about how this is my fault for poking into the murders? For sullying the memories of those women, bastardizing tragedy in order to make a buck?”
“No,” he said immediately. “Because none of this shit is your fault. And I know that’s not what you’re doin’, with the book. I know this isn’t your choice. Not really. And I also know you don’t give a fuck about the money, despite what you tell yourself. It’s easier for you to say you do it for the money, because admitting that you do it for your survival, your sanity, admitting that shit out loud makes you seem weak. Which is your biggest fear. Not being kidnapped by a fucking serial killer. Not having a deranged fan break into your house and having you kill him. Not even having some piece of vermin violate you. That’s all left scars, but you’re ready to show them to the world to make sure everyone knows that you can heal from anything. But baby, you can’t heal from the wounds you give yourself.”
I was horrified at the single tear that trailed down my cheek after the full minute it took me to process his words. To process what he saw in me. Never in my life had I cried in front of anyone. Not my adult life, at least. Not in my Magnolia Grace, author, life.
Saint didn’t comment. He merely wiped the single tear away with his thumb, stuck said thumb in his mouth, and got his phone, dialing for the police.
I just sat there. Let him take care of it.
“How can you say that this was the individual that has killed five other women?” the man in the cheap suit asked me.
I sipped my bad coffee and stared at him. He was my age. Bad hair. Greasy. Ditto with his skin. His suit was not only cheap, but ill-fitting, and a shade of gray so light it made his skin look sallow and translucent.
A Fed. A very tired Fed that was just another grunt in the investigation. They had only just launched it, I’d say, only just declared a serial killer. They probably hadn’t even completed the profile.
This guy wasn’t in charge, because they weren’t taking me seriously. Not yet. They were dubious about a famous author who called in and said a new serial killer had abducted her, tied her up, had a chat, carved her up some, and then just let her go free.
I got it. I wouldn’t take myself seriously either. Authors had done a lot more in order to get their names out there. In order to give their books some publicity in the traditional publishing industry being threatened by self-publishing and a society that was getting stupider and less interested in books.
“Because he talked about killing five other women,” I replied, making no effort to keep the snark from my voice. After the call Saint made, the police converged on the hotel. Once I gave my statement to the chief, his face had whitened ever so slightly and then he made the appropriate calls. He insisted on having paramedics look me over. I think he had a little soft spot for me, for whatever reason.
The paramedic complimented Saint on his great stitch job and had given me an otherwise clean bill of health. They hadn’t given me the morphine I asked for.
It had taken an hour for the Fed to get here. Here being the tiny police station in town, with bad coffee and no whisky to speak of.
This all meant I was tired, sober, and my arm was throbbing like a thousand sons of bitches.
The Fed regarded me. He didn’t like me, he took no pains to hide this. I wasn’t sure if it was because he thought I was lying, didn’t like my books, or didn’t like the fact that I didn’t seem to be bowing to his authority.
He glanced down at the pad he was holding. The one where the chief had written down the details of my initial statement. “So, he admitted to committing five murders over five different states, and then decided to just maim you and let you live. You know how unprecedented this is for a serial killer?”
I nodded. “It’s part of my job to research the crimes of these types of people, to understand them.”
He narrowed his brows. They were bushy and somehow a shade lighter than both his hair and patchy beard. “You don’t understand them,” he said, bite to his voice.