I rein in the innate compulsion that urges me to be around her every hour, every second of the day, and I watch her leave.
I won’t let this be the last time I have a taste of Savannah Foster.
With the press of a button, I roll down the privacy window.
“Where to, Mr. Reed?” Sterling questions.
“We’re going to sit here for a bit,” I tell him. Then I add to myself, “I’m enjoying the view.”
CHAPTER 9
SAVANNAH
Taking a second bite of the berry Danish I purchased at the bakery a few blocks over, I hold in my satisfied moan. The sweet flavor is so addictive that I could eat ten of these.
Rechecking the time on my phone, I quicken my pace. Hunter didn’t give me an exact start time for my work at RHL every day, but I don’t want to show up too late.
I’m about a block away when my soul just about leaves my body, and my breakfast almost slips from my hands.
“Hey!” Slicer pops up next to me on the sidewalk.
“Oh my God.” Jumping to the side, I bump into someone and place my hand on my chest. “Uh. Hi?” My greeting comes out as a question.
We’re blocking part of the sidewalk, but I couldn’t care less. This doesn’t feel like a coincidence, but how would Slicer know where to find me?
“I haven’t seen you around lately.” His hands rest in his pockets, balled into fists as he inches closer to me.
“That’s because I haven’t been around.” I side-step him, aiming toward RHL, but it’s like everyone in Manhattan has decided to flood the sidewalk at this very moment.
Slicer keeps pace with me. “I’ve missed discussing true crime with you.”
With my eyes forward, I constantly track him in my peripheral view. “It’s only been a few days, Slicer.”
He changes the subject. “Hey, did you hear about that copycat serial killer? I heard about it on that podcast.”
A chill spreads over my back. “Uh huh,” I reply and take another bite of my pastry, hopefully coming off nonchalant.
“They found another body last night,” he adds as if it’s a fun fact. “But there’s still no ID.”
“That’s crazy,” I comment half-heartedly as I raise on my toes to see over the crowd and figure out what has everyone moving slower than molasses.
“Do you think it’s really a copycat or do you think police arrested the wrong guy?” Slicer moves closer at my side, so we’re shoulder to shoulder, and I lean my upper body to the right, keeping some space between us.
People are so dumb sometimes. They think everything they hear on TV or read in an article is fact, which is how misinformation spreads. If only more people had critical thinking skills…
“Copycat, for sure,” I retort a little too strongly as RHL finally comes into view.
Slicer’s response is lukewarm, as if he’s disappointed. “Yeah, me too.” He slips his hands into his apron pockets, looking anywhere but me. “Out of curiosity, what makes you think it’s a copycat?”
My focus is on getting away, so the answer is short and sweet. “The evidence.”
Slicer nods his head. “Ah. The evidence. Yes. The evidence against John Bartlett was pretty bad.” He frowns. “But he never confessed.”
I’ve heard people argue this point before, and it all boils down to one thing.
“Criminals don’t always confess. It’s not like it is in the movies.” My eyes search for an opening in the mass of people.
“Very true.” Slicer doesn’t notice my discomfort as his thumb drags over his bottom lip. “I wonder if the copycat got everything right?”
