She looked at it like it was a live snake.
“It’s my file on Ed.” I sighed. “I didn’t want to believe it at first, either. I had little niggles, little things that didn’t add up. I knew he went off on trips. I also knew he came back wired. For the longest time, I ignored it. He was good at covering.”
She was silent for the longest time, then she swallowed. “He called them his little vacations.” She closed her eyes. “I knew something wasn’t right, I could feel it, but I let it slide.” She opened her eyes and met my gaze. “He came back…different.”
“I didn’t believe it at first. But then I tracked all his kills. Going back over a decade.”
“God,” she whispered.
“He was known as the Red Ribbon Killer. He left red ribbons tied on his victim’s wrists.”
Her body jolted.
“I’m here, Lark.” I closed my hand over hers. Her fingers were cold. “We’ll deal with it together. I want you to understand why I had to take him out.” I was quiet for a beat. “Why I wanted him gone.”
She watched me, still and silent. “So he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”
“So he wouldn’t hurtyou. I killed him so you’d be safe.”
Shock crossed her features, and she pulled in a sharp breath.
I reached out and closed her hands over the file. “I couldn’t take the risk that he’d lose the last dredges of his soul and hurt you.”
CHAPTER 12
LARK
Iclutched the file, my heart pounding.
I felt the heat coming off Bastian. Beside me, he was a steady presence, watching me.
Supporting me.
I resisted the uncharacteristic urge to bite my lip. I’d learned not to show my inner feelings to anyone.
A good assassin never gives anything away.
I ignored Ed’s voice in my head. I’d never had someone support me, like they truly cared about me.
Ed had cared in his own way, but growing up, he was just as likely to make me run five miles in the pouring rain, or put me through a set of grueling combat training moves, or send me out in the woods with a water bottle and a knife to survive for three days alone.
He’d never hugged me, or chased my nightmares away.
I swallowed.
I made myself open the file.
Inside was a sheaf of paper. Police reports. Handwritten notations. And worse, photos.
There was blood. So much blood.
My hand shot out, and Bastian engulfed it with his. A lifeline.
I flicked through the pages, reading the names of the victims. A newly engaged couple in their twenties. They’d been killed eighteen months ago.
No.
A happily married couple celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary. That killing was two years ago.
