“Not your fault,” she mumbles.
“I knew my job was toxic for relationships, but I naively never thought it’d put you in danger,” I say softly, wondering if she’s already asleep when she doesn’t respond.
She rolls over, facing me, her eyes fighting to stay open.
“If you’re trying to break up with me after I just survived the Boogeyman, I may kick your ass.”
She says the words with dry humor, but I can see the vulnerable look in her eyes.
“I probably should, to be honest. But I’m too selfish to let you go,” I tell her honestly.
She brushes her lips against mine, and she sighs as she snuggles in closer. “I feel the exact same way. I can’t let you go, no matter how much better I feel you deserve.”
I deserve better? She was targeted by a sexual sadist because of me. She was attacked because I didn’t call the patrol one night to make sure they were in place. She was almost hurt because I failed her.
No. She was hurt. Not almost.
The bruises on her face and split lip tell that story plain and clear.
My phone chimes as Lana’s breathing evens out, and I listen to her sleep, holding her to me like I’m worried it’s all an illusion. Worried I’ll wake up tomorrow to realize I’ve had a psychotic break and am now living in my head—in a world where Lana survived.
I read the text from Craig.
CRAIG: Your girl fought back hard enough to leave some bruises on him too. Coroner said it couldn’t have been easy, since he was solid muscle. She’s tougher than you think. Stop beating yourself up.
ME: When your girlfriend almost dies because of a serial killer targeting you, then talk to me.
CRAIG: Touché. How is she?
ME: I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. She’s sleeping right now.
CRAIG: BTW, I know you want time off, but…I sort of found something major.
ME: Fuck. What?
My phone rings, but Lana doesn’t even stir. I answer reluctantly.
“So, this little town is covering up the fact there was a serial killer ten years ago. Sexual sadist much like our dearly departed Boogeyman.”
“Too soon,” I state dryly.
“Right. Sorry. But there’s literally not one mention of this ever in their papers.”
“What does the serial killer have to do with anything?”
“That’s the thing, it doesn’t look like they put away the right guy.”
I slowly sit up, careful not to disturb Lana. I’d normally go to another room, but not right now.
“What?”
“The Godfather profiled him to be in his mid-thirties to early forties, and a blue collared worker. But Leonard—yes, I called him first—said that it didn’t make sense. The guy was well organized, and displayed psychopathic tendencies when he killed. The women were brutally assaulted perimortem, antemortem, and postmortem. This guy was seriously into annihilating the body.”
“What’d he do?”
“In short, he carved them up, with a serrated knife, then drilled nails into their foreheads. It started off being mostly after they died. Then it started happening before they were dead. He developed into a true heartless bastard.”
“He’s a psychopath with sadistic tendencies. Not a sexual sadist. Sounds like sex was an afterthought. What does this have to do with our killer? I admit it sounds crazy to have another serial killer from that town, but this is obviously not a copycat situation. Our unsub’s motivation is revenge.”