Lachlan
Ethan’s words echoed around me, cutting above the ocean waves crashing in the distance. There was no way this was merely a coincidence. It couldn’t be.
Leaning toward Ethan, I glowered at him. “Tell me everything about this so-called ‘Lucretia Killer’. Now.”
He jumped, body going rigid. “O-of course.” He nodded toward the patio set on the lanai. “Do you mind if we sit?”
I glared at him for a beat. I didn’t find him threatening. Hell, I was pretty sure my accountant was more intimidating than he was. That seemed to be Claire’s type, though. Tall, lanky, highly intelligent. She was definitely a “brains over brawn” kind of girl.
I gave him a terse nod. Exhaling a relieved breath, he grabbed a leather messenger bag off the ground and slung it over his shoulder before timidly walking toward the patio set. He waited for me to sit in one of the chairs before lowering himself onto the wicker couch across from me, nervously rubbing his hands along his khaki pants.
When he didn’t say anything, I raised a brow. “So, this ‘Lucretia Killer’…”
“Right.” He parted his lips, then hesitated. “Would you rather Claire tell you about him?”
I tilted my head. “Excuse me?”
“Her podcast. You could—”
I held up my hand, stopping him.
While part of me wanted to listen to her podcast to see what she’d been up to, I didn’t think I could put myself through that. Not yet. Hell, listening to Claire’s voicemail repeatedly while answering the detective’s questions was what pushed me to my breaking point, leading me to throwing a few punches. I couldn’t stomach listening to an entire podcast, her voice reminding me that I’d turned my back on her and she was dead because of it.
Because of me.
“Not yet.” I swallowed hard. “I… I can’t.”
He gave me a sad, sympathetic smile. “I haven’t been able to listen to any of her podcasts, either. She’d recorded one for this week that I was supposed to go through and edit, but I haven’t. Hell, I haven’t even told her listeners she died.”
“I’m sure they already know. It’s been all over the news.”
“No one knew her by Claire Hale. She used a different name. Claire DeLune. A play on the Debussy song.”
I laughed slightly under my breath. “That was what our mum always called her. Mum was an accomplished pianist. Classically trained. So when Claire was born during a full moon, and since clair de lune is French for moonlight—”
“She named her Claire. I know.” He held my gaze for a beat, then cleared his throat. “So, ‘The Lucretia Killer’…”
“Right.”
I pushed down the emotions bubbling to the surface the best I could, focusing on Ethan in the hopes of figuring out what the hell was going on.
Get Claire the justice she deserved.
“His real name is Domenic Jaskulski. Like I said, he’s probably the most notorious proxy serial killer in the history of serial killers.”
“Because he killed his victims without ever actually killing them himself,” I clarified.
“Correct. This guy is a genius. A certifiable genius. There’s not a lot of information about his younger years. Grew up in foster care. Graduated high school at thirteen. Had a couple bachelor’s degrees by the time he turned fifteen. His first master’s at seventeen. That’s the kind of intelligence we’re talking about here.”
“Impressive.”
“Too bad all that intelligence turned him into a narcissistic sociopath,” he scoffed. “Now Domenic, who usually went by Nick, didn’t start his criminal career by killing. As is typically the case, it began with stalking. But being the intellectual he was, it wasn’t just following and watching, like most stalkers. He always wrote down his observations about the women he stalked. And that stalking soon graduated to rape.”
“Let me guess,” I interjected. “Rape eventually turned into murder.”
I’d listened to enough of Mrs. Young’s stories about serial killers to be familiar with the progression from a young boy who abused animals to a disturbed man who got off on torturing humans.
“Yes. And we can thank a woman by the name of Annabelle Landry for that.”