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He thought about a lot of things on the drive. He thought about Lexie, about how her name had been listed on Sara’s case file, right under his nose for months. At the time, it had meant nothing to him but ink on paper. Just another person the local cops had spoken to, passing along the information to his department in Boston without him ever meeting her personally. That fact alone was serendipitous enough, but then to have her be the one to save his life when he’d come to tell Sara’s parents the terrible news . . . What kind of chess move had the good lord been playing when he’d thought that one up? In hindsight, it was the only reason he was here now. Had it not been for those brief moments they’d spent together in that wreck, he might never have returned to Arcane Island.
He thought about the specifics of the two recent murders, about the motive, the means, and the ritualistic way both victims had been killed. Pain had been the aim. It wasn’t enough that they died, they had to suffer. Why? Well, that was still the big question. Serial killers didn’t always need a reason to kill a particular person. Oftentimes, the identity of the victim was irrelevant, so long as they fit into whatever fantasy the killer wanted played out. At this point, it was safe to say that the suspect they were looking for preferred young, blonde women. Whether the fact that they’d been best friends—or that they were associated with Sara who died in almost identical circumstances—was a pertinent factor was yet to be seen. So was Lexie’s significance—if any—to the whole thing.
He thought about Logan Hayes. From the moment he’d laid eyes on him, Nico had known something wasn’t altogether kosher about the man. Scratch that; there was a lot that wasn’t altogether kosher about him. He’d obviously been in a physical altercation around the time of the first murder—red flag number one. His truck had been caught on video a few blocks from the crime scene—red flag number two. And there’d been blood stains on the tailgate—red flag trifecta. Forget local prejudice. It was time to follow up on that lead once and for all.
George Riley was in the front yard splitting wood when Nico’s car ambled up the gravel driveway. Once he recognized who it was, he cast an uneasy glance toward the house. Nico hoped not to see Esme this time, then immediately felt ashamed of himself for thinking it. He should see her. He deserved to see what his carelessness had led to, the lives it had ruined.
“Stocking up for the winter?” Nico asked by way of a greeting.
“I told you to stay away,” George replied.
“I know.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About?”
George had gone back to his task, forcing Nico to wait for an offbeat to speak.
“I assume you’ve heard about these murders?”
“Hard not to,” George grunted.
“Do you have any . . . thoughts you’d like to share on the matter?”
George paused mid-swing to regard Nico. “Stop dancing around whatever it is that’s on your mind and ask me like a man.”
“Alright.” Nico took another step toward him and waited for the next log to shatter. “Can you think of any reason why two of Sara’s friends have ended up dead?”
Without warning, George pitched the axe over Nico’s head. It wasn’t intended to hit him, but it sure as hell jolted him.
“What the fuck!”
“You’re one self-righteous son of a bitch, you know that?” he snarled. “Accusing me of hurting those women.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Nico shouted back. “Just asking your opinion.”
“What’s next, huh? You gonna ask me if I killed my little girl?”
“Of course not! George, I”—Nico took a breath—“I’m sorry. I just. I’m trying to get a handle on this, and—and I can’t.”
George glowered at him. “I’m no murderer,” he growled. “But if you come to my home again, I will shoot you where you stand. How’s that for an opinion?”
“I can’t say I’d blame you for it.” Nico paced a few yards away, giving the boil enough time to hopefully lower to a simmer while he retrieved the axe from its landing spot. He held it halfway out to George. “Is it safe to give this back to you?”
“Depends on whatever stupid thing you say next.”
Nico chewed his lip, indecisive, then handed it over. “I know you didn’t kill those women, George.”
“Well, hallelujah,” he replied sarcastically, lining up another log.
“For one thing, Mr. and Mrs. McKinney both attest to you being in their garage until close to dawn the night Isabelle was killed. Working on his sixty-five Corvette, wasn’t it?”
“You checked on me?” George asked, indignant.
“I had to,” Nico said. “It’s my job.”
