Chapter 6

John flipped the light switch in the back bedroom, then stood off to one side to allow me a better view. "You've been busy," I said, stepping in.

Photos hung in clusters. Suspects, victims, locations and even receipts. Hundreds of them. Red sharpie sprawled across, connecting it all in a spider web too intricate to understand.

"It's been a while since I had a lead," John said. "I wanted to go over everything again before we talked."

I studied the faces. Security snap shots, one man with a balding head and tortuous shell shades, another sporting a buzz-cut and a grease-stained grey t-shirt.

Then, the victims. I pressed my fingers to the shrine. "How many has he killed?"

John was silent for so long, I thought he wouldn't answer. "Too many. At least thirty-five, but that's just the girls we've found."

I nodded absently. "The women. . ." I stared at them. Some had photos of when they were alive, their names written at the top, descriptions of when and where they'd disappeared from. "They're all so different."

Jeanette Childers. Twenty-four years old. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Five feet and seven inches tall. One hundred and forty-five pounds. Missing from Tucson.

Maria Lopez. Fifty-two. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Five feet and two inches tall. One hundred and eighty-five pounds. Missing from Little Rock.

I paused, bile rising into my throat. Samantha Pinkerton. Twelve years old. Red hair. Blue eyes. Four feet and three inches tall. Eighty-one pounds. Missing from Savannah.

"It's the eyes," John said, voice even gruffer than usual. His steps echoed against the plywood floor, then he was beside me, staring at the same photo."They all have blue eyes." His gaze latched onto mine, and for the first time, I could read his mind.

Like yours.

"How long has he been doing this?" I asked.

"What makes you so sure it's a he?"

I looked at the wall again. "Whoever did this is a hunter." My voice went distant, my words automatic as my mind absorbed the information before me like a puzzle. "Men are the hunters. Women gather. Most female killers know their victims, and the majority of the time, they have a clear motive. Money. A man."

I stepped sideways and tried to read something he'd scribbled down. "Thirty-nine percent work in healthcare. They stay in one place, subtly ending their victims. A pulled plug. Poison."

I looked over. He was watching me.

"What's this note say?" I pointed to the spot.

"Traces of silver were found on each of the bodies. Whatever tool he used. Possibly a spoon."

I swallowed.

"You have some interest in killers?"

I hesitated, crossed my arms, looked back at the wall. Very rarely had I ever worried about someone's judgement. There wasn't a single day I lived and breathed that people weren't judging me, but that was different. They were judging who they thought I was. He was asking about something real.

"I always wanted to be a detective." I kept my chin high, expecting him to laugh. To remind me I was a whore.

But instead, he asked, "Why haven't you?"

I turned and stepped over to the small desk he'd positioned against the wall. "Let's get to the more important questions."

John motioned to his desk chair. "Have a seat." He pulled out the top drawer and snatched a ballpoint pen and a notepad from inside.

"My mothers name was Lillian. Lillian Boatright."

He sat on the edge of the desk and wrote.

"She disappeared when I was fifteen, that would make her—" I stopped to think. "—Thirty-four. She had blonde hair. Blue eyes." My voice sounded clinical. Each word I spoke was nothing more than rolling tongue and syllables. I couldn't feel them. Couldn't register the fact that it was her in one of those photos. "She was probably about five-six. A buck twenty." I watched him scribble, noticing the way those hollow eyes zoned in to the page. A glint in them, and I knew then what it was that Detective Winters desired.

This whole room was dedicated to it. The case. Finding the man behind these murders. That was what consumed him. There was no room for lust. He didn't care if his home was an abandoned meth lab. He didn't care that his wild hair and wiry beard made him look insane.

I studied him closer. "Are you undercover or something?"

His eyes lifted. "Yes." It was short and non-committal. "Your father?"

"He ran out before I was born."

"Do you know his name?"

"Nope."

John glanced at my face, then nodded slowly. "Did your mother ever have any boyfriends? Do you have a step-father?"

I lifted a brow. The question shouldn't have been surprising; he was new in town after all. Still, I was so used to everyone knowing, it was strange to hear him ask. "My Mother was a hooker."

His mouth clamped shut, and it took a moment before he bent his head and made note of what I'd said. "Do you remember any of the men?"

He didn't look back up, even though he'd stopped writing. I watched his carefully poised, stoic expression. His chest didn't rise for the entire minute I stared. He's holding his breath.

I leaned back in my chair. "I inherited most of them."

He flinched.

"The majority didn't know she disappeared until they came looking for her, and with her gone. . .I still had to eat."

John stared at the notepad, then slowly sat it down beside him and ran a hand down his face. He looked tired.

"These men still visit you?"

"Not all." I shrugged. "But the ones that don't are still around. We can find them."

Silence settled, and I felt as if he were reading me. Was that how I looked? Was that what Kyle saw when I did my "trick."

"You hungry?"

I blinked.

John stood and headed down the hallway without waiting for a response. After my brain had a moment to catch up, I followed and found him inside the kitchen, rummaging through a grocery bag sat on the table. He pulled out a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread, then turned and fished a butter knife from the box I'd discovered the night before. "I don't have much," he said as he spread a thick coating onto the first piece and set it down on a paper plate. "It's just me." He held out the offering.

I took it. "Thank you." When was the last time someone made me a sandwich? Or anything to eat, really? Yet, there I was, standing in the meth lab with a detective, eating peanut butter sandwiches. Mama used to make me peanut butter sandwiches with cheese puffs and root beer. It was my favorite meal. I pulled off the entire left side of the crust and stuffed it into my mouth, just like I'd done in another life.

John met my gaze for a brief moment, then turned back to making another for himself. He pulled a chair out from the table and motioned towards it. "Don't mention it.

He took the next chair and sat, pulling his plate closer. But he didn't touch the food until I'd sat down.

I finished chewing and swallowed. "We should talk to Reto."

John paused to swallow the massive bite he'd just taken. "Is that a—"

"Reto wasn't a John. He was a friend. Probably the only real friend my mama ever had." I picked at the other side of my sandwich. "If any of her Johns were giving her trouble, Reto would have heard about it."

He hummed, suddenly watching me much closer. "That's good. Where can we find him?"

I grinned and popped the crust into my mouth. "That might be a problem. You see, I know where Reto is, but he might not be too happy with me if I bring a stranger, let alone a cop out there." My brows lifted as I scanned his unlawful appearance. "Not that you look like one."

John leaned back in his chair. "Should I be concerned?"

I scanned him again, then smiled around another bite of the sandwich. "Probably, but you'll be okay as long as you follow my lead."

"Follow your lead."

"Mm-hmm." I nodded. "Keep that badge tucked away and try to look dumb. Let me do the talking. If he offers you a drink, you can't refuse. Big red flag."

John didn't seem the least bit enthusiastic about any of the shit I'd just said to him.

I took the last bite of my sandwich and stood. "Well? C'mon. No time like the present when you're headed to moonshine mountain."

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