Page 30 of Breathe Me In

“Thanks to Smith”—Brad pulled out a stapled clump of papers—“we have a list of everyone who was at the club on both nights the girls were killed. Seems we have an overlap of twelve people. Doesn’t include staff—they’re over here.” He pointed at a separate stack.

“I can start there.” I took the papers from him, snagged a second slice of pizza, and started to familiarize myself with the names and faces. I appreciated Adam’s careful notes on each person. He’d done a good job pulling their ages, their professions, and if they had a record or not. I also appreciated that he pulled both males and females, as there was zero room to assume at that point. I checked each person’s social media pages to get to know them better. One guy was creepy as hell and had a serious hand fetish. I got excited for a few minutes, but a time stamp on a few of the videos didn’t work, and when I dug even deeper, I found a few of his buddies had posted him at the same time as the murders—and the timing was correct because one of his friends’ smartwatch displayed the date and time. So he must have left early.

Brad stood up and stretched his back. “I’d never wish ill on our victims, but I do wish they could have at least scratched the killer so we’d have some DNA.”

“Well, I’ve got plenty of questions.” I pulled off my heels, kicked my feet up, and sank farther into his unbelievably comfy couch. “Does he kill for sport? For a sick thrill? Does he do it and just watch them die slowly from a distance? Did he plan on doing more to them, but people got in the way?”

Brad rubbed his head, then undid his shirt midway down his chest. His smooth skin caught the light above him, and I felt a stab of heat. I hated that he was built like an athlete. Why couldn’t carbs find him? Why wasn’t he at least bald?

“I think he just likes the idea of killing someone in public, seeing if he can get away with it. He’s smart and obviously knows how to keep under the radar. If he wanted to play with his victims, he’d use the woods or somewhere private, then dispose of them somewhere like the lake or, hell, the river.”

I sat up as his words brought back that day at the river. “Got anything stronger?” I wiggled my beer bottle at him.

“Yeah.” He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of scotch. “Will this work?”

“Sure.” I poured myself just enough to line the bottom of the glass and tossed it back. I couldn’t afford a hangover, but I needed a little help being in my own skin right now.

“Can I ask you something?” Brad broke through my thoughts, and I nodded, not wanting to do personal. “For someone who was a badass through school and again through Quantico, why do you seem so scared?” All the doors slammed shut in my head, and the sound of the dead bolts being locked echoed through my brain. “Is it because of what we saw that day?”

“I have my reasons.” I waved a hand and moved over to the whiteboard we’d been using to track people’s whereabouts. I pushed back a memory from the day in the Quantico parking lot, but I couldn’t fight it off, and it flooded my head.

I’d been halfway through my training for the FBI. Eventually I wanted to become a profiler. I wanted to learn everything I could about what made people the way they were. I knew the Barbed Wire Killer had shaped me into who I was, so why not turn it around? It was fascinating, and my scores were high, and my instructors were so impressed, I’d been offered a job when I was finished training. I was going to be sent to Paris to work at the US embassy. I was so excited, I called my dad and told him the great news. My life was about to change for good.

Two days later, still riding my high, I splurged on a couple of dresses for the trip. When I got back to my truck, all four of my tires had been slashed. Shocked, I bent down to examine the rubber and discovered a piece of barbed wire had been stuck into each tire. My immediate reaction had been anger. Who would do such a thing? But when I pulled one out and looked closely, I saw the barbs had been dipped in red paint. It looked like blood. Just like the wire around the necks of those poor murdered girls in the river. My veins froze, and my knees went weak as black spots floated about my vision. I turned and pressed my back to the car and slid to the ground with my heart pounding out of my chest. It wasn’t the first time I’d experienced a panic attack, and sadly, it wouldn’t be my last.

That was the day I knew deep inside that he was still out there.

When I was finally able to stand and found a postcard for Paris, with a black X across it under my windshield, there was no mistaking it. It was a warning not to leave. It screwed my head up so badly that I couldn’t sleep and began to have a whole new set of nightmares. I weighed all my options and thought about ignoring what I was sure was a warning, and the next morning I knew I couldn’t go. If it really was him, I knew what he was capable of, and I wasn’t going to tempt fate twice. I had quit the FBI the next day.

I only wished that was the last time I’d gotten a sign from him.

“This just came in.” Brad’s words brought me back to the present, and I saw him post something on the board. “You said in the car you had some bad experiences with weapons. What happened?”

I scanned the board and fingered the note card he’d just posted—it read poison and was from the autopsy report. I turned around and snagged the full printout from both autopsies.

“‘Butterfly root moss,’” I read out loud as something tugged at my memory. Where have I heard of that before? “Huh. My mom is always in the garden, and her hands often get dyed green when she works with Miracle-Gro.”

He let out a small sigh, no doubt because I’d ignored his question. “All right. Go on.”

“As we know, there were traces of poison found in both victims, but we still don’t know how much.”

“Yes.”

“Moss and gardening go together?” I tried to find a connection.

Brad reached for a different file. “‘Butterfly root moss is found in the Netherlands,’” he read aloud. “‘It’s highly poisonous when it’s broken down into powder or liquid form.’”

I quickly typed that information into YouTube and scrolled through a few videos.

“Look.” I stopped at a guy who held out his hands. His fingers were green. He explained how they got that way from working with the dangerous moss. “So, maybe slimy green fingers from the videos is our guy?”

“It’s a start.” He rubbed his eyes. He looked beat. “I’ll fill Captain in tomorrow, and we also should hear from the lab on that piece of mail we found at Sophia’s house.”

“Good. You look tired. We both are.” I dropped the file onto the table and hoped like hell we were onto something worthwhile. I shrugged off my sweater and wished I had some extra clothes. My dress was comfortable but not for sleeping. “Any chance I could borrow something to sleep in?”

“Yeah, of course.” He disappeared and returned a moment later with a T-shirt and sweatpants. “Bathroom is right down that hallway.”

“Thanks.” I grabbed my bag. I changed quickly and thought about skipping the pants because the shirt was like a dress on me, but I wasn’t sure what kind of message that would send. Thank God for the drawstring. I pulled it tight and tied a bow in the front. The strings hung down to my knees, so I doubled the bow. Whatever, they were comfortable. When I returned to the living room, he had changed into a T-shirt and sweats as well and was studying the whiteboard.