Prologue
Two weeks earlier
There wasn’t anything particular about the bartender that sealed her fate. She suited his needs, and that was enough. Her hair was a dirty blonde—he would have preferred it brighter—but she carried herself with the same aggravating sense of entitlement that pretty bitches like her always had.
If anybody discovered his little side hobby, they might try to blame it on mommy issues or a girl that once broke his heart. But none of that was true. He was just born this way. He wasn’t a stranger to violence. In fact, his days were filled with it.
But nothing compared to being the perpetrator of said violence. To be the one that held the knife when your fist hit their body because you plunged the blade all the way to the hilt. It took quite a lot of force to stab someone so deeply and thoroughly. Humans aren’t fragile creatures. Weak and pathetic maybe, but not fragile.
She always walked home after work, even when she got off at two a.m., which was exceptionally stupid.Doesn’t she know there’s a serial killer on the loose?
June Harbor wasn’t a high-crime city. Sure, crime happened, but it was often isolated to the criminals who’d brought it on themselves. Which was why his first two murders sent the bayside city into such a tizzy. The city had mandated a midnight curfew, but Phantom Nightclub had never cared much for what the government told them to do.
The police were being hounded by the press, who wanted to know if it was the work of a serial killer, but they wouldn’t say anything definitive until there were three kills. He’d diligently kept up with every shred of news that mentioned the murders, though most articles were filled with “no new suspects” and “no comment” statements from officials.
He followed her from a safe distance until she was at least five blocks away from the nightclub. He didn’t want to make the connection obvious by killing her too close. Of course, the police would find the connection eventually, but it could be waved off as circumstantial.
The closer she got to the alley, the more his hands tingled with anticipation. His hand wrapped tightly around the handle of the knife in his pocket. He scanned his surroundings from under his dark hood as he stealthily closed the distance between them. His blood pumped with vigor as he snuck up behind her and shoved her into the alley, an inked hand wrapped tightly around her mouth.
He easily carried her wriggling form behind a dumpster. He noted how he always seemed to be infused with superhuman strength when he made his kills. Adrenaline. What an interesting thing. The adrenaline coursing through the blonde bartender, that made her writhe and fight his hold, was the exact same thing that gave his muscles the boost to overpower her.
His cock hardened when he threw her to the ground. Her face twisted in pain as her head crashed into the gravel. Before she could scream—now that his hand was no longer covering her mouth—he buried his blade into the supple skin of her neck, effectively drowning out her cries for help as her airway filled with blood.
The next morning theJune Harbor Chronicleannounced that the police were officially investigating the string of recent murders as the work of a serial killer.
They called him the June Harbor Slayer.
Chapter one
Slain
Harlow
Present
“June Harbor Slayer strikes again, slain local dancer makes victim #4”
The corners of the newspaper flutter as it settles on the cold, metal table, the fluorescent lights flickering across the big, black letters. My stomach churns as I read the bolded headline again:June Harbor Slayer strikes again, slain local dancer makes victim #4.
“Anything else you want to tell us?” I ignore the detective’s question the same way the newspaper ignored the fact that Beth wasn’t just a dancer. She was a friend, a sister, a daughter. She didn’t just dance at night, she also got iced coffee every morning—no matter the weather—from her favorite cafe where the baristas knew the exact milk-to-coffee ratio she liked. The police predict a serial killer, but Beth had liked to predict when a red light would turn green, and any time her countdown was right, she squealed and slammed on the accelerator while saying, “It’s my time to shine!”
Shine.
She shined in everything she did. Whether it was painstakingly picking the perfect avocados or calling her grandmother religiously every Sunday.
“Miss Hargrave, there’s a serial killer out there, and you’re the only living witness. You need to help us help your friend.”
“Shut up,” I mumble on a shaky exhale as I make eye contact with the black-and-white Beth staring back at me from the paper.
“Excuse me?” The detective’s voice is strained, like he’s struggling to stay calm.
“Shut up,” I repeat quietly.
“Miss Hargrave—“
“Shut up!” I erupt. I stand abruptly, my chair slamming back into the concrete wall of the interrogation room. The sound is loud and jarring in the small space.
I’m louder.