“You really think this is a copycat Umbrella Man.” It’s not a question.
“I don’t think he’s copying him. I think he thinks he’s better than him.”
“Then why the blood in the jar?”
“It got my attention. It assured I’d be called to the scene. It said ‘game on and you’re the one I want to play with.’”
“And the wedding dress? There are no coincidences, right?”
“Andrew is still fucking Samantha. She didn’t leave town, which I’m sure you know.”
He arches a brow. “Why would I know about Samantha, Lilah?”
“Oh, come on. You’re you, Kane. You knew. You always know. And since it involves my brother, tell me next time. I’m not jealous of that witch.”
“Fair enough. And before you invite someone to Thanksgiving dinner, you talk to me. It’s our dinner.”
“Fair enough. Okay. I’m sorry.”
His brow shoots up. “Sorry? Did you just say sorry, Lilah Love?”
“Why do you say that like I never say I’m sorry?”
“You don’t.”
“Neither do you,” I counter.
“I guess we both need to work on that.”
“Yes,” I agree. “We should. And as per your comment. Bottom line. I’m sure Andrew told Samantha we’re engaged, so the whole damn town knows by now.”
“Then you’re dealing with a serial killer,” he says simply.
“Technically he’s only killed one person that we know of. That’s not a serial killer. But he’s not done. And neither am I. He wants my attention. He’s got it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I stop by the kitchen for a few essentials and then head to my workspace.
Purgatory.
Neither heaven nor hell, where there is no rest for the wicked or the righteous.
That’s where I feel every victim lives until their killer is brought to justice. That’s why my workspace is my version of Purgatory until I solve each murder I take on as my own to offer justice.
Purgatory here in the Hamptons is a workroom off the bedroom that Kane built for me before we ever got back together. That’s how certain he was I’d come back, and while I don’t like being predictable, I don’t believe I was as predictable as much as he was stubborn. And I ended up where I belong. The room, almost identical to the one off of our bedroom in our New York apartment, is complete with a heavy wooden desk framed by walls of whiteboards and pinboards. It’s well-stocked with notecards, chocolate, ink pens, and push pins. There are also two leather chairs against a wall, one for me and one for Kane. No one else is allowed in my workspace.
Inside my Purgatory.
Or my personal hell, which is an entirely other story.
For now, Kane lags behind, but I have no doubt he’ll join me soon. A few minutes later, I’m already printing photos and the documents Lucas sent me when Kane proves me right. He enters Purgatory with two more steaming Bailey’s coffees in hand. He then does what he does, settling into one of the two leather chairs against the wall with his MacBook. And then he gets to work while I do the same. For me, that includes a lot of pacing, mumbling, and cursing, which is mostly kept to myself for a reason. For Kane, there is a lot of heavy-handed typing that I know equals frustration, as he’s got his own work to be frustrated over—at present, negotiations on a big oil drilling contract. That’s another thing people don’t get about my trust in Kane when they should. He really does run an oil empire of his own creation. A job that is demanding, and at times, all-consuming. The cartel is not present in his everyday life. He rejects them when he can, but not at the expense of bloodshed. At times, he’s played peacekeeper between rivals such as the mob, in a way his father did and his uncle has failed to do. I know this because only last month I lived through his tormented decision to step into a dispute and do so despite the exposure and risk to himself and even me. And with him involved, lives were saved.
Settling behind my desk, which won’t last long with my current state of unrest over this case, I stuff a strawberry into my mouth and then break open the bag of chocolate. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Junk food is allowed. Actually, it’s always allowed when I’m involved in a fresh homicide. Most people don’t know I’m pretty healthy the rest of the time. I run when the weather allows—it helps me think. I don’t order the whipped cream on my coffee and yes, I eat egg whites.
But fuck egg whites when someone has been murdered. Just like fuck egg whites at Thanksgiving.
I claim the center of the floor, where there are pillows for just this reason—my need to have space to work—eat my chocolate and start writing notecards. Everyone involved with the case gets a card on a pinboard on the wall: Emma Wells, the men in her life, including the mysterious Jamie. Officer North, Danica Day, Andrew, me, Kane, Pocher, and my father. When I put the card on the board with my father’s name, Kane eyes me and then sips his Bailey’s.