Reo blinked.
“The police had nothing—no bodies, no evidence. Just suspicions and a comatose reporter who'd gotten too close."
Kenji's grip on my hand tightened. "Comatose reporter?"
"The tabloids called the serial killer the Red Riding Hood Collector.”
Reo quirked his brows. “Why?”
“Every missing victim had long red hair. Each one vanished at midnight.” I tensed. “The reporter on the assignment was Darren Kohl. He was investigating a butcher shop owner in Wisconsin."
I could still see that headline. "He'd called his boss and said he was close to identifying the killer but didn't give a name. That night, Darren's rental car went off the road near Pine Hollow Woods. It wrapped around a birch tree. He shattered both legs, and fractured his skull. They pulled him out of the wreckage, and he was mumbling one name over and over—'Caleb Ward. Caleb Ward.' Then he went into a coma. So. . .I went down to finish his work."
Kenji's voice grew dangerous. "Why did they send you?"
Kenji sounded like if he didn’t like the answer he would bomb the newspaper.
I gave him a sad smile. "No journalist with any common sense would take it.”
Reo snorted.
“Therefore, theNew York Ledgerneeded a freelancer. They offered me triple pay, hazard insurance, and a front-page byline." I shrugged. "Rent was due, and I've always been too curious for my own good."
Reo's expression hadn't changed, but I saw the calculation in his eyes. "You went alone?"
"Yes."
Kenji's jaw clenched, but he didn't interrupt.
"When I met Caleb Ward, he didn't look like a killer. Mid-forties. Clean-cut. Gentle eyes. The first lie he told with his face." I could still smell that jail visitation room—soap, metal, and the odor of wrongness. It all made my skin crawl. "He sat across from me with his hands folded neatly and asked, before I could even hit record, 'Do you know why they call me the Butcher?'"
Kenji frowned. "What did you say?"
"I said, 'Because you own a butcher shop.'"
The corner of Reo's mouth twitched.
"He smiled. 'No. Because people like things tidy. Labels make evil easier to live with.'" I remembered that smile. Too small. Toocontrolled. "I asked if he was evil. He shook his head. 'No. I am necessary.'"
The helicopter banked slightly.
Kenji's thumb had stopped moving against my palm. His hand was now completely still.
"He talked about his mother a lot. Margaret Ward. A widow who'd raised him alone on their family farm. He told me how she loved gardening. How she said the soil remembered kindness. How she'd taught him to bury things deep—'so they could rest.'" I paused. "The way he saidgardenmade my skin crawl.”
Reo tilted his head to the side. “Why?”
“Because. . .he said it like the garden was holy. Like it was breathing."
Reo nodded. "You knew he was guilty."
"I knew. But knowing and proving are different things. The police had no bodies." I looked at Kenji. "So, I pressed where it hurt. I told him people said his mother was disappointed in him when she was alive. That she thought he was weak."
Kenji's eyes narrowed. "You provoked him."
"Yes. His eyes twitched, just a fraction. He said, 'My mother was a saint.' So I asked if she'd be proud of what he did." I could still see his face through that glass barrier. "He stared at me and said, 'I didn't do anything, but if I did. . .she would be proud because she's with them now.’”
Reo tapped his finger against his wrist. “The garden.”
