He shrugged as he made his way to the front porch. He pulled open the door and bent over for the paper. When he lifted it from the ground, two envelopes spilled out onto the wood deck. One had his name on it. The other had Callie’s.
Fuck.
He did a quick scan of the area before he pulled out his cell and found Jenna’s contact information. She was probably still in the office. “Hey, Callie. Bring me a pair of gloves. They’re under the sink.”
“Okay,” she called.
“What’s up, Chief?” Jenna asked.
“I think I might have a situation at my place. I need you to head over with a couple of evidence bags.”
“Please tell me we’re not going to have to call the CSI team again.”
“I can’t make that promise,” he said. “See you soon.” He tucked his cell in his back pocket.
“What’s going on?” Callie pressed a hand on his back. “Oh. What are those?”
He took the gloves. “We’re about to find out.” He glanced around one more time, making sure nothing looked out of the ordinary. And nothing did. Of course, his security system recorded all entrances and kept those recordings for forty-eight hours, so he should be able to see who dropped off this little gift.
“I don’t like that people know I’m staying here,” she said. “I mean, Bailey has a big fucking mouth. I can only imagine what she’s telling people. I should have never met with her.”
“No. I think you did the right thing. People are talking and speculating. I’m actually thinking you might want to call Jackie now and set something up. Do it live. Beat Bailey at her own game. We could do it together.” Did all that just come out of his mouth? His mother was going to have his hide, and if he were a teenager, his father would take the car keys and ground his stupid ass.
But he was a grown man, and for the last year, he’d been hiding out on this island, isolating himself, living with ghosts, yearning for the living and wishing he could find a way to make up for the past.
Maybe this was it.
Carefully, he picked up both envelopes and brought them into the kitchen. “Does the handwriting look familiar?” He studied it for a moment. The letters were block style and bold. It reminded him of his own handwriting when he was trying to be as neat as possible.
“Yeah. Yours.”
He chuckled. Taking a butter knife, he sliced open each of the casings. Three round pendants fell from both.
“Those look like they go to charm bracelets or something,” he said.
There were two matching gold ones.
Two matching silver ones.
And two matching rose gold ones.
“Are those ravens etched into the charms?” Callie asked.
“Looks like it. Do they mean anything to you?” Using the knife, he pushed all six charms around on the table, lining them up in two rows, equal distant apart. “Other than the obvious creepiness of ravens to begin with, they could be considered trinkets, not charms.”
A tap at the front door made them both jump.
She grabbed his biceps and gasped.
“It’s just Jenna,” he said, letting out a puff of air. “Do you mind putting on a pot of coffee?”
“I’ll try not to blow anything up,” she mumbled, still squeezing his forearms. “This isn’t happening. He’s not back. This is some asshole fucking with you. Or me. Or both of us. But it’s not the Trinket Killer.”
“I hope for both our sanity that you’re right.”
But something told him that his worst nightmare was about to come true.
Callie sprawled out her research across Jag’s kitchen table. Twisting her hair, she pooled it in a messy bun on top of her head and shoved her glasses up on her nose.
The Trinket Killer changed from gold to silver at the sixth victim.
Stephanie was number twelve.
If he were following a pattern, he should have changed the color of the trinket. But her sister’s death seemed less organized than all the rest. It just always felt different to her.
Maybe Stephanie wasn’t supposed to be number twelve.
Callie attached the images of the raven pendants and sent them in an email to Kara. They might mean something to her.
The other issue had been the cooling off period. The Trinket Killer had been a patient killer and his twelve murders spanned over five years.
But Stephanie happened two weeks after the last one and that didn’t make sense.
Her editor’s number flashed across her cell screen.
“Hi, Jennifer,” she said. Jennifer Ruley was a hard-ass editor, but Callie loved her, even when she didn’t agree with her suggestions.
“I’ve good news. The publisher likes the new title, and they want to go with that.”
Callie let out a sigh of a relief. Jagar wouldn’t be thrilled the book was still being published, but this might ease his frustration with her a little. “Thank you for pushing that for me.”
“My pleasure, but they really want a chapter about Detective Bowie whether it’s authorized or not,” Jennifer said.
Callie took off her glasses and tossed them on a stack of papers. Her and Jag had been getting along so well. This would completely destroy what little trust and understanding they’d regained with each other.
Maybe he would change his mind and give her an official statement. If not, at least she wouldn’t have to tell him until after the book was turned in and she hightailed it out of Seattle. She never had any intention of staying here more than a month anyway.
“I’m working on it,” Callie said. She clicked on the folder that had her notes for Jag’s chapter. “I’ll be able to shoot this all back to you in two weeks.”
“Why can’t all my authors be like you and turn things in on time or early,” Jennifer said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
As soon as she ended the call, another one came through.
Kara.
“Hey there,” she said. “How’s Oregon?”
“It was great until I opened your email a second ago,” Kara said. “What
