Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
I look at him as if he’s grown two heads. “Are we gossiping in the locker room now about the cutest boys in school?”
Jay does his best to look not as interested as he clearly is, shrugging as he leans back in his lopsided desk chair. “Figured we might as well talk about it since you can’t focus on the dead bodies. Tell me about him.”
I love Jay. He’s my partner and superior. I’ve learned so much from him since he took me under his wing. I trust him with my life. But I’m not going to share any details of my sex life with him. “Nothing. I went out to dinner and we’re just different, and that’s got me thinking.”
“Different is good.” He brushes a dismissive hand in my direction. “You and Nate worked together and look how that turned out.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah. We didn’t work out because we’re too similar, not because he’s a cheating prick.”
Jay holds up his hand defensively. “Yeah, okay. Even so, different isn’t bad. Cassandra is different. Classy and smart as hell. I like it. She’s teaching me new things.” He shrugs it off as no big deal, but I can see he’s happier and more relaxed since he started dating her.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I promise, sitting up straight and turning back to the growing file on my desk. “There has to be some fucking connection between these victims, I know it.” I shake my head, knowing there’s something I’m missing that’s right in front of my face. “What do you think?”
“I think if there was an obvious connection, we would have found it by now. We need to get creative. Think outside the box.”
I nod, liking where he’s going. “I agree. Maybe they played in a sports league together or went to the same summer camp as kids?”
“Bigger box. The vics are too dissimilar. If these crimes are being committed by the same person, there has to be some kind of link. Something about these DBs that sets him off.”
I nod and the gears start churning in my head. I write out a list—church, school, business, social media, etc.—of ways our victims could be linked that might not show up on a regular background search.
“I get what you’re saying. There’s no obvious connection. They’re all different ages, so high school or college might not be a link, and they all have different occupations. I’ll keep freewriting this list and see if I can come up with anything outside the big box.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jay says, and I’m glad to have his approval.
We both turn back to our desks, facing one another, to focus on brainstorming ways our victims could have possibly known each other. “Wish me luck,” I groan. “I’m hitting up social media.”
Jay laughs. “Sucker. Have fun with that.”
I give Jay a one-finger salute and dig into the lives of our victims to see if they intersected and, if so, where. Scrolling through the profiles of Connor Donovan and Tristan Dupont, I look to see if they were part of the same organizations or attended any of the same events. It’s tiresome, painstaking work, but it’s our best chance to find the killer. “Who the hell has four hundred and sixteen friends?”
Laughter erupts from the bullpen, and I realize they all heard me. “I have more than a thousand friends,” someone calls out, and more laughter erupts.
“Only a thousand? I have over fifteen hundred,” another gets out between chuckles.
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Fine, you got me. I actually have a real life.” I don’t, but that’s my business. I ignore the rest of the conversation because I don’t really give a damn how many social media friends these guys have. And because my thoughts—inevitably—turn back to Damien.
I can’t wrap my mind around his motives for wanting to date me. Sure, I clean up well when I try. I’m not hideous. I keep myself fit, and I’ve got decent features. But he’s a goddamn billionaire. He can have anyone he wants, someone far more exciting than me and definitely prettier. So why the hell does he want me?
Does he though? My inner bitch speaks up, asking the question that’s been skulking around the edges of my thoughts ever since Damien fingered me to another mind-blowing orgasm on my doorstep. I suppress a shiver at the memory and force myself to focus on finding a link between the victims. Work mode. Not Damien mode.
Finally, my cop mind settles on the facts. He wanted me—emphasis on the past tense—on the night of the ball, and he had me. Multiple times, in multiple ways. And it was truly…uhm…orgasmic.
Following the playbook of most men, I’ll probably never hear from him again. He’ll be on to something younger and prettier, possibly more flexible, by this weekend.