“What?”
“I’ve been calling your name for the past five minutes. We’re just sitting here,” he says, gesturing towards the windshield, indicating we’re still in a very parked car.
I haven’t even put the keys in the ignition.
“Sorry, man,” I mumble, jamming the keys in the ignition and starting the car.
“Where’s your head at?” he questions, his eyes probing and too fucking observant.
A harsh breath punches out of my mouth. “I’ve been chasing this fucker for a year now, and I’m not any closer to finding him,” I grit out.
Saying it out loud makes me want to shove my fist through the steering wheel, rip out the air bag and wrap it around my own damn head. Fuck, this asshole gets me heated.
I don’t care that the Ghost Killer’s victims are criminals. They’re young, impressionable kids that chose the wrong path to walk. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t have the chance to turn their lives around. That doesn’t mean
they couldn’t have been saved.
The asshole is taunting me with them, I fucking know it. I feel it in my bones.
“You’re taking it too personal,” Amar observes next to me. Instead of answering, I lurch the car forward, heading back to the precinct. I have to find out who exactly Sage was involved with.
“You’re right, I am,” I admit.
“Maybe you should remove yourself,” he suggests quietly.
I grind my teeth together. Only Amar would feel secure enough to say shit like that to me. This case feels personal because it is personal.
“We both know he killed your real father, Mako. I haven’t told anyone else that, but I’m starting to second-guess that decision.”
I slam on the breaks a tad too hard when I stop at a red light, bringing the car to a sudden stop. The car behind me blares their horn, nearly rear-ending us from my dick move. If I were in a cop car right now, the car would’ve stayed silent. I’m not an asshole that needs to lord my badge over anyone so I ignore his anger.
“Shit, sorry,” I mutter, ripping a hand through my hair again. I’m just so fucking tired.
We fall into silence while I digest his veiled threat. It’s coming from a good place, I know that. But doesn’t mean I don’t want to fucking strangle him for saying it. I’m not supposed to be on this case with my involvement with the Ghost Killer’s victims.
Matt and Julie adopted me when I was thirteen years old, after spending a year in the foster care system. For the first twelve years of my life, I grew up on the streets with a drug dealer for a father and a prostitute for a mother.
Johnny Lancaster was heavily involved with a gang called the Crucibles. He was a shit father, but yet there was a small part of him that cared enough about me to keep the dealings away from me as much as he could. My mother didn’t pay me the same courtesy on the nights she worked, but I’d rather have a sloppy man looking for pussy in the room next to me rather than a gang member loaded with guns and high off crack.
That is until I came home from school one night to find my father dead, in a pool of blood with ‘Ghost’ carved into his chest and a bullet hole in his head. This was before the Ghost Killer became the serial killer he is today. It was an M.O. no one had seen before and hadn’t seen until recently—just a year ago.
I assume my mother either found my father dead or witnessed it and fucked off. Or she could’ve died, too. Daria Lancaster was never to be seen again after that day, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me not knowing where she is.
And now, sixteen years later, I’m being haunted by the man that turned my father into a ghost.
I’M PRETTY FUCKING SURE I’m experiencing a heart attack for the first time in my life when I see her. I’m only twenty-eight years old but this girl is going to send me to an early grave.
She’s wearing baggy jeans and a thin strawberry red hoodie. It’s eighty degrees outside but she’s dressed like it’s winter in Michigan. Her hair is thrown into a messy bun and face bare from any makeup, showcasing her unnaturally pale face. Normally when I see River, she’s done up with nice clothing and her hair down. She looks just as beautiful now as she does any other time, but something about her appearance feels so unlike her.
She looks… blank. Like a white canvas.
My eyes catch a stark white cast on her hand. Last time I checked, her pinky was the only finger broken and that one has already healed. Now there’s a white cast on her pointer finger. I drop my head back and count to—fuck it, I can’t even focus on numbers right now.
“That cast wasn’t around your finger two nights ago,” I say as I approach her from behind. Darkness is threatening to creep in my voice. I do my best to keep it away. Scaring her or doing anything to push her away would be stupid. Not when I’m trying to pull her in and away from him.
She pauses at my voice, her shoulders inching up towards her ears as she tenses.
“Leave. Me. Alone.” Her words hurt. Not because I want her to want me, but because it means she’s no closer to wanting away from Ryan.