Famished, Meghan O'Flynn [free ebooks romance novels .txt] 📗

Scorched air huffed from a vent under the psychiatrist’s desk. Petrosky had been there five minutes, and dampness was already creeping around his armpits.

“The change in victim is concerning,” McCallum said. “It doesn’t fit the mold. Not only do you have a completely different victim, but you have a completely different type of restraint system. Then, there’s the fact that there was no writing at the scene.” He grabbed a pen out of his desk drawer and clutched it in his meaty fist.

“We purposefully withheld the poems from the public in the first two murders. It suggests a copycat, but with the similar dissection styles, it’s hard to say. We’re still pushing the same killer to the public either way, though. One is less scary than two.”

McCallum nodded.

But Campbell was killed by his guy, Petrosky could feel it. So why would he vary his pattern? And why Campbell, some loser nobody, with no connection to the other victims?

“Let’s hash this out. I need to think.” Petrosky leaned forward in his chair. “If we’re dealing with the same killer, he had a very specific reason for choosing Campbell. I just can’t figure out why. Did Campbell piss him off? Did he see something he shouldn’t have? I could get behind our guy just being in the mood to slit someone’s throat, but he had all his dissection shit with him. It was premeditated.”

Petrosky’s gut was a hot mess of too many chili dogs and too little Jack Daniel’s; the nip he’d had before coming here wasn’t nearly enough.

McCallum tapped the pen on the desk. “If we’re looking at the same killer, there’s clearly some connection between the third death and the first two. If Campbell knew something, he’d have to have been there to see something—or know someone who was. Did he go out much?”

“Nope. DUI a few years back, no license, no car. He does have one common acquaintance from the shelter, but she only knew one of the female victims, not both.”

“This girl…is she a suspect?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

McCallum’s eyes bored into him. “You’re worried about her.”

Petrosky sighed. “Yes.” It sounded dirty to say it out loud—dirty but honest.

McCallum set the pen down. “Do you have reason to believe she’s involved?”

“Not really. I can’t see a motive for the women, and we have the tapes of the lobby, so she has an alibi for Campbell’s murder. Unless she went out the window.”

“What’s your concern?”

“I’m…not sure.” His stomach roiled.

“She’s not Julie.” McCallum’s voice was low, but he might as well have shouted it.

“I know she—”

“I understand, Ed. Julie’s on your mind. Always will be. It’s grief. It’s trauma. It’s complicated. But it’s a mistake to assume that any suspect who looks like Julie must be innocent. You’re generalizing, maybe even seeing resemblances that aren’t there because you want them to be there. You want to save Julie, and you can’t do that, so you’re trying to save someone else. But not all these women deserve your sympathy.”

“She just lost her boyfriend. She deserves something.” Petrosky wiped a hand over his forehead. It came away wet.

“Katherine Delacrois deserved your sympathy too, right? I’m sure you remember her.”

Petrosky clenched his jaw. Katherine had been just as lovely, with the same huge eyes and dark hair. She had been soft-spoken and tearful when he questioned her, and he’d felt so guilty about making her upset that he defended her to the other officers. A week later, she had quietly, and just as tearfully, admitted to brutally stabbing her boyfriend thirteen times in the chest.

“This isn’t—”

“No, it’s not. But it wouldn’t hurt you to remember that this girl is not your girl either.”

“I don’t have all day to bullshit about old news.” Petrosky clenched his fists under the desk, something sharp as a fish hook tugging at his heart. “I need to figure this out before he kills someone else.”

McCallum sat back in his chair, eyes tight but not surprised. “If you insist. Back to your case.”

He tried to ignore the twitch at the corner of McCallum’s mouth, but his back tensed anyway. “I need to look at the victims more.” Maybe there were similarities he had missed, not that he’d ever give Graves’s the satisfaction of admitting that.

“Their attraction for your killer may not be as obvious as it seems.”

“The attraction to the working girls seemed pretty obvious until Campbell.”

McCallum put his hands flat on the desk. “Look deeper.”

Petrosky stood and started for the door.

“Ed?”

He turned back.

“You know what you need to do. Find the links between the victims, and you’ll figure out how he’s choosing. You can’t focus on things you know aren’t leads; you can’t focus on this girl. As you said, you don’t have the time. He’s out there. And he’s hunting.”

All night I sat at the dining table, staring at the door with a kitchen knife in my hand, imagining I’d be ready the moment I heard him picking the lock. While I waited, I considered my options. One: leap into the car and run with the couple hundred bucks I had in my wallet. But I wouldn’t get far. Two: take the bus with that same money and probably get farther. But since he obviously knew that I had stayed in a shelter the first time, he’d surely look at shelters this time and find me right off. So that was out, and I had no idea how I’d find an apartment without someone like Ms. LaPorte looking out for me. I had never even used my name to open a credit card. Three: there was no three. For the life of me, I could think of nothing else to do.

The next day started on autopilot. My hands trembled as I lathered my hair, but I still washed it. My stomach lurched at the thought of food, but I still made toast. And when the hallway creaked ominously outside my door, I threw on my shoes, peered into the hallway, and raced for my car like I was running from a burning building.

At least at work, my heart could relax to a dull roar in my ears, white noise instead of the heavy metal drummer that had blasted away in my skull all the way to the office. I’d never been so grateful for the guarded doors, the security locks, and Jerome, somewhere in the building looking out for shady characters.

But I couldn’t stay here for the rest of my life, in this building, with the incessant clacking of fingers on keyboards to help me keep my composure. I peeked over the partitions at Noelle, but the back of her head wasn’t very comforting. Nor was the way Ralph was leering at her from across the room. I collapsed back in my chair and tried to lose myself in my work, punching in information as fast as I could until my shaking fingers refused to type any longer.

Let me know if there is anything I can do. His words rang in my head, until there was nothing left but his voice, and the hope trying to seed itself within me.

I shoved my chair back. File folders crashed to the floor.

Maybe he can help.

No, certainly not.

Tell him a joke! He likes those!

Not like you have anything to lose.

I threw open the