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“Oh, fuck, Ryden. She might not be ready for this,” Yara said with a sigh.

“I know. I’m going to meet Detective Rosario now. Can you meet me there?”

“See you. Just keep her safe.”

“I will. I have to.”

I hung up and got into the car.

Valentina looked up from her phone when I started the car. Her frown deepened as she stared, her eyes begging for reassurance, but I had nothing to offer her.

The monster who killed Sofia and Nikki had always been two steps ahead, and it was time for me to catch up with him, but using Valentina to lure him out… I hated that part.

“Is everything going to be alright?” Valentina whispered in the stretching quiet.

I shook my head. Lies were not going to help. She had to understand this would not be easy.

“It will be hard, but I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep you safe.”

13

BAIT

YARA

Iarrived at the DPD before Ryden did. Uniformed officers walked in and out as I took the stairs, ignoring the cacophony of voices all around me. This place was familiar.

I waited by the door, just watching the detectives work in their natural habitat. They were so engrossed in their files that they did not notice me.

Detective Nia Hall sat at Rishi’s desk. She intrigued me, and I had a feeling she saw the same thing Rishi did in me—it worried me. There were too many tangled webs now, and to put Nia into the mix was something I had neither planned for nor wanted.

Detective Rosario and Detective Myers were talking about the Strangler.

“He’s getting bolder,” Detective Myers said.

“And he’s not in a hurry to leave Detroit anytime soon. That’s a headache,” Detective R said with a wince. “Why the new pattern? The new games?”

A typical day in the Detroit Police Department, Homicide Division. Except they didn’t know a serial killer was now watching them, studying them.

“Whatever it is, I feel like he won’t stop until he gets what he wants.”

Me. The Strangler wants me.

I tapped my heels against the linoleum floor, watching the way Detective R’s mouth pressed in anger, watching how Detective Myers looked like he wanted to punch something.

I was often surprised by how in control of their feelings they were, how they didn’t let their demons lead them on a murder spree.

Their rage didn’t explode. It simmered, boiled, and then slowly cooled down.

Maybe that was what separated them from people like me. They carried their anger like a heavy backpack, taking it through long shifts, sleepless nights, and impossible cases. They buried their grief beneath paperwork, sarcasm, and stale coffee.

They celebrated when they closed a case, caught a killer. They were content with sending the perpetrators to jail, thinking that the justice department would do its job right and keep them inside for a long, long time.

Wrong.

Most of the evil ones found their way out like the weasels they were. And then these detectives would drink a few bottles of beer and curse justice, and go back to their routines.

It’s a sad routine.