saint as he comes through the back door and nods in the direction of the hallway, indicating he’ll take one room while I take the other. I pass him as he swings open the door to a bathroom, but I don’t pay any more attention to him as I swing open the last door and suck in a sharp breath.
The floral wallpaper gives the room an old-fashioned whimsical feel, mocking the chaos swirling inside me. But it’s the body in a pool of blood on the floor, staring at me unseeing, that gives me pause.
“That has to be Jake.,” Saint says what I’m thinking, taking in the navy blue standard issue police uniform.
Priest moves over to the body and bends down. “No badge or shield, but I’ll be damned if I touch him and leave my DNA on him. If this guy is Jake Rowlins, then why the uniform? I’m sure Tate mentioned something about this guy making detective over Owen.”
“Because a detective wouldn’t be driving a squad car,” I tell them, trying to piece bits together even though there are still more questions than answers.
“Call it in,” Priest says to Saint, who nods and steps outside.
“Gun’s here too, but it’s not Jake’s, his is still in its holster,” Priest observes as I move to the neat pile of clothes in the corner that, for some reason, seem so out of place.
“So if Reign’s not here, where is she? If she shot him and ran, then where the fuck did this gun come from? I had my hands all over her before she left and she was not carrying this.”
I slide my gun into the back of my jeans and lift the top item from the folded clothes. It’s nothing out of the ordinary—a woman’s white fitted T-shirt with a little heart logo on the chest. The next item is a tank top with a name scrolled across the chest, Archers bar. I don’t remember seeing the top at all. Still, I remember the logo on the front because it was plastered all over the television screen as being the last place bartender Jodie Mcalister, victim number two, had been seen before she was attacked in her apartment.
The next item, a pair of black skinny jeans with Diamante on the back pockets, I recognize straight away. I should, I peeled Reign out of them last night before bed. I lift them and hand them to Saint, who walks over to me, shoving his phone in his pocket.
“Cops are on their way. Wait, these are Reign’s,” he tells me, worry evident in his voice.
I know what he’s thinking. Some asshole undressed our girl because she sure as shit isn’t out there thinking about her appearance. And there is only one reason I can think of, why he would do that.
“So is that…” Priest says, reaching over to the next item on the pile and lifting a white tank top with a black rose on the front.
“Fuck!” Saint spits when we see what was underneath the tank top.
Reign’s pretty purple lacy bra and panties.
I feel my blood boil staring at them, knowing what that means. I turn to the body on the floor, my moves almost robotic. I want to resurrect the fucker so I can kill him again.
“This isn’t right,” Saint mumbles, making my head snap back to look at him.
“Of course it’s not fucking right, Reign is out