As the pieces of Forsyth click together like a big, dysfunctional puzzle, I slip my arm around Ari’s waist and pull her closer, keeping her anchored against me. It’s pretty well known that in cases like this, the killer may return to the scene of the crime. And tonight that’s probably more likely than not. The whole goddamn town is here.
It’s a fucking relief when the vigil finally begins.
More candles are lit, one by one, small flames flickering in the cold. Flowers are laid gently at the edge of the fountain, right where Kelsey’s body was found. Someone steps up to the microphone,speaking about her, about how much she loved Forsyth U, how proud she was to be a student here. About her dream of becoming a Princess one day. About the way she adored cats and never missed a field hockey practice unless she was sick.
Which is how they knew she was missing.
Rory’s jaw tightens into a hard line, anger welling up on his face, and something tells me if he got his hands on the person that did this to his sister, he’d drag him to the dark corners of the Purple Palace, and only when they were finished would we be called to come and claim the body.
I think he’s going to step up and speak, but he doesn’t. Lex steps up to the front, hands clasped, voice carrying easily over the crowd.
“We are not going to let this stand,” he says. “What happened to Kelsey was an act of violence, and it demands justice.” A murmur ripples through the people gathered. “We are committed,fully committed, to finding the monster responsible for this unspeakable act,” he continues, voice filled with authority. “The women of Forsyth shouldn’t be afraid to walk the streets in broad daylight. Not on our watch.”
He pauses, letting that settle.
“Kelsey’s death did bring one thing into the light,” he says, eyes landing over our heads, back to where Agent Knight is standing. “Proof that should free Eugene Warren from jail, where he never should have been in the first place.”
A few heads turn. Whispers break out and then quiet again.
“And when that happens,” he goes on, “all local and federal attention will be redirected where it belongs–toward finding therealkiller. Toward making sure no more families stand where the Livingstons are standing tonight. Where no more girls are found on creek banks, dead or half alive.”
Arianette stiffens next to me, her expression blank, and the people around us turn to look at her. Hunter’s shoulders rise, like he dares any one of them to say a fucking word to the Baroness.
“We will not stop,” Lex says firmly, from the front of the crowd. “Not until the person who did this is found and held accountable. Not until Forsyth is safe again.”
He steps back, giving Rory a hug. His speech was polished. Political. Carefully scripted. Maybe too much, because I’m not the only one who noticed. I don’t miss the look Sy gives his brother, or the way Killian’s eyes narrow, while Maddox watches it all with a grim expression.
“You ready?” Hunter asks, aware that Arianette is growing anxious.
“I am,” I reply, threading my fingers with hers. “Come on.”
I’ve barely moved when there’s a commotion upfront. Loud voices, and I jerk to a stop. An older woman steps forward, gray hair pinned neatly back, a thick fur coat wrapped tightly around her shoulders. “I know we’re gathered here tonight to honor this poor girl who lost her life.” Her voice is steady. “But let’s not pretend she’s the only victim in Forsyth.” A low murmur rolls through the crowd. “There are others,” she continues. “Other deaths that were convenient to forget. Other tragedies were brushed aside and labeledunfortunateinstead of suspicious.”
The murmurs deepen, uneasy.
“How many children has this city swallowed and claimed it was fate?” she demands. “How many young lives were taken while everyone looked the other way? My son is a victim of the monsters in Forsyth.” She pauses, letting the silence stretch. “And because he was a male, because of our family name, and because our local officials are corrupt, no one cares.”
The crowd is silent as she makes accusation after accusation.
“My name is Trudie Stein and my son Armand–”
Ari’s body locks at the name.
“And just like the girls we mourn, my son left home happy and safe, and was returned another victim of Forsyth.”
Arianette’s breath stutters, fingers clutching my coat like she’s losing gravity. I look over her head at Hunter. He gives a single, decisive nod.
Yeah, it’s time to go.
We move quickly but calmly, guiding her away from the fountain before she can spiral. Her breathing is shallow, her eyes unfocused, panic tightening her features.
“He hurt me,” she says.
“I know.” I lead her down the path that goes back to the parking lot.
“He tried to break the rules. ‘You never should have run, Arianette,’” she whispers, voice like a ghost.“You never should have stopped.”
My neck prickles. “What’s that, Doll Baby?”
