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“Lance,” the news reporteranswered, raising her voice over the ferocious rain, “that’s a great questionand one we’re all asking. Several of my colleagues in the press questioned apolice spokesperson, but there was no indication of whether they believed themurders are connected or not. Although it seems like a good assumption thatthey are.
“The DeGreys have been aninstitution unto themselves in British society for hundreds of years. This is afamily who have wined and dined with royals and political figures, both hereand abroad, throughout history. The fact that someone has managed to murder twoof the family does make one wonder whether there will be more deaths to follow.It seems that despite their influence, money, and power, even the DeGreys arenot safe from these sorts of violent crimes.”
The news reader nodded withconcern on his face. The killer was certain that it was all just for show.
That man is more worried abouthow good his hair looks than people dying, the killer thought.
“Has there been any word orspeculation about the possible motive for these crimes?” the news reader askedfrom the warm safety of his studio desk.
The wind now whipped up, catchingthe rain where Kelly stood and blowing it almost horizontally at her. She grimacedand did her best to carry on, brushing her long blond hair behind her ears. Butit wouldn’t stay put, fingering its way across her face again as the windhowled.
The killer found it all amusing.
“There has been some speculation,yes,” Kelly finally said over the ferocious weather.
The umbrella over her head movederratically, threatening to escape from her grip. “There have been questionsabout the family’s business dealings recently in court, but right now, thepolice are keeping their cards close to their chest. What is fascinatingis that we were able to capture these exclusive pictures.”
On the screen, an image appeared.It showed a tall, muscular man in sunglasses with blond hair and a beautifulred-headed woman in a skirt and blouse, both standing in a small parking lot.It looked to the killer like it was taken in a small village, and in thebackground a sign hung from a white building with the words “The Grim Dog”written on it.
“What am I looking at, Kelly?” thenews reader asked.
“This photograph was taken todayby a freelance journalist. We’ve identified both of these individuals asInspector Amelia Winters and Special Agent Finn Wright from the FBI. If youremember several weeks ago, both were instrumental in solving the murder ofLord Van Reece, another high-profile case.”
“Fascinating,” Lance the newsreader said. “What does an FBI agent have to do with this?”
“We can’t be certain,” Kelly said.“But it is possible there is an international angle here. Finn Wright’sinvolvement remains a mystery. Sources have confirmed to us that he is indeedworking with the police as a consultant, but that’s all we know so far.”
The news reader turned to thecamera. “Thank you, Kelly. You can get inside now and have a nice cup of tea towarm you up.”
Kelly smiled as a gust of windblew in her face.
I bet she hates him, thekiller thought, letting a smirk settle in.
The news reader stared at thecamera, replacing his faux concerned expression with a softer glance.
“Moving on now to a heartwarmingstory about Dolly the Sheepdog, and how she has been shepherding a small familyof mice on a Yorkshire farm. Fascinating.”
The killer turned the televisionoff and sat there now in complete darkness. Somewhere nearby, the wind and rainlashed against a window. But there was no movement inside the room. The onlymovement was in the killer’s mind as it swirled with thoughts. Why would theFBI be involved in trying to solve the murders?
Now the pressure was increasing.For a moment, the doubt built up inside and the killer considered turning awayfrom the path. Sitting in the bleak night, the wind howling outside, the killerfelt as if somewhere out there a pack of wild dogs was circling, waiting to ripand tear through the house to get to the truth.
It was all so real now. The policeand the FBI would stop at nothing to find out who had killed the DeGreys.
But as doubt threatened to cast along shadow over the killer’s plans, another feeling rose up inside. Thefeeling of defiance. The feeling of being wronged. The feeling of needingto set things right.
And the only way to set thingsright was to keep killing until the job was done.
The killer grinned into thedarkness, and the darkness stared back.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Finn looked up the stone steps of theDashville Museum in the early morning sun. At the top of them was the curvyfigure of Winters, standing in a professional-looking skirt and white blouse,her red hair resting on her shoulders. She had one eyebrow raised as theylocked eyes. Finn had come to know that this specific facial expression meant “Finn,are you trying to get me fired?”
The rain of the previous night waslong gone, and now the world was slowly being baked by soaring temperatures.London was roasting, though not quite at the temperatures Finn had knownthrough his childhood in Florida.
In response to the sweltering heat,Finn had put on his only short-sleeved shirt—a yellow Hawaiian shirt with greenpalm trees on it and a young couple walking on a sandy beach in the distance.
“Finn… come on!” Winters said,looking down at him as he walked up the stone steps of the museum. BehindWinters, its massive polished pillars and intricately carved facade glared downat him with equal disapproval.
