Текст книги "Tethered Bond"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Getting my team to help me scout Brook Meyers was an awesome idea. Until we took into account that two of my team members are six feet tall and built like brick shithouses.

Mike and Dean aren’t exactly the guys you want following someone inconspicuously.

Needless to say, they were promptly sent home, and Alison was recruited in their place.

Luckily for us, she isn’t working and Mom was all too happy to escape Nonna and Gio to babysit for this noble, police-worthy cause.

It’s okay, Mom. We’re only hunting down a potential rapist—because hey¸ Toni was sixteen. Texas state law constitutes their hanky-panky as statutory rape, no matter how consensual Brook Meyers insists it was.

Fact is, Toni Thompson isn’t here to state otherwise.

It’s a good thing I snuck my gun into my purse. Slightly inconvenient, but if I’d have gotten changed, Drake would have known instantly what I’d done.

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I wear my gun the way makeup-loving women wear mascara.

My gun is like my panties: necessary to wear if you want to avoid unfortunate events.

That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it… Never mind that my gun has come out in more than a few unfortunate events in the last few months, and the most unfortunate things my panties have had to deal with are being brand new and white when Mother Nature stopped by for coffee and cake.

I’m almost inclined to say the latter is more unfortunate. Panties are expensive.

The smell of hot dogs assaults my nose, and I breathe in that fabulously greasy scent. I don’t think my stopping to fill my stomach would go down well—never mind that I was pulled out of dinner. There’s a potential fugitive on the loose. This crazy bitch can starve!

I kind of feel like, right now, the HWPD are like the Beast in Beauty and the Beast. You know that part where Belle refuses to go for dinner and Beast is like, “Staaaaaarrrrvvvveeee!”

Yeah. That part.

If my stomach were a praying mantis, it’d be nomming on its lover right now. Nomnomnom.

Oh my God, I’m so hungry.

Just one hot dog.

Just one.

Fuck it.

I’m getting a hot dog.

I approach the stall. I get my hot dog. I eat my hot dog. It’s wonderful.

Screw you, HWPD. New pants are going on my expenses bill.

With my hunger satiated, I grab a Diet Coke from another stall and pop the top.

Have you ever tried to find someone in an overrun fair on a Friday night? I don’t recommend it. I honestly believe that Drake and his cronies could have bust in here like a SWAT team, all badass motherfucker, and nailed this pint-sized prick before I will.

They wouldn’t have stopped for food. That’s for sure. Well, this is what happens when you drag me away from family dinner, which was promising carbs and more carbs with a side of carbs, and force me to work on an empty stomach.

My phone shrills in my purse, and I jump. I hate it when it turns itself on loud. I much prefer my phone on silent—that way, I don’t have to talk to people. If my phone is silent, I can be all, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear it.” Because it didn’t ring, because you’re an asshole.

I kid. Maybe. Professionally, I know a bunch of assholes. I guess that’s a good thing about being hired by the council-slash-mayor-slash-police. I don’t have to deal with… Shit. Never mind.

My phone rings again, and I dig it out from the deep depths of my latest Mary Poppins purse. Upon finding it, I answer it and hold it against my ear triumphantly.

“Hello?”

“She has-a called-a it-a off-a!”

Oh sweet baby Jesus on steroids. “Nonna?” I ask over the noise. “Is that you?”

“Amelia’s called off the wedding!” she spits in Italian.

I pull the phone down, hold it between my breasts, and touch my fingers to my forehead, breastbone, and shoulders, then the sky in the cross motion. Thank you, God. Maybe you do exist after all.

While I have your attention, sir, have a word with Satan, will ya? Thanks.

“Oh, Nonna. Maybe she isn’t ready,” I attempt to say softly. My voice is flat. I’m happier than anything.

Amelia is not ready to get married in two weeks. Amelia wants to get married when she wants to get married, and that’s the end of it.

“When Trent called and said he wouldn’t be at dinner because of what was found out, she got up and she lost it. She screamed the wedding was off and it wasn’t happening and ran out!” Nonna continues, still in an angry stream of her mother tongue. “How can she stop it? It is paid for! Noella, you have to talk to her!”

So. Much. Italian.

It doesn’t go well with a town fair.

“Wanna Hook-A-Duck?” I ask her lamely.

“Noella! This is serious! She does not want to marry your brother!”

All the Italian. Make it stop. Cazzo! “What? Nonna, are you there? Nonna? I can’t hear you!”

“Noella!” she cries desperately. So desperately that I almost feel bad for my breaking-up trick.

Almost.

“Can’t hear you, Nonna!” I insist, rounding past Alex’s tent and keeping my head down.

Eddie Roy sees me from a burger van and raises his hand in a wave. I return it, still protesting to Nonna just how very bad our connection is.

Then I see him.

He’s standing behind a girl. Her purple hair is tied into a ponytail, some of it flicking over his shoulder, and she turns her face to him, laughing.

If she’s eighteen, then I’m a virgin.

“Gotta go, Nonna. I’ll call you.” I hang up and drop my phone into my purse. Then I back right into a solid wall of muscle. “Oh my fuck. I’m so sorry,” I ramble, turning and pushing against the body.

“You’re all right,” Alex says, amused, taking my hands and dropping them.

I glance at his tent then at him, an uncomfortable crawl moving across my skin. “How did you—never mind. I have to go. Sorry.” I dart away from him, wincing when pain slices through my foot for the millionth time today.

Thankfully, he doesn’t follow me, and I’m able to trace Brook Meyers and his mysterious purple-haired chick to a burger stall. This particular one is busy, and I join the line. He doesn’t seem to have done anything menacing. The most dangerous thing is that he’s pinching his date’s ass.

Still, he’s a person of interest. He could make a difference. I know that better than anyone.

Plus, his girlfriend just died, and apparently, so did his bonk-buddy. Doesn’t he have a heart? Or does he just not care?

I pull my phone out and text Detective Nash a handful of words.

Barney’s Burgers, Alex’s stall, left, right, left.

How else do you describe a position in the middle of a goddamn field?

He understands it, because just as Brook and his date have their food handed to them, Drake appears from the crowd with Brody and Detective Johnson flanking him.

I can’t hear his words, but I see the glint of silver as my little brother, Detective Brody Bond, removes handcuffs from his back pocket. I see the movement of Detective Drake Nash’s lips as he reads the teenage boy his rights and the grimace of Detective Johnson as it happens.

As he’s led away, I step up to the counter, order three fries, three cheeseburgers and three coffees and call Bek.

I’m gonna need a ride to the station.

The coffee is cold, the burgers are congealed, and the fries best resemble Play-Doh more than anything else.

All untouched. All going on my fucking expenses.

I’ve been sitting in Drake’s office chair for the last two hours while they’ve been questioning Brook. Apparently, I’m good enough to find him and have him arrested but not to sit in while they question him.

I kick off the side of the desk and spin around in the chair. Wheeeeee. Ugh. I should have eaten at least one of those burgers. I mean, I did drink one of the coffees.

Okay, it was two. I drank two. Which is exactly why I said the coffee is cold. There’s only one left.

I’m also kind of buzzy. It occurs to me that maybe the second cup of coffee was a bad idea, but then again, wasting it was also a bad idea. At the time, at least.

I should really do something. I’ve been sitting here for hours, doing nothing but trawl Facebook, play Juice Jam, and spin on Drake’s chair. I’m ashamed to say I even bought coins on Juice Jam just so I could go past my five heart-slash-life thingies I’m allowed.

I know. I’ll text Amelia. Arrange a girls’ night. Because that’s absolutely what one needs smack-dab in the middle of a serial murder investigation.

Actually…nachos, pizza, alcohol, and good friends are exactly what one needs smack-dab in the middle of a serial murder investigation.

Dammit. Now, I want pizza. And I wonder why my fucking pants don’t fit.

Ten minutes later, a distraught Amelia has confirmed tomorrow night for girls’ night and Bek and Alison are on board. Drake is also storming into his office like his ass is on fire.

“I need you.”

A girl could get used to those words. “Judging by the look on your face, you don’t mean naked or on my knees. Or bent over the desk.”

“Trust me,” he mutters tightly, his jaw clenching, “Bent over the desk sounds fuckin’ awesome, but I need you to question this asshole and see if he’s lying.”

“What? You mean to say you still don’t have a body language expert in this department?” I lift my eyebrows, knowing full well they don’t.

Drake has always tended to…ahem…rely on me for that. By rely, I mean trick me or drag me kicking and screaming until I’m inside the interview room and have no choice.

“Don’t fuck with me, Noelle.” He slams his hands flat on the desk in front of me, and his eyes pierce mine with their anger. “Get your ass in there and question him.”

My skin prickles at his demanding tone, and indignant defiance races up and down my spine, making me sit bolt upright. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were my boss.”

“Noelle.”

I slip my feet into my flats and push back before I stand. Then, with my palms pressed against his desk, I lean forward, tilting my head back so my gaze collides with his. “I am not your bitch, Detective Nash. I’m not your goddamn newbie officer you get to push around because you’re in charge of the investigation. I was hired by the department, which makes me your fucking equal. Don’t even think about spinning me this protection bullshit. You know I should have been in there anyway. Now, I’m gonna go speak to him because I want to, because your department is so fucking useless that you can’t question an eighteen-year-old kid without me. And you’re gonna drop that superior-bitch-ass attitude before you say another word to me or the only thing bending over your desk for the next six months is gonna be a fuckin’ blow-up sex doll. Are we clear?”

He says nothing. He just stares at me, even angrier. I didn’t think it was possible, but it is, and like normal, I’ve successfully pushed every one of his buttons without releasing the one before it.

I sit back down and grab my purse. I kick off the shoes I just put on and pull a pair of heels from my purse. Then I throw them down and, gritting my teeth, put them on. Drake’s jaw ticks, his lips thinning until I can’t see them anymore, but I guess he senses that my bullshit-o-meter is about to ding-ding, because he doesn’t fight, despite the fact that I just got this injury.

It’s a cut. I have a job to do. And heels are power.

He can kiss my sweet Texan-Italian ass and swivel on that shit.

I stroll out of his office, doing my best to ignore the sting of my foot. It doesn’t hurt—not really. It’s just an annoying niggle on a sensitive part of my body. Plus, I may or may not have snuck these heels into my purse when he took me by my house earlier.

It’s his fault for having left me unattended. He knows how stealthy I am.

Sneaky. Stealthy. Same difference.

Drake follows behind me until I reach the interview room where Brook Meyers is being held. Detective Johnson is standing guard outside, discussing something with Trent, and I walk up to them. They stop talking when they see me, and I put my hands on my hips, straightening my spine until I’m drawn up to my full height. I’m level with Johnson and only an inch shorter than my brother.

“You’re wearing heels?” Trent asks, looking at my feet and then my face, concern flashing in his eyes.

“What do you want me to find out?” I ask, ignoring him.

“He didn’t tell you?” He jerks his head toward Drake.

“What do you want me to find out?”

Trent’s shoulders heave with his deep breath, understanding etching across his features. “That he had sex with Toni Thompson within twenty-four hours of her death. He’s telling us he didn’t regardless of the DNA evidence, that he didn’t see her except for school. Also, if you can verify his alibi with him for the time of her disappearance, it would help. And Melissa’s.”

“Next time, just ask me to do the damn interview myself,” I snap, pushing past him to the door. I open it and walk into the dimly lit room.

There’s nothing but a table, chairs, and a recorder—if you don’t count the forlorn-looking teenager and the lawyer who rushed to his side.

Mr. Goldberg, one of Austin’s finest, used statewide. It’s not the first time I’ve come up against him, but I sure hoped the day I left the Dallas PD I’d never deal with his ass again.

“Ms. Bond,” he drawls, standing. “Returned to police work?”

“Save it, Samuel,” I respond, pulling my chair out.

The door shuts behind me, and when I look, I see Drake standing by it with his arms folded across his chest.

Excellent. I love an audience.

“Brook Meyers?” I ask, looking at him.

Brook glances up, his face expressionless but pale. “Yeah?”

“Noelle Bond.” I hold my hand out toward him. When he clasps it weakly and shakes, I say, “I’m working with the Holly Woods Police Department on this case. Can I ask you a few questions?”

With typical teenage attitude, Brook shrugs. “You’re gonna anyway.”

I sit down and study him. He looks entirely unaffected by what’s been happening in town, and although he never really disappeared, it feels like it. To me, it feels like an age has passed since we first found Toni’s body.

“Why’d you go to the fair tonight?” I ask, clasping my hands and resting them on my lap.

“Am I not allowed?”

“Of course. I’m just interested because you knew that the police were looking for you to ask you some questions. You must have known you’d been seen and it’d be reported.”

He shrugs.

“How do you feel about your girlfriend dying? You were supposed to pick her up, right?”

“Melissa?”

“Got another girlfriend I don’t know about, Mr. Meyers?”

The look he gives me is steely. “No, ma’am.”

I usually hate being called ma’am, but here, I’ll take it. “You were supposed to pick her up from the airport, right? Talk me through that day.”

He rolls his shoulders but sits up a little straighter and meets my eyes. “She called me before boarding. Her flight was delayed by twenty minutes, but I said it was okay. I’d still get her. She wanted to grab dinner before heading back home. Her parents have been fighting. She didn’t go home if she could help it. I hung out at home until I had to go pick her up, but that crash on the highway delayed me. I left her a couple messages when I was stuck in traffic, but I don’t think she ever got them. When I got to the airport, her flight was in, the baggage carousel holdin’ her flight was empty, and she was nowhere to be seen. Couldn’t call her or anythin’. Her phone was off.” He shrugs, but a flitter of sadness crosses his face. “That… That’s it. I stayed for half an hour then left. Figured she’d found another way home but didn’t call.”

His eyes haven’t left mine once. He’s not sweating, he’s not shaking, and he doesn’t have any nervous twitches. On this, he’s telling the truth.

“Talk to me about Toni Thompson.”

“Dated a couple times. Nothin’ serious. Her parents hated me.”

“Your reputation preceded you, if the rumors are true.”

His lips twitch into a tiny smirk. “Happens a lot, yeah?”

“I’ll bet,” I say dryly. “When was the last time you saw her? Toni?”

He glances at his lawyer. “Friday. In school. Passed her a couple times, but we didn’t talk.”

Liar.

“Are you sure about that, Mr. Meyers?” I lean back in my chair and fold my arms.

His eye twitches. “Yes, ma’am.”

I study him for a moment more then turn to Samuel Goldberg. My lips tug up to one side as our eyes meet. “Why, Mr. Goldberg, didn’t you advise your client it’s unwise to lie to a body language expert? Especially since you know I can smell one a state away?”

Perks of living in a cop family. I was picking liars out of a line up before I could tie my own shoes. And the body language? Well, I might hate people, but I’m a little obsessed with studying them.

“If my client says he didn’t see her, he didn’t see her,” he responds tightly.

“And we have DNA evidence that says that your client did see her, and that he saw her very intimately. We also have eyewitness statements confirming that Toni Thompson had a verbal exchange in the school parking lot with Brook Meyers then drove off after him just hours before she went missing,” I lie, dragging my gaze back to the teenage boy in front of me, who is now visibly sweating. I sit forward and rest my forearms on the table. “So, how are we going to do this, Mr. Meyers? Are you going to admit you lied and tell me what really happened, or do I have to advise that you’re arrested for statutory rape, being involved with her disappearance and murder, and, by default, the abduction and murder of two other women?”

His eyes flick between me and his lawyer. God, call me a sadist, but I love it when they squirm.

“I saw her,” he finally admits, his shoulders dropping. He looks at his hands on the table. “She told her parents she had studying to do after school and came to my place. My parents were at work.”

“And you had sex.”

He nods once.

“For the record of the tape, Brook Meyers is nodding yes,” I tell the recorder. “Was this the first time the two of you have had intercourse?”

“No,” he says quietly.

“How long for?”

He shrugs. “Couple months.”

“When did Toni leave your house on the day of her disappearance?”

“Four thirty, before my parents came home.”

“And you stayed home? All night?”

“Yes, ma’am. Toni said she was going home. That was the last time I saw her.”

No twitching. No moving gaze. No indication of any untruth.

“There,” I say, adding a sweet smile to the word. “That wasn’t too hard now, was it? Thank you, Mr. Meyers.” I push back and hold my hand out to Mr. Goldberg.

Clearly pained, he stands and takes my hand. “Private investigation hasn’t killed your ruthlessness, I see.”

“You call it ruthless, I call it determined,” I reply tightly, squeezing his hand just a little tighter. I release it and walk to the door.

Drake is still standing there, his eyes icy not only in color. I give him a look just as hard as the one he’s giving me, and he steps to the side. I open the door and walk through it, my heels clicking against the linoleum floor.

“Someone will be in to speak with you soon.” Drake shuts the door behind him.

“How’d it go?” Trent asks when I walk past his office door.

I pause. “Full confession. He was telling the truth. He didn’t see her after they had sex. You’re welcome.”

He shakes his head. “Dunno how you do it.”

“I’m a pain in the ass. It’s a skill. Also helps when I hate the representing lawyer.” I shrug and walk into Drake’s office. Then I grab my purse from the floor behind the desk and kick my heels off. While I switch them out for my flats, the door shuts louder than it should.

“Noelle.”

I barely glance up. “If you’re not apologizing, don’t bother.”

Silence.

Sounds about right.

I throw my purse over my shoulder and walk to his office door. He’s locked it, so I turn the switch to unlock it and open it. I stop in the doorway and give him one last chance by way of a look thrown over my shoulder, but his demeanor is just as grumpy as it was two minutes ago. His jaw is tight, his muscles taut and his eyes cutting.

No apology is falling from those lips.

“You need a ride?” Trent asks, hovering by his door.

I turn to him. “It’s no big deal. I can walk. It isn’t far.”

“You can’t walk with your foot,” Drake grinds out.

I take two steps and, without turning around, bite out, “Oh, look! I walked. How about that?”

“Noelle,” Trent sighs. He grabs my upper arm and pulls me toward the door. “Let’s go.”

I allow him to drag me outside and toward his truck. Without a word, we both get in. I dump my purse at my feet, buckle up, and stare out the window.

I have a feeling some big-brotherly advice is coming my way, but honestly, I don’t want it. At all.

Once again, work has come between me and Drake—and it was an interview. One tiny, little interview.

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson about working with him last time I had to do this. It was much more fun when I could just have their systems hacked, barter for autopsy reports, and draw my own conclusions about things.

It was so much easier when I could just piss him off without worrying about hurting his feelings. Actually… It was easier when I didn’t care whether he even had feelings. For all I knew, Detective Drake Nash was a robot.

Relationships are bullshit, really.

Trent pulls up outside my house and rests his arm on the top of the steering wheel, turning his body toward me. He takes a deep breath. “Noelle,” he says quietly, forcing me to look at him. “You know that you two really don’t work well together, don’t you?”

I nod, looking down. I pick some lint off my shirt and watch as it falls to the floor of the truck. “I know.”

“So, why do you keep agreeing to do it? Aside from the fact that you’re a damn fool.”

“Because I’m a damn fool,” I answer. “I thought that much was obvious.”

“That’s it? You agree to work with us and risk endless fights with him because you’re a fool?”

I stare at him.

“Wait. No. That makes total sense. God, and here I thought my sister was the sensible one out of us.”

I snort and grab my purse. “If I were sensible, I’d have gotten married five years ago.”

“Yeah. You’re never gonna be sensible.”

“Bite me.”

No bodies. No disappearances.

Nothing.

It doesn’t feel right. It’s a sad state of affairs when that happens. The last few days have me waking up and checking my phone just in case I missed calls telling me about someone going missing or being killed.

Although, this morning, my heart still sank. I thought Drake might have at least texted an apology. I mean, I know that the man can’t say sorry to save his life, but fucking hell. I figured he may have learned how to text the word.

That said, I ate a cupcake for breakfast and decided I wasn’t going to dwell on it because there are other, more important things going on in the world. Like the fact that I’m out of cupcakes, wine, and the ingredients to make margaritas.

Which means I need to go to the store.

Also, my Satanic Bible has arrived.

And that’s something I never thought I’d say.

Kind of feel like I need to pray for my life in the event that Nonna discovers it. Then again… Maybe it can be used against Gio.

Yep. That’s it. I’m keeping the bible in my purse and waving it in Gio’s face next time he comes near me. Maybe the very presence of it will curse him and convince Nonna to get rid of the little critter.

A girl can hope.

I change quickly. Into my yoga pants, okay? I’m wearing yoga pants. It’s Saturday. I’m emotionally distressed. I have three hundred pages of an ode to Satan sitting next to my purse.

If you can do all of that and put on “real” pants, then, well, good for you, you weirdo.

I throw the book into my purse and grab my keys. The store can wait—I want to learn about those little markings that were on the bodies. I know that the answers to my questions are between the pages of this book, and well, there are cupcakes at the office, so that’s why I’m headed in.

Also, there’s paper. Apparently, the only paper I have in my house is a bunch of receipts I need to file for taxes. I’m not sure my accountant would be impressed if I scribbled satanic things all over them.

I set my alarm and head out. My foot stings as I drive, but I push through the tinge of pain. Still, I’m grateful to kick my shoes off as soon as I get into my empty office building. I disable the alarm and shut the door before I walk into the meeting room. The color charts have finally been removed from the table, no doubt by Grecia, so I dump my purse on top of it and pull out everything I need. Then I find an empty notebook in my office and sit.

The first few pages of the book tell me pretty much what Dina did at her store. Blood sacrifice is rarely a brutal thing and only done by consent, and even then, it’s a prick to the finger or something, not a full-on attack on the sacrificer. Same with the sexual side.

I don’t understand it. I mean, I don’t really understand religion as a whole, but whatever. Satanism doesn’t really seem that dark at all—just another kind of belief.

I take a deep breath and tap my pen against the surface of the desk. I flick through the pages in the hope that I can get some information on the markings.

A page full of runes draws my attention, and I turn back to see them.

Chills run down my spine.

I scribble runes at the top of my page and grab the case file. The markings Tim pulled for me are here with Annabelle’s added beneath. Comparing the images, I draw in a deep breath.

They’re here. Every last one. And then more.

“Hello?”

“Holy sh—” I catch myself just in case that’s a client.

What a client is doing here unannounced this early is a question unto itself, but still. I have to be prepared for everything. In my yoga pants.

“Hi. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting—Oh, Alex.” I stop when the see the dark-haired man standing in my hallway. “What’s up?”

Satanic runes and Alex.

Saturday, stop trying to be Monday. It doesn’t look good on you.

“Am I interrupting something? Your workout perhaps?” he teases, glancing at my feet. At least, I hope he’s teasing.

Because I’m barefoot. Shit.

“No, no. Just came in to do some work. Can I help you with anything?”

“I heard Brook Meyers was arrested. Just being nosy more than anything.” He smiles sheepishly. “Plus, I heard such great things about your business that I wanted to stop by. I’m surprised to see anyone here.”

“Ah. Yeah. I tend to work when I’m stressed, which ironically makes me more stressed, so I work even more. I’m just through in the meeting room.” I wave toward it. “Can I get you coffee or anything?”

“No, no.” He glances over my shoulder toward the room. “I don’t want to bother you if you’re busy.”

“Just research. You’re welcome to stay.” Please don’t though.

“If you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Dammit, Noelle. Damn your fucking Southern hospitality. Just tell the man to fuck off.

I sit back down at the table, and he hovers over my shoulder. Now, I really am a little scared of him.

“Interesting research,” he says quietly. “Related to the murders?”

“No, I regularly research this for fun. I told you my grandmother is Catholic. I’m trying to send her to an early grave,” I reply sarcastically.

“From the rumors around town, that’s believable.” He shoots me a small smile. “I know some things about this. Maybe I can help.”

I gesture to the chair next to me, and he sits.

“How much do you know about the murders?” I ask, slightly hesitantly.

I don’t like him. I don’t trust him. But if he can help…

“Probably more than the rest of the town.” He smiles.

“You know how they were killed?”

“Sure do.”

“So the markings on their bodies. The…runes. If the girls were killed for sacrifice, then they can’t have good meanings, right?”

When he doesn’t answer, I shake my head.

“Never mind. Sorry. This stuff is kinda fucky.”

“Actually, you’re right. These are the runes?” He points at Tim’s hand-drawn runes.

I nod.

“Okay. I spent some time studying this during my travels. There’s a name for the collection—the Runic Kabbalah. They have several uses. They’re primarily used for healing and good juju.”

“Juju? Is that a technical term?” I smirk.

“Hush now,” he snorts.

Yeah, I didn’t think it was.

“One of the uses of runes is for black magic. Balance and all that. Like this one?” He points to a rune that looks like a capital X. “This is called Gebo. In black magic, and this kind of killing, it represents pain and sacrifice. And this is Fehu.” He taps the one that looks like a capital F, except the horizontal things are tilted upward. “This breaks the spirit, thus allowing a demonic one to filter through. This one? The one that looks like a thick capital I? Isa. It’s a binding rune that induces paralyzing fear but calms hysteria.”

“Isn’t that kind of working against itself?”

“You’d think.” He lips twitch. “They all have meanings, and the combinations they’re used in says a lot. It looks like, for the most part, that they’re used to silence the victim while they’re being raped and killed.”

Combined with the trippy delusions and hallucinations of belladonna…

“Charming.” It comes out scratchy. “There were nine on each victim. Why nine? It’s a random number. Is that significant?”

“This.” He points to a drawing that resembles a capital H, where the connecting line is diagonal. “It’s called Hagl, and actually means nine. Violent loss and pain, too, but yes, nine is significant. It’s the German number of power and also a number of Satan. But it’s also the main number of chakras in the body. If you read that”—he points to the book—“it will tell you about the chakras and their purpose in Satanism.”

What in the heck is a chakra? Sounds like a spice.

“Wait…” I whisper, a chilling thought washing over me. “Do Satanists recognize the holidays like wiccans and those types do? Like Halloween—”

“Samhain,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, yeah, that. Sounds like it should be in a sandwich, but whatever.” I shake it off.

“Yep. They’re significant dates.”

I lick my lips, my lungs burning on my deep, slow inhale. “And the summer solstice is one of those dates, right? And that’s in ten days.”

Alex stills, his dark eyes cutting to mine. “Yes,” he confirms, drawing the word out. “The summer solstice is a notable date for Satanists. Easier to contact those on another realm…like the devil or a demon.”

Oh no. Oh no, oh no.

I don’t want to say the words out loud.

I don’t want this thought to be real.

“Nine,” I whisper. “Nine runes. A solstice. Rapes. Sacrifies… Oh my God, Alex.” I cover my mouth.

Silence lingers between us for a long moment. My stomach churns violently, and the smell of my coffee only makes it worse.