Detectives usually need an extra hour to arrive, and the coroner even longer. When I look down at my phone, it is already past 7:00 a.m. I need to go home and get ready for work.
“When can I go?” I ask.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come down to the station to give a full statement,” one of them says. “My colleague will escort you to the car while I secure the scene.”
I exhale slowly. “Look,” I say, “I know how this works. I’m on the case with Detective Kade Rourke. The puzzle piece and the position of the body match Zayne Mercer’s most recent work.”
They laugh.
“Kade Rourke?” one of them says, still smiling. “He hasn’t been in service since his wife died. They pulled him off the case a long time ago. You can’t be working with him.”
I fix my glasses. “But I was called…”
One of them cuts me off. “I’m sure you were,” he says with a chuckle. “But we still need a statement.”
I look at them, then back at my phone, replaying every word I heard from the detective earlier. I should have noticed the inconsistencies. Grief clouds judgment, even professional judgment. I let it happen anyway.
“Very well,” I say. “Shall we go now? I have to see my patient in an hour.”
“You a doctor or something?” one of them asks as he steps closer, gesturing for me to move ahead of him toward the trail.
“Psychiatrist,” I say, pulling Daisy forward so she walks first.
I needed answers. I needed clarity, context, and confirmation. And now, even if it sounds irrational, the only person I can trust to give me those answers is the person who created the questions in the first place.
Zayne Mercer.
FOUR
Emily
In cases this big, even those who wanted to help were treated like suspects. They took my sneakers for evidence. They cut Daisy’s fur where a dark stain clung to it, clipped her nails, and swabbed her paws. Only when they were finished did they finally lead us into the interrogation room.
The lights are bright.Too bright.I hold Daisy in my hands, her body trembling against mine. I am shaking too. This room is colder than the others. The air seeps into my lungs. My heartbeats so fast it feels like it might give me away, like I am the one who has something to hide.
They haven’t asked any questions. I want them to. The moment they do, I can ask mine. And I have so many.
The door opens, and a woman walks in, her brown hair pulled into a sleek bun on top of her head. She wears a dark blue suit with thin white lines. A badge hangs around her neck, and when she sits across from me, it clicks softly against the metal table.
“My name is Detective Mara Collins. I was the one who called you in for Zayne Mercer,” she says. “My apologies for Kade Rourke. We didn’t know he would be present on the first day you were supposed to meet Mercer.”
I exhale slowly, studying her face. I try to read her, but all I see is control. A woman who works among men and refuses to be overlooked. Every detail about her feels earned. Organized. Calculated. Ambitious. I recognize it because I am the same way.
I press a kiss to Daisy’s forehead and pull her closer.
“Rourke showed up at the apartment I’ve rented last night,” I say. “Is he dangerous?”
“No,” she says, then sighs. She clears her throat. “He wouldn’t harm a fly. He is driven to do anything to solve a case, even if it costs him everything.”
“I thought the case was solved,” I say. “Zayne Mercer is a killer.”
“Yes,” she replies, “but we still need a confession. We don’t have enough solid evidence against him.”
I tilt my head slightly. “You caught him placing his victim in the woods. He had puzzle pieces on him.”
“Yes,” she says. “We have his fingerprints. But the puzzle piece with the print was not on the victim. It was on him.”
She pauses, then continues. “Rourke was the one who caught him. With his drinking problem, the Chief is in a difficult position. We all know Mercer is the killer. The locations, thevictims, the murder kit found at the end of Ozark. It all points to him. But we need answers. And we need the locations of his last five victims.”
