Because she was different, he had marked her differently.
The word carved into her torso was not the one he reserved for the others. This one had earned a name all her own. Liar.
The memory of her muffled cries brought a fresh ripple of pleasure. He could still hear them. Still see the panic in her eyes when understanding finally took hold. That moment always fascinated him—that exact instant when hope vanished, and certainty took its place. The realization that no one was coming. That there would be no rescue. That death had already laid claim to them.
After branding her, he had taken his time. The scarf had tightened around her throat while agony and terror bloomed across her face. Each time her body went limp, he drew her back and waited for awareness to return before cutting off her breath again. That was what mattered most. Control. Holding her life in his hands and choosing when to give it back—and when to take it away again.
When it was done, he’d stood over her and admired what he had created. The familiar release afterward had left him calm and clearheaded, his thoughts sharp enough to ensure every precaution was followed. No carelessness. No evidence.
Clouds drifted across the moon, muting the silver wash of light over the beach. He checked the tide line once more to ensure the body would remain in place until morning. Satisfied, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a penny with his gloved hand, placing it with care above the bridge of her nose, centered between her open, vacant eyes.
The final touch. His signature.
Straightening, he took in the scene before him and allowed himself a moment of quiet appreciation. It was perfect. Like any artist, he took pride in his work. A faint smile crossed his face as he considered the possibility that one day, long after he was gone, people might finally understand what he’d accomplished. History celebrated men of vision, those bold enough to create what others could not comprehend. Perhaps there was a way to ensure his name would someday be attached to what he had done. A sealed letter, perhaps, left with his attorney and opened only after his death.
The thought lingered, tempting but dangerous.
No. That required more consideration. For now, anonymity remained his greatest protection.
After giving his newest masterpiece one last appreciative inspection, George turned and made his way back toward the car hidden nearby. He needed a few hours of sleep before work.
Chapter Twenty
Sean rolled over and snatched his ringing phone from the nightstand, silencing it before it could wake Grace.
Gray dawn filtered through the bedroom curtains, casting the room in soft shadows. The digital clock read just after six. They had managed very little sleep, though Sean had no intention of complaining. Sometime after midnight, a shower had turned into another stretch of whispered laughter and tangled sheets before they’d finally drifted off a few hours later.
The memory of the night before stirred through him. It didn’t surprise him in the least that he wanted her again, but she needed rest.
Careful not to disturb her, he slipped from beneath the covers and pulled on his boxer briefs before padding into the living room. Rico passed him in the hallway with a dismissive flick of his tail, making it clear he had not appreciated being shut out of the bedroom all night. The cat made a beeline for the partially open door.
The call had gone to voicemail. Instead of listening to the message, he found the most recent incoming number and hit send. Matt Griffin answered on the first ring. “We’ve got another one. He dumped this one on the beach at the north property line of the Pea Island Refuge. I’m on my way, and so are Brad and the coroner. I’ll call Brian and Rafe next.”
Sean scrubbed a hand over his face, forcing his mind into focus. “Damn. I’ll be right behind you.”
He ended the call and headed back to the bedroom. Grace was sitting up against the headboard, rubbing sleep from her eyes while Rico kneaded the covers near her legs. “What time is it?”
As she stretched, the sheet slipped lower. Sean stopped for half a breath before dragging his attention back where it belonged. “Just after six.”
Holding up his phone to show he’d been on a call, he bent to search for his clothes and did his best not to think about crawling right back into bed.
“Oh no, does that mean there’s been another murder?” The concern in her voice wiped away the distraction.
He zipped his pants and reached for his shirt. Thank goodness he kept a go-bag in the trunk of his car. He could change into a clean T-shirt before meeting the sheriff and others, and then circle back to the beach house later for proper work clothes.
“Yeah, but I don’t know more than that.” After checking for his phone, gun, keys, and wallet, he crossed to the bed and bent to kiss her. “I’ll call you later. I’m not sure when, but I will.”
He meant for it to be quick. It wasn’t. One kiss became another, then another. His hand cupped her jaw as he deepened the kiss, and the softness of her mouth nearly undid him. Memories of the night before rushed back with dangerous clarity, and every bit of self-control he possessed was tested.
He drew back with a low groan. “I want nothing more than to climb back into bed with you.”
Unable to help himself, he stole one more lingering kiss before forcing himself upright. If he stayed another minute, he would never make it out the door. Grace Whitman was becoming a distraction he had no desire to resist.
Thirty minutes later, he parked beside a sheriff’s department SUV and headed up the narrow path cut through the sand. The sun had just breached the horizon, casting a muted glow across the water as the steady crash of waves rolled through the cool morning air.
Matt stood at the end of the path, phone pressed to his ear. He lifted a hand in greeting and pointed toward a white sheet covering something farther down the beach.
Sean gave a grim nod and kept moving.
