Page 137 of Insidious Heart
ME: Got an ID?
Scrubbing a hand over my hair, I fight a yawn before heading up the stairs.
The Ripper is getting sloppy. Sloppier than he already was, anyway, and that definitely means he’s losing his damn mind, or he’s coming up on the end goal of whatever sick game he’s playing. My money is on both.
BLASPHEMY: Brick is looking now. Don’t think our guy realized it was dropped.
I sigh becauseduh, and go to respond as I lift my free hand to knock on Linnie’s front door.
Her door that pops open the second I do.
I reach back and palm my gun as I slowly push inside, my senses on high alert because I know that’s not right, and when I walk in to the apartment to see it in disarray, I pull my piece and immediately close out of Pope’s thread as another text comes through, ignoring the name he sent—Chris Pendleton—because it means nothing right now, and call the bastard instead.
Clearing the foyer, I tuck my phone into the front pocket of my jeans, microphone up so he can hear me if needed then move to the kitchen and dining room, then the den before continuing down the short hallway to the living room where my blood turns to ice in my veins at what I see.
Linnie is lying on the floor on her side, her hands and feet bound in front of her with duct tape, her mouth gagged, and there’s blood running down her forehead.
Fuck.
I rush over and motion for her to stay quiet as I pull the bandana from between her lips.
“Bedroom,” she whispers, her eyes wide, her face tear-stained as she nods down the hall. “He’s in there with Stevie.”
“Just one person?”
Linnie nods as her eyes well with tears. “It’s him. I know it.”
With a curt nod and ungodly amounts of rage brewing under my skin, I free her hands before I keep moving.
I find King and Prince in the extra bedroom, the boys terrified and crying while a very sickly looking cat walks around them, frantically rubbing their arms and legs that are bound the same way Linnie is, trying to speak through the cloth gags but I lift a finger to my lips, silently asking them to stay quiet as well.
Linnie will come in here next I’m sure, and she can get the boys to safety while I finally get this motherfucker that’s been ruining my life for the last few months. Then we’ll all get the fuck out of here and never look back.
“Got a situation,” I whisper toward my crotch. “Four civilians, one assailant. Gonna need backup and medical.” I check the bathroom and closet, just in case this asshole does have help, but the closer I get to the bedroom, the more sense of dread I feel.
If I get there and he’s hurt my girl, if that bastard has touched one hair on her head… I push the thought down and keep going.
This ends tonight.
The bedroom door is mostly closed, but the opening is big enough for me to see inside and when I do, I feel fucking sick.
Stevie, my baby dove, is tied up and gagged in the middle of the floor, fighting and squirming to get free. And that’s enough for every bit of my training to fly right out the window, my instincts, myemotionstaking over because I’m seeing fucking red.
I kick the door open and take aim, pulling my phone out to yell, “The Hills in Rolling Meadows. Building eight, apartment five-A. Move now!” But that was a mistake.
A huge mistake because seeing her like that, like a goddamn victim in one of my case files has me losing my shit in an entirely new way.
The night Joker tried to hurt her flashes in my mind followed immediately by images of walking in on Beau beating her. Even in those moments, Stevie was not a victim. She was a fighter, a survivor, a woman doing whatever it took to stay alive, and seeing her like this? It makes my blood fucking boil because my girl, my baby dove, is no one’svictim.
“Where is he?” I whisper shout to my girl, even though I’ve already been yelling. “Where is—”
And that level of anger, of possessiveness and the urge to protect her, is all so overwhelming that it’s left me vulnerable. My own feelings were my biggest mistake.
The knife glides through my hoodie and t-shirt like butter, slicing through my flesh until it pierces my liver with ease. The stab is deliberate and concise, one delivered by a practiced hand, and just as I try to turn, it slides out and goes back in two more times, purposely hitting my kidney then my lung.
Nice shots, asshole.
Kill shots,I think as I stumble to the left, gripping the dresser for support, my knees buckling while my head spins.
