“I agree.” Clay shoved the last muffin into his mouth. “These girls confirmed his timetable. We have two, maybe three days before he starts collecting again. Past that point, we have a week to find the girls alive before he calls with coordinates for his latest masterpiece.”
“All right.” I closed my laptop and stuck it in the bag Clay provided. “Let’s get moving.”
When Asa disappeared into their room, I assumed to grab equipment, I leaned over to inspect his muffin but found only a wrapper. Okay. No evidence to be found there. That left the one next to me. The one that should be mine. I palmed the muffin and rotated it a full circle, but nope. It was pristine. Not a single bite missing. Not a berry nibbled.
Sneaky daemon had sneaked my breakfast and switched it for his, which both excited me to be right and also made me extra special curious why he had fixated on my food. Before I could decide to ask outright, I intercepted a glare from Clay that would have vaporized me had he possessed laser eyebeams.
Asa emerged with his hair in braids, hands full of equipment, and set out for the SUV.
As I followed him to the parking lot, I decided I would ask how he got his part razor straight every time.
One day. Not anytime soon. I didn’t want him to know I had the hots for his hair.
On the drive, I settled in to flip through the case files of previous victims, hoping to jog a memory.
“He’s got a type.” I cringed from looking at the photos. “That’s for sure.”
There he followed the Silver Stag’s ideal, which meant the copycat had researched the Stag’s victims.
“The names of the Silver Stag victims were released to the public after his death.” By the public, I meant the supernatural public, not humans. “Our copycat wouldn’t have had to look hard to find their details.”
Colby could have been any one of these girls. She had been one of them.
“The other details were sealed,” Clay reminded me. “Only the agents who worked the original case know how he killed his victims, and those files are sealed tighter than a jar of pickles.”
“Perhaps that justifies the divergence from the original MO?” Asa cut me a sideways glance. “What if the killer followed the case in the news, collected every snippet, but assembled the big picture wrong?”
“That would explain why he took girls who fit the profile,” Clay agreed from the back. “He pulled off the trick that earned the Silver Stag his nickname, but those details were leaked early on. The exact manner of death was kept under wraps, and the copycat got it wrong.”
“Or he chose to go his own way.” Asa’s lips turned down. “Which would mean he’s not a true copycat.”
As much as I hated to ask, I had to know how divergent this copycat was in his methodology.
“There was no sign of sexual trauma on the Stag’s victims. Do we know about the recent victims yet?”
Asa tucked his chin, but he didn’t say a word. Clay, thankfully, answered for him.
“The previous victims showed no signs of abuse.”
“Small mercy.” I stared out the window. “That was all the dignity he left them.”
DNA would help the lab identify each girl. Their remains were cremated afterward to insulate the family from the harsh truth there was no return to normalcy for their daughters, even in death. An urn was the lesser of two evils, according to the director, and for once, I had to agree with him.
No parent ought to witness their child reduced to the trophy the killer made of them.
“This is it.” Asa flicked on the blinker. “Our first suspect lives in this subdivision.”
The homes were older, but the yards were neat. Kids played outside, and dogs chased them.
In a word, it looked safe. Not at all like a killer might be hiding amongst these normal, everyday people.
But normal was the best camouflage of all.
“We’re looking for two-thirty-three.” Clay leaned forward. “It should fall on the right side.”
Sure enough, we spotted the house and pulled into the drive behind a pickup swathed in camo decals.
On my walk to the house, I paused at the driver-side door to peer in the vehicle, and I noticed a gun rack mounted in the rear window. It didn’t mean this guy was our killer. Probably half the trucks in this neighborhood had them too. Hunting was how a lot of people in rural areas kept their families fed.