Murder number two.Martina Payne’s murder in fiction form.
‘That’s not all,’ Ryland said.‘I found another one.’
‘Another?Hit me.’
Ryland passed her two more pages.Ella started at the beginning.
Cain's fingers tingled with anticipation as he approached his next canvas.Two angels had taken flight, their beauty frozen in eternal perfection.But the third–ah, the third would be the best one yet.
‘The third,’ Ella said breathlessly.‘This is the scene for victim number three.’
‘Ryland pushed his glasses up his nose.‘I thought you said he’s only claimed two?’
Ella's mind was a whirlwind.She needed to devour every detail in this third act because it might just help her save a life tonight.
‘He has, which means we’re ahead of him.These scenes are missing from the manuscript we found.Dammit, Ryland, I could kiss you.’
She had a viable suspect two rooms over, and her next crime scene right here in her hands.Roger Blackwood might be her killer, but she couldn’t bank on it.If he wasn’t, she needed a plan B.
Now she had it.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
When this was all over, Ella vowed never to read another horror novel for as long as she lived.She was poring over the new pages that Ryland had found on the dark web, because even if she couldn’t find the killer, she might be able to keep his next intended victim safe.
The next page – the page that detailed Cain's third murder – began:
Cain crouched behind the wheel of his rusted chariot, watching, waiting.The minutes dripped by like cold molasses, but his motor idled on.Patience was a virtue, and his tank was full.
There.A vision in faded denim and a soccer mom bob.Penelope.The one who'd nudged the first domino set his life careening off the tracks into the abyss.Twenty years melted away, and there she was, struggling up her picket-fenced drive, weighed down with groceries, blissfully oblivious to the reckoning idling at the curb.
How easy it would be.To gun the engine, jump the sidewalk, leave her mangled under his balding tires as he made the getaway of the century.But no.Too quick, too clean.Where was the artistry in blunt force trauma?Penelope deserved nothing less than his full attention.His most intimate ministrations.
She'd ripped out his heart with her perfectly manicured claws.It was only fair that he return the favor.
Ella could already figure out where this was going.Cain was carrying twenty years of resentment for the woman, probably his first love, who broke his heart.And now he was going to make her pay.Typical fragile ego.Ella had seen toddlers with more emotional maturity, but no one ever said that ‘well-adjusted’ and ‘multiple homicide’ belonged in the same sentence.
And more importantly, who was Penelope's real-life counterpart?
Cain watched as Penelope fumbled her way inside, arms laden with banal sundries, the minutiae of a life lived in willful blindness to the dark engines of fate.Good.Let her have her organic produce and her two-buck chuck.Let her sup with the family and snuggle on the couch.Cain didn't mind waiting.Not when he had the promise of their screams to keep him warm.
The house stood silent, no other cars in the driveway.Penelope was alone.Vulnerable.Perfect.But Cain didn't move.Not yet.The anticipation was a fine wine to be savored.
Cain checked the time on his dashboard.Midday.
Perfect.
But Cain wasn’t about to ambush Penelope like he had the others.
No, he had bigger plans in mind.
Foot on the gas, Cain hurtled toward destiny, to the crumbling palace of pulp where he would claim his third angel.Main Street beckoned and a few minutes later, Cain pulled up outside Timeless Treasures, a vintage clothes store.
‘Huh,’ Ella said.Apparently, Cain wasn't going after his once-love this time.Could the real killer follow the same format?
Cain parked up and went into Timeless Treasures.Empty inside.He turned the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED.
From behind the counter, a man looked up.Cain knew him.His name was Patrick.
