He shouldn’t notice, much less stare. He shifted his gaze upward.
“And then we both got called to a murder, only it was hers,” Callie said.
Jag stood and made his way around to the other side of the desk. He sat in the chair next to Callie and took her hands in his. A sizzle crawled across his skin in a blaze of glory. All of his muscles twitched and tightened in preparation for what they remembered having her in his arms meant.
Only it wasn’t going to happen.
Not like that.
He was only going to comfort her for a second.
“The one thing I’ve never actually gotten to say to you without us slinging mud at each other is how truly sorry I am about Stephanie.”
“Thank you for that.” She gave his hand a good squeeze and pulled away, leaning back in the chair. “I wasn’t thinking straight that night. Nor for days after. Hell, I’m not sure my head’s been on right since. Even Kara is tired of me and my obsession, but I can’t let it go. Stephanie was all the family I had left, and I let her down. I let her down big-time.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long puff of air. His heart hammered against his ribs. “No. You didn’t. But I did,” he admitted. “You were right. I fucked up, and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since. But for fuck’s sake, why do you have to write about it?” He slammed his fist on the desk. Two files jumped right off the surface and landed on the floor.
“I know you’ve read some of it, or you wouldn’t be this mad.”
“The title pissed me off enough that I didn’t have to open it.” He pushed back the chair and gripped the door handle. “I don’t know why I thought we could be nice to each other. But we can’t. So, I think it’s best if you go.”
“I can also tell you didn’t read the last chapter.” She gathered up her things and shoved them in her backpack. “I’ll save you the effort.” She stood and closed the gap between them. She stood so close he could feel the heat rising off her skin, coating his like a weighted blanket meant to protect, only he felt stifled and unable to move. “Stephanie knew the Trinket Killer.”
“Well, duh, we both came to that conclusion at the crime scene,” he said with a little more sarcasm than was warranted.
“The Trinket Killer has a type. Women with—”
“Tell me something I don’t know, or leave,” he said with a dark tone. One of the reasons he couldn’t sleep more than an hour or two was because his dreams were haunted with visions of someone murdering Callie. A nightmare he couldn’t escape until the Trinket Killer was caught.
Only the bastard had to strike again for that to happen, and it had been a year.
“The crime scene changed subtly three times over the course of twelve murders. The first time had been at murder six when he went from gold to silver trinkets. But I also found that other than my sister, those last victims also either wore contacts or glasses. The other victims didn’t.”
He opened his mouth but snapped it shut. It was an interesting point, one that had been overlooked and could speak to victimology.
“Another pattern I started to notice was height. While all relatively tall and slender, the first girls were all over five six, and some could be a little more curvy than others with larger breasts and all had implants, which was noted but tossed when the trinkets changed.”
“It didn’t appear relevant at the time, considering I had dead bodies piling up, and some had implants and others didn’t. All we knew was pretty young blond women who were professionals.”
“Well, the latter victims were closer to five foot five with small breasts, except my sister. My sister didn’t fit the current MO. So, either something changed with the Trinket Killer, or my sister stepped in the killer’s way.”
“Or both,” he said with an arched brow. “This is not earth-shattering information.”
She pulled out a piece of paper and shoved it in his face. “Do the math, something I didn’t even think about a year ago because it wouldn’t have made sense to.”
He held the timeline of victims and their deaths with all the information she just spewed in his hands. “What the fuck am I looking at, Callie?”
“Victim number six literally happened the night we ran into each other at Mcurdy’s. The first night we slept together.”
“I remember the night, not the day of the week or month.” He scratched the side of his head. “And, so?”
“I never told you this, but the Trinket Killer contacted me.”
He let go of the door handle. His jaw slacked open. “Jesus, Callie. You were fucking the lead detective on the case, and you just don’t think to tell him, oh, by the way, I spoke to the killer the other day.”
“It wasn’t like that, and I didn’t actually speak to the killer, but he left me a couple of notes. They are in the book in the last chapter.”
“He contacted you more than once?”
“The first time was after his ninth murder, and the note said: this one’s for him. At first, I didn’t know it was from the killer or what it even meant until he did it again with the next two murders.”
“You should have told me,” he said. “Those notes could have had prints.”
“I had an independent lab—”
“Save the justification. I’m not even sure why I’m standing here listening because I’m not a detective anymore. I’m the chief of police of a very small town where stopping someone for running a red light is the most thrilling part of my day.”
She set her purse on the desk and pulled out a plastic envelope. “Okay. Then this will be in your jurisdiction.”
“What is it?”
“A note from the Trinket Killer that was left in front
