Dying… that’s the first decent thing he’s ever done.
I’ve dreamed of taking down that son of a bitch since the day I was sworn in as Assistant District Attorney. The moment I read my first case file with his name on it, I confirmed the rumors.
Predator. Manipulator. Monster in a tailored suit.
He lured vulnerable girls in with promises of fame and used them. Drugged them. Fed them into the machine of his filthy little empire. Addiction became his grip. He didn’t need chains when he could make them crave the cage.
He wasn’t merely vile. The bastard was untouchable.
And now he’s dead.
I should feel relief, closure, justice. But all I feel is rage for every girl he broke.
“Tell me some girl’s father made him suffer.” I can’t stomach the thought of him dying peacefully—closing his eyes, drifting off, untouched by the lives he ruined. There had to be fear and pain. Without it, it won’t be enough. Not for the girls. Not for me.
“Stabbed multiple times. Killer cut off his dick and took it with him.”
A grim smile tugs at my mouth. “A fitting end for that bastard.”
“Holy shit.” Jonah from Felony leans over the partition, phone in hand like he’s flaunting a trophy. “This wasn’t just a murder. It was a message. Scene was surgical. No blood spray beyond the perimeter, no prints, no defensive wounds. Whoever did it has skills.”
I arch my brow. “Professional?”
“Absolutely.” He shakes his head. “One of the techs even said it reminds him of some other scenes, same signature. And the victim’salways someone who’s done enough that nobody sheds a tear when they disappear.”
A Dexter Morgan type?
Hmm. I can get on board with that.
Tobias crosses his arms. “You spent years trying to pin Rourke. Every time we built a case, something slipped.”
“Slippery bastard always got away.” I pause and let it settle. “Someone’s made sure that never happens again.”
I lift my coffee and take a slow sip, the satisfaction curling warm behind the bitterness.
Outside, I’m calm. Inside, I’m reeling.
Someone acted as judge and jury for that piece of shit. That monster got exactly what he deserved. Makes my job a hell of a lot easier.
Where should I send the thank-you note?
Eveningin the Garden District is rarely this quiet. There is usually movement, music spilling from courtyards or open windows, and laughter drifting down sidewalks. But tonight is different.
I walk the neighborhood, knocking until one of my neighbors answers.
Two houses down, where a jungle of overwatered ferns overtakes the porch, Mrs. Dubois peers through a lace curtain, her yappy terrier perched on her hip.
I offer a polite, practiced smile and shift the folder in my arms. It’s easy to slip seamlessly into the polished role I wear daily—professional, composed, controlled.
“Oh, hello, Laurette,” Mrs. Dubois says, adjusting the small dog. “Harvey, hush now.”
The terrier lets out one more defiant yapbefore going quiet.
“Good evening, Mrs. Dubois…and sweet Mr. Harvey. I’m so sorry to bother you, but there was a break-in last night just a few streets over.”
Her eyes widen. “A break-in? Out here? That doesn’t happen in our part of the district.”
“I know. It’s terrible. I’ve always felt so safe in this part of the city. That’s why I’m checking with neighbors to see if anyone might have caught something helpful.”
