The man had grown up in one of Philadelphia’s roughest neighborhoods. His mother had bounced in and out of jail while George cycled through temporary foster placements. Every report suggested the system had failed him. Time after time, he’d been returned to her despite clear evidence of neglect.
Then there was 1993.
Wanda Wallace’s murder had gone unsolved for years, investigators assuming some client or drug associate had killed her.
Now the truth was obvious. The method matched. The scarf around her neck. The coins scattered around her body.
Through Grace’s interview with Suki, they’d finally understood the significance of the pennies Wallace left with each victim. For reasons buried somewhere deep inside his fractured mind, he’d fixated on them. Suki believed it was because pennies were worth the least.
Sean glanced at Grace. The memory of her sitting across from Suki during that interview flickered through his mind. She’d been composed, thoughtful, and determined to help, but he’d seen the shadows beneath her eyes and the way her fingers trembled when she thought no one was watching.
The nightmares still came. Almost every night, she’d jerk awake gasping, her body rigid with fear until he gathered her close and reminded her she was safe.
He hated that Wallace still had that kind of hold on her even from the grave.
Suki’s profile suggested Wallace had stopped killing for a period because inheriting his aunt’s money and house had offered the illusion of a fresh start. But the compulsion had remained beneath the surface, waiting.
Eventually, it reemerged.
His aunt’s lawyer had come forward after the arrest made the news, explaining Susan Wallace had left instructions in her will to locate her nephew after her death.
Sean shifted his attention to Bonnie and Dan across from them. Like him and Grace, they sat hand in hand, and the sight made him smile. It had taken them long enough.
Watching the quiet affection pass between them, Sean felt a certainty about his own future. He was going to ask Grace to marry him.
Not yet.
First, she needed time to heal.
Matt Griffin had connected them with the psychologist his department used for deputies involved in shootings or traumatic calls. Grace had met with the woman yesterday and, to Sean’s relief, felt comfortable enough to keep going. Three one-hour sessions a week for the next month.
It was a start.
At the clinic, Tim was doing everything he could to keep things afloat in Grace’s absence. With her blessing, he’d brought in another therapist he’d known for years to help for the next week. If it worked out, Grace planned to hire her part-time.
Sean’s own boss had insisted he take the rest of his vacation time after the case officially closed. He hadn’t hesitated. Right now, there was nowhere else he needed to be.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Sean looked up as Brian entered, carrying several deli bags. Sean’s stomach growled—he was hungrier than he thought.
His brother had barely started handing out sandwiches when KC stuck his head through the doorway, his face split by the widest grin Sean had ever seen. “Anyone want to meet little Megan Malone?”
Bonnie and Grace answered at once. “Yes!”
Everyone rose as KC stepped into the room, cradling his daughter against his chest. Wrapped in a pink blanket with a matching knit cap pulled over her tiny head, she looked impossibly small.
Sean had spent his career facing killers without flinching. The sight of his newborn niece almost undid him.
“She came out healthy and screaming at the top of her lungs,” KC said, pride pouring through every word. “I can only keep her out here for a minute.”
“She’s beautiful, KC,” Bonnie said, her voice catching.
“Adorable,” Grace added, her eyes shining.
KC turned toward their uncle. “We’d like you to be her godfather.”
Emotion washed across Dan’s face, and he swallowed hard before nodding. “I’d be honored, son.”
Then KC looked to Bonnie. “That means you’re going to be her godmother.”
