NOT EDITED

Chapter Twenty-Three

Monday: January 13, 2020

8:00 AM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, MAIN FLOOR

“Hey, Bo?” Jacob asked, standing up from his desk as Bo walked into his sight. Bo turned slightly, gaze focusing on Jacob. “Come here. Please?” Bo crossed the room, stopping a foot in front of Jacob’s desk, hands locked behind his back. “How are you doing?”

“I’m…” Bo trailed off, his mind searching for a word that wouldn’t make the detective worried. He wasn’t sure there was an excellent choice. “Recovering. I’m recovering, Jake. Thank you. H–how are you?”

Jacob smiled softly. “I’m good. Thanks. Did you sleep last night?”

“For a little while.”

“Do you have nightmares?” Jacob asked. “I don’t mean to pry or anything, but you startled yourself awake a few times the other night.”

“If you’d like to call them that,” Bo said softly.

“They’re about Kathy, aren’t they?” Jacob asked, his voice quiet. “About her and Dallas?”

Bo’s smile was faint. “Yes, mostly. But I’m good. Stable. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jacob said. Bo nodded once, clearing his throat. “Oh, you, umm… You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you. I’ll be in the morgue for the start of the day. Filling out some paperwork.”

“For what?” Jacob asked.

Bo lifted his shoulders. “Just something nice I want to do, that’s all.”

Jacob smiled. “All right, Austen. Don’t have too much fun.”

“I’ll do my best, Jake.”

5:00 PM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LAB

“What do you think it means? That there was nothing today,” Jacob said, arms crossed over his chest. 

“I’m… not sure,” Bo said as he shrugged on his coat. “Let’s say he’s performed surgery on both victims: Natalie Lambert and Cleo Marshall. He doesn’t want them in too much pain, so he’s giving them time to rest. In general terms, after a mastectomy—double breast removal, typically because of cancer—the patient is in ICU and the hospital for three to four days, I do believe. He’s probably giving them three to four days to rest between surgeries. 

“If he’s reconstructing their faces too, he’ll do that before we see any more victims killed for spare parts,” Bo said. “Natalie’s second surgical endeavor was probably two nights ago, maybe last night. I’m leaning more toward Sunday night. Four days of healing, less pain by that point, and he does not want to hurt them. I’d say Cleo Marshall’s second surgery will happen sometime around this Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. After that, we’ll probably see another O-negative blood type victim missing something around Wednesday or Thursday morning.”

“You know, it’s totally going to blow my mind if you got any of those days correct,” Jacob said.

Bo smiled faintly as he lifted his satchel over his head, tugging on the strap to get it to rest evenly over his shoulder. “It’s all about patterns, Jake. Once you find one, you kind of just have to… roll with it. I try not to assume they’ll be absolutely and completely correct or adhered to, but the chances that they’ll follow somewhere along the line are pretty high.” He tilted his head to the side. “May I ask you something?”

“You betcha.”

“Let’s say I want to pretend I’m normal. Let’s say my abnormalities around Kathy and Dallas are the center of many of my nightmares. I can’t shut off my brain. There’s no changing that. Outwardly, though, I can change. Tips?” Bo asked.

“That’s… not what I was expecting,” Jacob said.

“I only ask in the assumption we’re friends. And I want you to be as honest as you can. You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings, I assure you.”

Jacob cleared his throat. “You know how you stand with your hands behind your back?”

“Yes?”

“It comes off as… unnatural,” Jacob said. “Tuck them into your pockets when you’re standing. Like, the pockets on your pants. That, or cross your arms over your chest. That’s how a lot of people stand.”

Noted. Thank you, Jake. The advice is appreciated.”

“No problem,” Jacob said quietly.

“Well, I’ll be heading to my house, now,” Bo said. It wasn’t lost on Jacob that Bo refused to refer to it as ‘home’. “Enjoy your family tonight, Jake. You have a beautiful setup in that home of yours.”

Jacob grinned. “Thanks, Bo.”

Bo nodded. “See you tomorrow morning, Jake.”

“You betcha. Goodnight,” Jacob said as Bo walked past him.

Without turning around, Bo lifted a hand in departure. “Night, Jake.”

7:00 PM; BO AUSTEN’S HOUSE, DINING ROOM

Bo set a bowl of food on the floor for Acamas, a little smile tugging at either corner of his mouth as he scritched the top of her head. She purred and loved up against his shin before settling in for her supper. Bo headed back into the kitchen for his own supper, stilling when his phone rang on the counter. He leaned over to look at the screen, heart skipping a beat. Dallas. Bo couldn’t remember the last time Dallas had tried to call him. A month or two after the trial? Jamal had told Bo that a stipulation of getting his job back at the station was discontinuing his visits and phone calls to Dallas. Eventually, Dallas had apparently gotten the message and stopped calling.

Until now.

Well, he didn’t work at the LAPD anymore, and Jamal didn’t have control over his job at the CPD. So… surely he could accept the call. It was likely about Kathy anyway, but it would still be nice to hear Dallas’s voice, even if it was just to talk about Kathy.

Bo pulled his phone off the charger, accepted the call, and pressed his phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, shorty. I wasn’t sure you were going to answer.”

“I… needed to weigh my options first.”

“Of course,” Dallas said, his voice soft and understanding, like Bo always remembered it to be. “You won’t believe this, but Jamal was sitting in my cell when I got off work today. Just sitting there.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me to call you. He said he came by to tell you about Regina and Kathy. I, uh, also heard you’re out in Minnesota now?”

“I am,” Bo said after a moment. “He asked you call me?”

“Told me to, actually. Ordered.” Dallas chuckled, but it didn’t quite sound like Dallas. “He says you’re not doing well, Bo. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me, Dallas.”

“That’s definitely not what Jamal said. The man wouldn’t come to prison to visit me if it weren’t serious, Bo. He fuckin’ hates my guts. For him to worry about you and talk to me? Bo, he’s gotta think you’re half a step over the edge.”

Bo leaned back against the counter, crossing his free arm over his chest. “Jamal doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does. I’m fine.”

“It’s me, Bo. Behind bars or not, I’m still me. I care about you, and I’m always gonna worry about you. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Bo closed his eyes. “You’re allowed fifteen-minute phone calls. Fifteen minutes is not nearly enough time to dive into the depths of my depression, Dallas, even if I wanted to. But truly, I’m… safe. I’m working a case, and I have a commitment to the victims of it.”

“Can you make a commitment to me too? That… that after this case is over, you come back to Los Angeles and visit me here at the prison for a face-to-face talk?”

“Yes,” Bo said after a long silence. “I can… I’ll commit to that.”

“Good. I’m holding you to that, Bo. I’ll see you after the case is over. Okay?”

“Okay.”

A little over a thousand, three hundred miles away in Los Angeles, Dallas put the phone back on the hook and turned in his chair to face Jamal. He was leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “He’s not well,” Dallas said after a moment.

“No shit.”

Dallas ran both hands over his short hair, fingers locked together. “You need to leave him alone, Jamal. You aren’t helping him.”

“Do you really think I flew all the way to Clinstone because I thought my presence would drastically increase the value he sees in his own life?”

“God, Jamal, I wish like hell I knew what you thought about anything.” Dallas dropped his hands back to his lap. “He’s… okay until the end of this case. He follows through on commitments and promises, and he has a commitment to this case and to visiting me afterward. He won’t put a stop to either of those things.”

“And afterward, then what? I hire someone to kill someone in Clinstone to give him another damn case to investigate? I can do a lot of things, but supplying Clinstone with a consistent stream of homicides to keep him too occupied to end his life isn’t one of them.”

“First of all, it is one of them. You aren’t exactly above murder. Or torture.”

Jamal rolled his eyes, but he didn’t respond.

“Second of all, I… I don’t know, Jamal. I wish I knew what the right answer was, but I don’t.”

Jamal let out a slow breath, and for the briefest of moments, the hard mask he wore over his face fell. He looked like hell. Tired and worn down and worried. But the mask was back up so quickly that Dallas may have imagined it just to see the humanity buried so deeply inside the man he had once seen as a father. “I considered putting one of my men on him. A bodyguard in the shadows type of thing. But I… I don’t know. It’s like hiring a spy, and I don’t assign spies to people I…” He ran his tongue over his top row of teeth. “To people like Bo. People that aren’t marks or targets or rats. Civilians. I don’t assign spies to civilians.”

Dallas pushed himself to his feet. “For what it’s worth, it’s not spying if the spy doesn’t tell you everything Bo does and says. Then it’s just a… guardian angel that works on cash instead of prayers. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jamal whispered. Once Dallas had made it to the doorway, Jamal cleared his throat. “Thank you, Silver.”

“Yeah.” Dallas tapped his hand on the doorframe. “If I’m ever a free man again, I want Bo to be the one who picks me up the day I’m released. So your spy that’s not a spy? Benefits everyone.”

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**Minus the very first scene, this is a 100% brand new content chapter, so I hope you enjoy ❤

NOT EDITED

Chapter Twenty

Saturday: January 11, 2020

6:00 AM; MINNESOTA, THE SURGEON’S HOUSE, BASEMENT

“You’re going into surgery this evening, darling, so you only get breakfast today. Eat up,” he said, sliding a plate of food beneath Cleo’s cell door.

Cleo grabbed his wrist, her eyes locking with his warm, blue gaze. “H–how’s Brooke?”

For a moment, his gaze shifted to her hand, an almost loving look masking his face. “She’s fine, darling,” he said softly. “Healing. She’ll be back in here soon.” He lifted his free hand, cupping her cheek. She closed her eyes in an attempt to avoid flinching away from his touch. “You’ll be going under around six tonight.”

“What kind of surgery?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper as she forced her eyes open.

“A breast augmentation.” He gently pried her fingers off his wrist and rose to his feet. “Eat, and then get some rest. I will see you tonight, Lauren.”

7:00 PM; CLINSTONE, IVORY HILL

“Mister… Austen, if I remember correctly?” the bartender asked.

Bo cleared his throat. “Yes. That would be me.”

William smiled. “Thought so. What’re you havin’? On me.”

Bo’s brow furrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

“Consider it a complimentary drink on behalf of Clinstone.”

“Yeah?” Bo asked. “Does every new Clinstone resident get a free drink?”

“Just the cute ones.”

Bo laughed. The genuine shock factor of the comment made it a little hard to hide the sound like he usually did. “In that case, I’ll take a beer.” He waved a hand in William’s direction as he lifted himself onto an empty bar stool. “Dealer’s choice.”

William smiled. “Comin’ right up.”

9:30 PM; CLINSTONE, IVORY HILL

Bo was three beers past his ‘Kathy drank all the time and look what happened to her’ no booze rule and feeling… okay. His world hadn’t ended any more than it had been, anyway. That had to count for something.

“Are you planning on driving tonight, Bo?”

He lifted his eyes to William’s face. “We’ll see. I’m planning on switching to Coke anyway. The drink. Pop. Not the drug. And… actually another beer too.”

William snorted. “I getcha. One beer and a Coke — the drink — comin’ up.”

Bo finished off the rest of his beer and pushed it toward William as he came back to the counter. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” William crossed his arms over the bar. “Are you drinking away your demons or someone else’s?”

Bo raised a brow as he twisted off the cap on his pop bottle. “How would one drink away someone else’s demons?”

“You see other people’s demons at every crime scene you go to, and you’ve been… busy since you got here. I can’t imagine the shit you guys see, day in and day out. You’ve got a lot of demons in there that aren’t yours at all.”

“Ah.” Bo took a small sip of his pop. “The demons I work with are different than the ones I live with. I’m drinking for the ones I live with.”

“Things have been rough, huh?”

Bo couldn’t stop the slight narrow of his eyes. “Did Mason put you up to this?”

“Jake? No.” William uncrossed his arms long enough to flick Bo’s unopened beer bottle. “The therapy sessions come free with the booze.”

Bo snorted. “You must be quite bored.”

William shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a slow night. And you’re an interesting guy.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

William simply watched him for a moment, his expression neither concerned nor humored. It was just… there. Neutral. Soft. Present in the moment, seemingly without judgment. Bo could see how easy it would be for a drunken patron to unload their problems on the bartender without much thought or worry.

“Where’d you come in from? Where were you before Clinstone?” William asked.

“Los Angeles.” Bo scratched the side of his head before finally cracking open his fourth beer and taking a sip. “I’ve spent the majority of my life there. After this case is over, I’m heading back.”

“Wishing for sun instead of snow?”

Bo lifted his shoulders. “I’m not actually from LA. I grew up with actual winters, and out of the two, I’d rather be cold than hot.”

“Mm.” William raised a brow. “Then what’s in LA that’s not here?”

Bo weighed his choices for a moment. As it stood, William seemed unaware of Hangman and Kathy Baker and everything else that weighed Bo down. If he could keep it that way, he would for as long as he could. “My adoptive parents, mostly. My old job is waiting for me when I return, and at the LAPD, I already know where I stand with my coworkers. I struggle a bit more with that here.”

“Someone’s treating you like shit because of Anderson, huh?” William asked. “I’m guessing Gwen.”

“She has a history of this?”

William titled his head to the left, to the right, considering. “She ran the first replacement chief outta town pretty fast. She was engaged to Anderson when everything came to a head. It’s tough to recover from, living with a criminal.”

Bo couldn’t help but scoff. That piece of information, Jacob had left unsaid. Gwen and Bo were practically cut from the same cloth, yet she treated him like he was the killer instead of Dallas or Anderson. Like her, Bo was just… an oblivious bystander.

“Gwen lashes out at people who remind her of herself. I guess it’s hard not to, you know? It feels like being forced to watch history repeat itself.”

“Ah, so you do you know where I came from.”

William smiled. “A little. I didn’t want to force your past on you though.”

Bo chuckled softly, tilting his beer bottle back and forth between his hands. “It seems a bit like it follows me everywhere. Even when I try not to spring it on people, it seems to be sprung on me.”

“I’m sorry if it feels like I did that to you.”

Bo shook his head. “You didn’t. You… actually helped me understand Gwen a little better than any of the previous explanations and reasons I’ve been given. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bo took a sip of his beer. “My old boss dropped in yesterday to tell me that Kathy Baker has cancer. I suppose that started the beginning of the… demons I’m trying to drink away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure you’ve got some mixed feelings about it.”

“That is… an understatement.” Bo chuckled, shaking his head. “I used to look up to Kathy until I actually met her. I thought she was this genius detective, this unstoppable force. But the majority of what she’s known for has nothing to do with her and everything to do with Jamal Pitman. The only thing I’ve heard about Kathy that’s true is that she’s a bitch with a hell of a cruel streak. The rest of her fame or whatever you want to call it is built entirely on Jamal’s shoulders. She just takes all the credit for it.”

“And you had to deal with her firsthand.”

“For a very, very long time.”

“Why did your old boss stop by to tell you?”

“He believed I would be deeply affected by it and wanted me to hear it by him, in person, instead of over the phone or on the news.” Bo took another sip of his beer, which was quickly becoming a loose-lips elixir. “When Kathy and Dallas — Hangman — fled California, Jamal put me at the head of the investigation. I struggled… a lot with that, and when we finally caught them, I refused to testify initially. He believed that was because I was close to Kathy or because I still idolized her in some form.”

“But it was because you were close to Dallas.”

Bo snorted. “I was in love with Dallas.”

“Ouch.”

Bo couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, that about sums it up. I followed him everywhere I could up until the day he ran away with Kathy. I’m still… so angry. I would’ve helped him if I’d known. There’s no way he wasn’t aware of that, and he still…”

“He chose being a fugitive over choosing to tell you.”

“Wow. The therapy really is free with the booze, huh?”

William smiled. “What can I say? I’ve been doin’ this a long time.”

“Yeah? Talking to depressed nerds over their secret crushes on serial killers?”

William glanced up at the ceiling, one eyebrow raised. “Admittedly, that’s a new one. But I’ve heard stranger, believe me.”

“Mm. I’ll try to take your word for it.” Bo took a long drink of his beer. “Are you gay, William?”

“Very.” Bo’s response came in the form of a chuckle. “Are you?”

Bo shook his head, lifting the beer back to his lips. “I don’t know what the hell I am,” he said into the bottle before taking another sip. “I like… Dallas. And a woman named Bridget. She was my closest friend before Dallas came along. After he ran away and was arrested and after the trial… I don’t know. I suppose I dropped off the deep end a little. I couldn’t even begin to count the texts and calls she’s sent, the voicemails she’s left. And my parents. And the detective I worked with after Dallas left. My old lab partner. I haven’t been a good friend. Or a good son. I wouldn’t make a good partner, either, no matter what I am or who I like.”

William set his elbows on the counter, hands folded beneath his chin. “If they thought you were some horrible person, they wouldn’t keep trying to check in on you. They know you aren’t doing well, and they want you to know that they care. That if you need them, they’re just a call or a text away. People who are annoyed by you or irritated by you don’t keep reaching out when they get ignored, unless it’s to be an asshole about the fact that you ignored them. But your family and friends? They love you. Even if you aren’t able to be the best friend in the world right now. It sounds like they’ll still be around when you’re ready to be.”

Bo watched William for an absurdly long amount of time. There was nothing in his eyes or on his face to indicate he was being a facetious asshole. His words didn’t seem misplaced or malicious. They seemed oddly genuine. “I truly appreciate that, William.” He shook his head, turning to look toward the woman singing quietly in the back corner of the bar. “I came here with an entirely different intention tonight. I was going to get drunk and… carry it out. But by some… miraculous William Foreman intervention, I do believe you’ve saved a life tonight.” He turned back to the bartender. “Thank you.”

Something had changed in William’s face, but Bo couldn’t quite pinpoint it. His brow seemed slightly more furrowed or drawn, but what that meant, Bo wasn’t sure. “You’re welcome,” William whispered. “I’m so glad I was able to intervene.”

Bo nodded, eyes falling back to his beer. “Me too.”

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Nineteen

12:00 PM; CLINSTONE, LITTLE DELIGHTS DINER

“Look, all I’m saying is the man has issues,” Carter said.

“Damn straight he has issues,” Jacob said, swiping a fry through the ketchup on his plate. “You and Gwen accused him of being a killer, and you referred to him as a power tool instead of, I dunno, a human being.”

“Not to his face.”

“I guarantee you that he heard it, Carter. He does have ears, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Carter sighed. “I’ve apologized to him. Several times.”

“An apology doesn’t mean shit if you try to knock him the fuck over when he’s trying to do his damn job.”

“Okay, fine. Point proven. But my point still stands. The dude needs help.”

“Why? Because he’s smarter than we are?”

“Did you know he smokes?”

Jacob shrugged. “Isn’t really any of my business what he puts in his lungs.”

“Well, I was in the parking lot when he was smoking, and instead of dropping it to the ground like a normal person, he ground it into his palm, Jake.”

Jacob winced. “Isn’t that a form of self-harm?” Caleb nodded. Jacob cleared his throat. “We can’t really do anything about it, you know. We can’t.”

“I know. But I–I feel like it’s my fault,” Carter said.

“It’s not your fault,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “You may have attributed to the way he feels about the station, but it didn’t begin with you.”

Carter sighed heavily, passing a hand through his brown hair. “How can you be so nice to him? I mean… how do you do it? He talks down to us.”

“No, he talks down to you, because you’re rude to him. He’s level with me, because I’m polite. And when he is rude to me, when he does talk down to me, you know what I do? Move the fuck on, you know, like adults do. His mind doesn’t function like ours, Carter. His social skills are a lot different. The fact that he can be nice to any of us without being irritated by our stupidity should be more than enough for you,” he said. “Better question, Carter. Why are you such a dick to him? Poor kid never did anything to you.”

“Because he—Well, I don’t know. He’s a douche.”

“No, he’s not,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “You know he’s not. You and Gwen tore him down in one day. It took Gwen, what, six hours to succumb to jealousy and drag you down with her? Grow up, Carter. You’re a fucking adult.” He stood up, pulled out his wallet, and dropped a twenty onto the table. “I hope you come around to learn that you’re just being a total dick to someone who didn’t do shit to deserve that treatment. He’s just a dude. Just a lab geek. You don’t even have to see him most of the time as long as you aren’t in the basement. Just…” Jacob sighed. “Just apologize, man. And mean it. I miss my best friend, and whatever the hell this is now? This isn’t him. This isn’t you. Fix it. Please.”

7:00 PM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LAB

Bo had clocked out at five so that the station wouldn’t have to pay him for overtime. He hadn’t actually been working on anything case-related. He simply hadn’t wanted to return to his house, for it wasn’t home. Now, deciding that his cat needed supper, he slung his satchel over one shoulder and left the lab, shutting the door behind him. Gwen was in the morgue, and Bo made it his goal not to look at her as he walked past the door.

Hands shoved into his coat pockets, he walked out of the station and headed to his car. He unlocked his car and pulled open the driver’s side door. “I can smell your cologne, Mister Pitman. You can come out, now,” he said as he slid into his seat.

Jamal Pitman, an imposing older black man, stepped into Bo’s field of vision and offered a tired smile. “Hey, Austen.”

“Mister Pitman.” Bo turned the key in the ignition, clearing his throat. “Even if you kidnap me, I’m not going to California until this case is over.”

“I know. This isn’t about Regina. I just want to talk,” Jamal said softly.

Bo sighed. “Get in here. It’s cold out there.” Just as Jamal made it to the passenger side, Bo leaned over the console and pushed open the door.

“Thank you,” Jamal said as he slid into the seat.

Bo nodded as he shut his own door. “No problem, Mister Pitman.” He lifted his satchel over his head and set it in the backseat. “How’d you get here? I don’t see Frank lurking around.”

“Got on a plane this afternoon and took a cab to the station,” Jamal said.

“So… no Frank?”

Jamal shook his head. “I figured I could survive an evening without the man. I figured that’d put you more at ease too.”

It did. “When’s your flight back to L.A.?”

“Tomorrow night. I figured the more time we had to chat, the better.”

“Well… you can stay at my house tonight,” Bo said. After buckling his seatbelt, he shifted into gear and backed out of his parking spot. “I’m sorry about Regina, Mister Pitman,” he said finally.

Jamal leaned back. “Our department’s taking care of it. We’ll find who killed her.”

“The department’s great, Mister Pitman. Of course you’ll find who did it,” Bo said. He glanced over at Jamal, catching sight of the pistol holstered on his hip just as Bo pulled out onto the road. “If you’re going to kill me, let me pull over before you do it, all right? I don’t need to veer off into traffic and kill anyone.”

“What? Bo, Jesus Christ.” Jamal grabbed his gun and set it in Bo’s lap. One of Bo’s hands fell from the steering wheel to cover the gun. “The safety’s on, kid. That’s not what I’m here for.”

Bo’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Then what is this for, Jamal?” he asked, finally willing to drop the formality of Jamal’s last name.

“Kathy’s sick.”

Bo looked over at Jamal, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Cancer. Liver. I–it’s not bad, but… she’s sick, nonetheless.”

Bo’s gaze shifted back to the road. He cleared his throat. “You didn’t have to come all this way just to tell me that.”

“You were close to her, Bo.”

“A lot of people were close to her. You adopted her. What’s your point?”

“I… thought you might like to know, visit her as a precaution,” Jamal said. He shifted in his seat. “You know… in case she takes a turn for the worse.”

Bo shook his head. “How long ago?”

“They’ve been running tests for almost two weeks. They found it yesterday.”

“She’ll be okay.”

Jamal blew out a breath, shaking his head.

“What?”

The older man lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know. I was expecting a different reaction. I was actually… worried about how you’d react when you found out. It’s why I wanted you in California, so we could talk in person.”

“I’m not that close to Kathy. She wanted me to solve cases for her, and that was about the extent of it.”

“The way you reacted when I arrested them says otherwise. You refused to testify against them. You use to talk to them both on the phone… often.”

Bo chose not to remind Jamal that he was the reason Bo no longer spoke to either prisoner consistently. “Yes.”

“So how the hell do you not care?”

“My reactions and refusals weren’t about Kathy.”

Jamal glanced up for a moment. “Ah. Silver.” He nodded. “I should’ve known.”

Bo’s brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’ve just never known Katherine to make many friends. I should’ve known that was no different with you. Plus, she was never a fan of people who were admittedly smarter than her.”

“Then she should hate Dallas too.”

“Watch it,” Jamal said, his voice dipping into its lower, more ominous register.

Bo had come face-to-face with that register one too many times to be too bothered by it. “Does Dallas know?”

“Yes. They told him this afternoon, I believe.”

“Is he okay?”

“Dallas is fine,” Jamal said. “Still a bastard, but he’s fine. That’s all I have for you in regards to Silver.”

“So you don’t visit him? Ever?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“He’s your son-in-law.”

“He can go fuck himself. If he were the one who was sick, there would be true justice in this world,” Jamal said.

Bo’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white. “If you’re going to ambush me outside my workplace, the least you can do is respect Dallas while you’re in my car.”

Jamal looked over at the blonde, a frown etched on his face. He had never seen the young man so full of tension. “Of course. I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Bo shook his head. He reached over Jamal to open the glove compartment and grabbed his unopened pack of cigarettes. He needed something to fiddle with one-handed, and with his only other option being Jamal’s gun—still seated in his lap—he’d prefer the plastic wrap on the pack.

Jamal cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Not often. I try to regulate higher stress situations with it,” Bo said. “You know, like the day you forced me to testify against one of the only people I’ve ever truly allowed into my life.”

“Ah.”

“You could’ve called me. You didn’t have to come here to tell me this,” he said, flipping on his turn signal.

“I assumed you would ignore my call. Again,” Jamal said. “And I said, I assumed you would be more bothered by Kathy’s illness. I was worried about…” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know what you would do.”

“I have a case to solve. This man, or men, are dropping victims like flies. I have no intention of taking myself out with an open case in my lap.”

“Bo—”

“Don’t. I don’t—I can’t talk about this. I have more than enough to deal with here, I don’t need this tacked on right now,” Bo said. He pulled into his driveway and shut off the car. He leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. “Have you had supper?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“No.”

Bo nodded. “Come on in then. I’ll make you something. Gotta eat, old man.”

“I can stay in a hotel, Bo. I have a room booked. You don’t need to take care of me.”

“Making sure you’re fed isn’t the hard part of any of this. Knowing that you turned against me, knowing that you hate me, because I can’t bring myself to hate Dallas… That’s the hard part.”

“I don’t…” Whatever emotion had been on Jamal’s face disappeared, like it always did. “Are you coming back to California when this case is over?”

Bo sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Yes. I already know who hates me and who tolerates me there. I should’ve stayed.”

“You should have.”

“You fired me.”

“You gave up much too easy. You’ve always disobeyed and wormed your way back into the department. I was disappointed that this time wasn’t the same.”

“You sentenced Dallas to life in prison. You and Kathy took away one of the only people who ever truly understood me. I had no reason left to fight for my job.”

For a fleeting moment, Jamal almost looked… saddened. It didn’t stay long, of course. “I expect you to be back in LA and at the station within a week of this case ending. Otherwise, you’re out of a job in Los Angeles on a permanent basis. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jamal nodded tersely and shoved open the door. “I’ll see you then.”

---

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Eighteen

Friday: January 10, 2020

5:00 AM; CLINSTONE, THE GRANGER HOUSEHOLD, BATHROOM

Nora Granger, a beautiful married woman in her early forties, stood in her shower, washing her hair as she sang to Cyndi Lauper’s True Colors as it played on the radio. Nora, with a rough alto voice, was the kind of woman that could belt out nearly any song without sounding too bad, True Colors included.

Her hands stilled in her hair and her words died on her lips. She was almost certain she had heard something. A door, maybe. She pulled back the shower curtain, lifting her gaze to the clock on the wall. Five after five. Her husband, Edgar, would’ve left for work five minutes ago, as he always insisted on punctuality. The noise she had heard definitely hadn’t been caused by Edgar.

Nora turned off the water and grabbed a towel from its hook on the back of the bathroom door. Bending over, she wrapped it around her hair. Straightening herself back out, she grabbed her bigger, fluffier towel and quickly dried herself off. Wrapping the towel around her body and tucking it into itself at her chest, she stepped out of the bathtub.

She unlocked and opened the bathroom door, leaning out into the hallway. She looked to the right, and then to the left. Nothing. She rolled her eyes. She hated being alone in the house. It made her feel crazy, every quiet little noise amplified into something much bigger and scarier. Still, she stepped out into the hall and walked into the kitchen. She heard something, and before she could turn around, a hand covered her mouth and nose with a rag. She breathed in on panicked instinct, and the dizzy feeling that set in quickly made her regret it.

An arm banded around her waist, holding her still until the chloroform did its job. “Shh… You won’t feel a thing,” he murmured just as she slipped from consciousness.

6:15 AM; THE GRANGER HOUSEHOLD, BEDROOM

“Edgar Granger, forty-four years old, the man in the living room, wasn’t killed in the living room. I’ll have a look at his car before we leave, see if that’s where it happened. Either way, it was still dark outside when it happened, so it’s unlikely we’ll find any witnesses,” Bo said before his gaze shifted back to the bed. “Nora Granger, married to Edgar, forty-two years old, A-positive blood type. She’s Cleo Marshall’s match. She was taking a shower when the killer came in, judging from the wet walls in the bathtub, and he took her by surprise in the kitchen, since that’s where her towels have been discarded. He chloroformed her and brought her in here, laid her out on the bed. Mark on the inner arm. Blood was most likely drawn there, probably two pints. Small mark on the neck, most likely etorphine. And then the breasts were removed. I’ll know more in the morgue,” Bo said. Jacob nodded, yawning. “Am I boring you, Detective?”

Jacob shook his head, running the heel of his palm under his eye. “Nah. Just haven’t gotten much sleep. I was up ‘till four,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“Alice.”

A surprised laugh bubbled past Bo’s lips. “That’s… nice, Detective.”

“I thought so,” Jacob said with a shrug. Bo squatted down beside the bed, raising his camera for a picture. Just as he took it, Carter walked past him, bumping his shoulder and nearly knocking him off balance. Bo caught himself, gripping the sheets with one gloved hand, his camera held tightly in the other hand. “Hey, knock it the fuck off. You are only here because Bo insisted I bring you back onto the case. Touch him again and I’ll knock you on your fucking ass,” Jacob said.

Carter chuckled. “Yeah, Jake, sure. You and your ‘violence is never the answer’ ways will really teach me a lesson.”

“It’s fine, Detective Mason,” Bo said. “I’m leaving soon, anyway. I don’t need special treatment,” he added, tilting his camera for a better angle.

“What’re you talking about?” Carter asked. “You’re leaving soon?”

“I’m not exactly welcome here, Detective Lehmann,” Bo said as he pushed himself to his feet. “My serial killer best friend treats me better than you and Miss Tanner do, so once this case is solved, I’m going home and you can all pretend I didn’t exist.” He cleared his throat. “Now, let’s get Mrs. Granger here to the morgue so I can do my job.”

8:43 AM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, MORGUE

“How you doing?” Jacob asked as he stepped into the morgue.

“I just finished some notes for you, actually,” Bo said.

Jacob exhaled softly. “No, Bo, I meant how are you doing?”

“Oh.” Bo cleared his throat. “I’m… fine, Detective. Is this where I ask how you’re doing? Or is it only okay for you to assume that I need to be checked up on?”

Jacob held up his hands. “Sorry. Forgot you were supposed to be emotionless. I’ll just pretend that I don’t give a shit, okay?”

“That’s fine with me.” Bo held a notebook out to Jacob, his gaze drifting back to his laptop. “That’s all I have.”

Jacob crossed the room and grabbed the notebook from Bo. He leaned back against one of the counters in the morgue, rolling his eyes. And to think he used to believe Alice was complicated. He read through the sticky note on Edgar Granger first, even though he knew it wouldn’t make much sense to him.

Edgar Granger – F Jan 10, 2020

– 4th found victim

– TOD: 4:50 AM F Jan 10, 2020

– H: 6 f 10 in

– NHC: black

– EC: brown

– DOB: W Aug 13, 1975

– LKM: AL 1 hr BTOD

– no SA, FP, PA

– DW: etorphine

– TL: PS 5 in TPB (PK)

“What’s ‘DW’ stand for?” Jacob asked.

“Drugged with,” Bo said, never lifting his gaze from his laptop.

Jacob cleared his throat as he scanned through the actual written information on the page. “So, he was killed in his car?”

“Killer in the backseat, one hand pressed firmly against the forehead to make the flesh of the throat taut, and then one clean swipe of a pocket knife. Mister Granger didn’t really stand much of a chance once he walked out of that house.”

Jacob nodded. “And he was drugged, too?”

“More etorphine, yes. One shot to the neck and you’re rendered immobilized and unconscious. That’s when the throat laceration occurred. Again, The Surgeon doesn’t want his victims to feel pain.”

“The what?” Jacob asked.

“Oh. Yes, sorry. The Surgeon. That’s what I’ve labeled this case as,” Bo said.

“Because of the whole… make his victims look like someone else thing?”

“That’s the basics of it.”

Jacob nodded as he flipped the page, his gaze falling on the sticky note for Nora Granger.

Nora Granger – F Jan 10, 2020

– 5th found victim

– TOD: 5:45 AM F Jan 10, 2020

– H: 5 f 6 in

– NHC: brown

– EC: blue

– DOB: T Nov 29, 1977

– LKM: AL 6-8 hrs BTOD

– no SA, FP, PA

– CHCl3

– DW: etorphine

– BR + 2 pnts blood: A-pos

“ ‘BR’?” Jacob asked.

“Breasts removed,” Bo said.

“Do you ever have to look at a calendar when you’re writing these?”

For the first time, Bo’s gaze lifted to the detective’s face. “Why would I need a calendar?”

“Umm, because when you write their birthdate, you add the day of the week they were born on,” Jacob said.

“Ah. Yeah, of course I use a calendar,” Bo said as his eyes fell back to his laptop screen.

“July eighteen, 1985,” Jacob said.

“Your birthday,” Bo said dismissively.

“What day of the week is it?”

“I’d have to check.”

“Of course. So, Nora heard the killer come in?” Jacob asked as he scanned the page.

“Presumably. She still had shampoo in her hair, so she wasn’t done with her shower. She got out to see what the noise was.”

“October 26, 2019.”

“Saturday,” Bo murmured. His brow furrowed as he looked back at Jacob. “Stop that.”

“Sorry,” Jacob said. “That’s… impressive. How far back can you do that?”

“What? The days of the week thing?” Bo asked. Jacob nodded. “All the way back to ‘65, if it matters,” he said quietly, looking back down at his laptop.

“Damn.”

“It’s just memorization of a pattern, Detective Mason,” Bo said.

“Memorization of, what, fifty-four years?”

“No, memorization of approximately twenty-eight years. The calendar repeats itself roughly every twenty-eight years.”

“That’s pretty fucking impressive, Bo,” Jacob said. Bo lifted his shoulders. “Who treated you like shit and told you that you had to be ashamed of yourself?”

“A lot of people,” Bo said off-handedly. “Your coworkers, for starters.”

“Well, they’re assholes, Bo. We went over that.”

Again, Bo shrugged. He closed the lid of his laptop and stood up. “Maybe, but that doesn’t mean they were wrong. It just means they approached the topic with a bit too much aggression,” he said. Jacob watched as the younger blonde walked past him and left the morgue. Jacob’s brow furrowed. It was unusual, to say the least, for Bo to leave in the middle of a conversation. What the hell was that about?

9:02 AM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, PARKING LOT

Bo leaned back against the driver’s side door of his car, closing his eyes as he took another drag of his cigarette. He wasn’t a smoker, not really. It only happened once in a great while, but he always kept a pack in his glove box, just in case. He liked the thought that, if he smoked enough of them, it could help kill off some of his brain cells as he aged, dumb him down at least a little bit.

He crossed his arms over his chest against the cold, his cigarette balanced between the first two fingers of his right hand. God, he wanted to go home. Not to his house in Minnesota. No, he wanted to go home, back to California. Maybe he’d visit his adoptive parents while he was there. They were divorced now, but they both still lived in Los Angeles. Maybe he could take some time away from being miserable and pretend he was normal if he was in the house with one of them.

Maybe they could go out for lunch.

“What’re you doing?” Carter asked just as Bo took another long drag.

“You have eyes, Detective. You tell me what I’m doing,” Bo said, blowing smoke out of one corner of his mouth.

“You know smoking’s bad for you, right?”

“No,” Bo said, feigning surprise. He cleared his throat, shaking his head. “Yes, Detective, I’m well aware. That’s why I like it.”

Carter crossed his arms over his chest. He hadn’t taken Bo for a smoker. His voice certainly didn’t reveal it. “Are you trying to get cancer?”

“They actually can’t declare that smoking gives you cancer,” Bo said, kicking one foot back against the car door. “Common misconception. They can say the toxins in a cigarette are known to cause cancer, but smoking can’t be labeled as the real cause.”

“Why the hell not?”

Bo scoffed, pressing the tip of his cigarette into the palm of his hand. Carter winced. “They can’t create a study for it. It’d involve purposely giving people cancer, and that’d pretty much be illegal,” he said, dropping the cigarette to the ground. He ground the toe of his shoe into it, even though it was already out. “Smoking can lead to a stroke, damage to the mouth, throat, lungs… you name it. But they can’t actually declare it as a cancer inducer.”

Carter cleared his throat. “I… never took you for a smoker.”

“It doesn’t really happen a lot. Only when I’m in the mood to damage a couple brain cells,” Bo said. He chuckled softly. “I’ve felt that urge a lot since I arrived in this hellhole you call a station.”

Carter’s gaze fell to the ground. “I’m sorry. Umm… for my part in that, I mean.”

“You sure have a funny way of showing it,” Bo said. “Actions speak louder than words, Detective, and your actions tell me that you have a personal vendetta against me.”

“I’m an ass, I know.”

“I didn’t call you an ass,” Bo said. “You’re rude, crass, and cruel, but you’re not an ass,” he explained.

“Is that better or worse?”

“Dallas Silver was an ass, and he was my best friend. You decide.”

Carter cleared his throat again. “And what was Kathy?” “Mrs. Baker, to you,” Bo said. “Kathy… was a bitch, and a damn proud one at that. A bitch who married my best friend and ran away with him.” He pushed himself away from his car. “If you don’t mind, I have a job to do so that I can get the hell out of this state. Nice chat, though. The false apologies are greatly appreciated, Detective Lehmann. Keep them coming, and one of these days, you might just actually mean it.”

---

Yet another one of my animals unexpectedly passed away on the third of this month, this time one of my cats. I don’t expect to be writing for a little while… again, but I still had this chapter sitting around from my writing streak in the middle of last. Thank you again for your patience as I continue navigating through what has genuinely been the worst six months of my entire life.

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Seventeen

8:13 AM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LAB

“Based on your thirteen-minute difference on punctuality, can I assume you had a second breakfast?” Bo asked without looking up from his computer.

Jacob laughed. “Damn straight, I did.” Bo chuckled softly and patted the seat beside him. Jacob crossed the room and sat down beside Bo. “What’s up?”

Bo cleared his throat. “I thought you might want a, uh, walkthrough, of sorts, on this case.”

“That’s what you were working on earlier, right?” Jacob asked. Bo nodded. “Pssh, and you said you weren’t working on the case.”

Bo smiled faintly. “I’m quite the liar when I want to be.”

“You’re damn good at it. You don’t have a tell.” When Bo didn’t respond, Jacob cleared his throat. “Well, show me what you got.”

Bo rubbed at the back of his neck. “There’s a lot of… assuming going into this. A lot of it isn’t fact,” he said.

“Cases can never be completed without assuming somewhere along the line. It’s how we connect the dots.”

“There is… a lot of information that I’m going to spit out, here. If you need me to stop so that you can gather how insane I am, tell me and I’ll give you a few minutes to recover before I overwhelm you again.”

Jacob chuckled. “Sure thing, Bo.”

Bo opened up a document on his laptop. A timeline. “Sometime between eight o’clock AM on Saturday, December twenty-first, 2019 and Monday, December twenty-third at noon, Tess Brown is kidnapped, presumably from her home. Monday, December twenty-third at twelve-fifteen PM, Tess Brown is reported missing by her boyfriend. Tuesday, December twenty-fourth, 2019, sometime before ten in the morning, Natalie Lambert, fifteen years old, is kidnapped. Her parents arrive at the station at ten, and fill out a missing person’s report The AMBER Alert goes out fifteen minutes after the report’s filled out, ten forty-six AM. Thursday, December thirty-first, 2019 at ten-thirty PM, Victor Law is killed in his home in Clinstone. Mister Law is poisoned with conium maculatum, known as hemlock in layman’s terms. He’s killed to guarantee that Cleo Marshall will be lonely and desperate because she’s been ditched on New Year’s Eve.

“At eleven PM, Tess Brown is killed, presumably, in the killer’s kill room. She’s chloroformed rather heavily and her throat is slit with a five-inch, partially serrated tanto-point pocket knife. In line with the fact that we know he’s trying to replace someone, his kill room is most likely in his actual house. Basement, probably.

“Killer arrives at Ivory Hill before eleven forty-five PM so that he can scout Cleo Marshall, watch her, wait until she’s at her most desperate. We can assume that didn’t happen until shortly after midnight. So, after midnight strikes, on January first, 2020, the killer approaches Cleo Marshall at the bar and buys her a drink. It’s probable that he flirted with her, called her beautiful, called Victor foolish for leaving her alone. He talks her up, makes her feel good about herself, and convinces her to go home with him.

“He’s not drunk. He wouldn’t have wanted to inhibit his senses like that, nor would he have wanted to be forced to take a cab or find someone to drive them. He doesn’t want to be seen by anyone. He wants to blend in with the crowd, be nothing but an average guy. His goal isn’t to stick out, or else he would be ID’d long before he completed his work.

“He takes Cleo Marshall to his house and takes her to her room. Presumably, a cell of some sort, designed to look like the original bedroom of the person that Cleo Marshall is supposed to replace. It probably has a cell door rather than a wooden door. It’s not a solid surface because he needs to be able to see her without opening the door and running the risk of her escaping.

“Natalie Lambert has been in a room since Christmas Eve. Assuming the rooms are in a basement, side-by-side, the girls likely can’t see each other. They aren’t fixed yet. They don’t look like the women they’re supposed to replace, so they can’t see each other until they look exactly like the women they’re replacing.” Bo cleared his throat. “You still with me?”

In silence, Jacob nodded.

“Thursday, January second, Tess Brown’s body is found in a dumpster outside of the Clinstone ER. We get to the alleyway just after eighty-thirty that morning. Based on Miss Brown’s autopsy, we know that he’s feeding them. Most likely three meals a day, most likely on a strict schedule. Like… breakfast at six, lunch at noon, and supper at six. Before he goes to work, lunch break, when he gets home.

“Monday, January sixth, 2020, Victor Law’s body is found in a dumpster outside the Clinstone Community Center. We get there around ten AM. His corpse has been hidden somewhere relatively warm before being dumped in the dumpster. Otherwise, the cold outside would have slowed down the decay process.

“Tuesday, January seventh, 2020, Jane Bishop is killed in her home around nine-thirty AM. She’s home alone, doing college homework, when the killer comes in, grabs her from behind, and chloroforms her. He draws two pints of blood through her arm before injecting her with etorphine. He undresses her, cleans her skin, and removes her breasts. This is done with a number ten surgical knife. She’s dead by the time he’s finished, and then he leaves. As I’ve told you before, Jane Bishop isn’t the only victim like this in Clinstone, but we won’t go into that right now.

“Jane Bishop is O-negative type, just like Natalie Lambert. The breasts will, more than likely, be surgically attached to Natalie Lambert’s chest after her own breasts are removed. The killer doesn’t want implants. He wants something that looks entirely real, feels entirely real, and that’s why he needs to kill another woman for them. And, truthfully, he has most likely already done the surgery. Which is good for us, because it means she didn’t die, or else we would’ve found her body.

“Now, this is where I’m going to throw a wrench in everything,” Bo said. He cleared his throat. “I believe there are likely two killers.”

Jacob’s brow furrowed. “Why do you think that?”

“Killer’s have comfort zones. The ones who don’t want to taunt the police, anyway. He’s not doing this for fame. He’s doing it to replace someone he lost. Tess Brown and Cleo Marshall were and are forty-four. Natalie Lambert is only fifteen. The age gap is too great. Jane Bishop was only in her twenties. The age gap is drastically greater than what most comfort creatures are, well, comfortable with. So we assume we have two killers. One of them kidnapped Tess Brown and Cleo Marshall, and killed Tess Brown and Victor Law. The other killer, a younger man, kidnapped Natalie Lambert and killed Jane Bishop.

“They’re both intelligent, both have experience with drugs, medicine, knives, and surgeries. One of them, probably the younger one, is a veterinarian, and that’s how he got his hands on etorphine,” Bo said. “The other one, the older of the two, could also be a vet or a doctor, a surgeon. If that’s the case, the older one is most likely the ones performing the surgeries on the women.

“The older man makes a lot of money, based on his cologne and his suits, as described by Will Foreman at the bar. He’s most likely a surgeon, possibly plastic surgery, simply based on possible income.” Bo opened a new document, a fingerprint. “I told you that Cleo Marshall probably wasn’t the one that removed that top sticky note, and I was right. I pulled a fingerprint off of it, a thumb, but it’s not in the system. See this line?” Bo asked, touching his finger to a place on the screen.

“Yeah,” Jacob said, nodding.

“It’s a scar. The older of the two men has a scar on his thumb. That makes him a lot easier to find, Detective,” Bo said. He reached over and grabbed a thin stack of papers that were paper clipped together. He laid them down in front of Jacob. “That’s everything I just told you. That’s all I have.”

Jacob stared at Bo for a moment, his lips parted slightly. “What the fuck was this department doing before you?”

One corner of Bo’s mouth lifted in a smile. “Working and solving cases just the same as every other department that’s never had me in it,” he said. He stood up, shutting the lid of his laptop. “I’m not special, Detective Mason. I just… get things done a little quicker than other analysts. You’d eventually arrive at the same conclusion without me. I’m not special. I’m just a lab geek.”

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Sixteen

Thursday: January 9, 2020

12:00 AM; MINNESOTA, THE SURGEON’S HOUSE

“Gordon,” Cleo said as he walked out into the main room in the basement. “Gordon,” she repeated, her voice louder than before. “Gordon, is she okay?”

“Yes,” he said finally. “She’s resting, but she’s okay.” He crossed the room and covered Cleo’s hand with his own. “She’s fine. Surgery went well. She’ll be back in her room in three days.” He stared at her for a moment before clearing his throat. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

Cleo rested her head against the cell bars, her eyes closed. “Goodnight, Gordon,” she whispered.

2:00 AM; CLINSTONE, BO AUSTEN’S HOUSE, LIVING ROOM

Bo sat up on the couch, rubbing at his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep, especially not on the couch. Acamas stood up on Bo’s lap, purring as she stretched, arching her back. Bo sighed, smoothing a hand over her head. He picked the tabby up, holding her to his chest as he rose to his feet. He turned off the lamp on the end table and swiped his phone from the coffee table.

Bo walked back to his bedroom, flipped on the overhead light, and set Acamas on the bed. He sat down at the foot of the bed and unlocked his phone. He had a text from Jamal.

Jamal: Your services are being requested.

Bo: By whom?

Jamal: Me, LAPD, the whole department.

Bo: I’m on a job, Mister Pitman.

Jamal: Do we really need the formalities, Bo? We’re all friends here.

Bo frowned, his thumbs hovering above the keyboard. They certainly weren’t friends. Jamal had called him a few choice words that most people wouldn’t call their friends. More than once.

Bo: What’s the case?

Jamal: I’m not discussing it over text, Bo.

Bo: Then I’m going to bed.

Bo’s brow furrowed as his phone rang, Jamal’s name flashing across his screen. Pushing a hand through his hair, he accepted the call and pressed his phone to his ear. “Mister Pitman.”

“Again, we don’t need the formalities. I don’t want that from you, Bo,” Jamal said.

“What’s the case, Mister Pitman?” Bo asked.

Jamal let out a heavy sigh. “Regina’s dead.”

Bo closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mister Pitman. Regina… was a good analyst.”

“She was. A good woman too.”

“Did she suffer?” Bo asked.

“I think so.” A pause. “I need you for this one, Bo.”

I thought I was useless? I thought you didn’t want to hear my fucking voice ever again? I thought you wanted me dead?

“I’m in the middle of a rather large case, Mister Pitman.”

“So you’re leaving all of us, high and dry?”

“You are the one who fired me, Mister Pitman,” Bo reminded.

“You deserved it.”

“I did, yes, thank you. I’m sorry about Regina, I am. She was great at her job, and she was a good person. I am sorry. I hope you find her killer, but it won’t be with my assistance. Goodnight, Mister Pitman.” Bo ended the call and dropped his phone to his lap. When his screen lit up with another call from Jamal, he held down the power button until it shut off.

He wasn’t tired any more. He scrubbed his hands over his face, squeezing his eyes shut. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well work on the case. The sooner it was over, the sooner Cleo Marshall and Natalie Lambert were back home, the sooner he could go back home to the boss who hated him, the serial killer best friend, and the serial killer’s wife.

7:00 AM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LAB

Bo looked up as Jacob walked into the lab. He held the back of his hand up to his mouth as he finished chewing his food.

“So you do eat breakfast,” Jacob said.

Bo cleared his throat. “I, umm, didn’t know you’d be here this early.”

Jacob offered a shrug. “Had nothing better to do.”

Bo nodded once. “Is there anything I can help you with, Detective?”

“Nah. Just wanted to come down and see how you were doing.”

“Great.”

“Whatcha working on?” he asked.

Bo glanced at his computer screen before his gaze shifted back to Jacob’s face. “Nothing.”

Jacob chuckled. “Yeah, okay.” He scratched at his jaw, clearing his throat. “Why do you always come here early?”

“To get work done.”

The detective raised a brow. “You’re doing nothing now.”

Bo frowned. He had assumed that would come back to bite him in the ass, just not so soon. “I’ll rephrase that for you, Detective. I am doing nothing that relates to your case.”

“Our case,” Jacob said.

“Pardon?”

“You called it my case. It’s our case, Bo. You are working on it too.”

“Oh. Of course. That’s what I meant,” Bo said quietly. “At eight o’clock, my work will shift to the case. Until then, I’ll be doing nothing that pertains to this town or the criminals within it.”

“I wasn’t asking what you were doing to scare you or anything, Bo. I was asking because I’m taking an interest in your life,” Jacob said.

“Why?”

“Because that’s what friends are supposed to do.”

“We’re coworkers.”

“Right,” Jacob said, stretching the word out over several beats. “I forgot that you weren’t allowed to befriend the people you have to see eight hours a day.”

“Well, you may befriend anyone in this station that isn’t me, Detective. I’m just not going to be here long enough to need friends,” Bo said. He smiled faintly. “Besides, I… only get along with serial killers and their wives.”

“I wish you’d give yourself more credit than that,” Jacob said. “You don’t deserve to think of yourself like you’re an idiot.”

“Anyone and everyone can be stupid, Detective, no matter what a test reveals about them. My IQ doesn’t make me intelligent,” he said as he stood up. “It’s just a number assigned by the manner in which you answer a list of questions.” Jacob watched him walk across the room and throw away his unfinished breakfast. “Idiocy is defined by a person’s point of view. Kathy, for instance, was believed to be an idiot when she fled California. I was believed to be an idiot when I couldn’t find them. You were believed to be an idiot when you were in love with a married woman, yes?”

“Okay… fine,” Jacob said finally. “But still. You’re not an idiot for not knowing he was a killer. He hid it. That’s what killers do.”

Bo sat back down behind his laptop, folding his arms over top of the table. “Detective Mason, I respect you deeply. I do. I’m not trying to be an asshole, not to you, anyway. I just don’t want to let you get close, that’s all. I left behind my entire life in California, all of the people that I was close to. When I leave here, I don’t want to feel as though I’m disappointing anyone, as though… I am leaving someone behind.”

“I’m sorry, Bo.”

Bo waved a hand. “Don’t be. I’m not here for pity, Detective Mason.” He offered a smile. “I’m here to do my job, that’s all.”

“Of course.”

“You should bring Detective Lehmann back onto the case.”

“Fuck that. That’s not happening,” Jacob said.

“He has worked here much longer than I have, Detective Mason.”

“Yes, and that’s why he should know that disrespecting, harassing, bullying, and stealing from another member of CPD is never okay,” Jacob said. “So he’s staying off that case.”

“If that’s what you want to do, Detective.”

“It’s what you should want to do, too. You shouldn’t be a doormat You don’t deserve that.”

Bo shrugged. “Sticks and stone, Detective. They may insult me all that they’d like. It’s when they start throwing stones that I’ll fight back.”

“Well, if you ever decide to throw a punch, let me know. I’ve got your back.”

Bo couldn’t help but chuckle. It was almost adorable, really, that Jacob believed Bo would need backup if he were to go into a fight. Bo had once kicked Dallas’s ass. Dallas, a tall, muscled-out ball of serial killer-fueled rage, had been beaten by a much shorter, skinnier, intellectual Bo Austen. Still, he appreciated the thought.

“Thanks, Detective. I appreciate the sentiment.”

Jacob nodded. “No problem,” he said. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your non-work-related work, and I will see you at eight o’clock.” He shrugged. “Give or take a few minutes, depending on whether or not I want a second breakfast before then.”

Bo raised an eyebrow. “Can I assume that your fiancee doesn’t know you’re eating two of every meal?”

“She doesn’t need to know,” Jacob said. He laughed. “All Al cares about is making sure I don’t swear around the twins, says that if their first word is a curse of any kind, she’ll kick me out of my own damn house. So, you know, I gotta get all my swearing out of the way while I’m at the station.”

Bo laughed. “Good luck with that, Detective.”

“Thanks. I’m gonna need that, Bo,” Jacob said. He saluted the forensic analyst, a smile on his face. “See you at eight.”

“Sure thing, Detective Mason. I’ll be here.”

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Fifteen

12:00 PM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LAB

“You know you’re, like, crazy intelligent, right?” Jacob asked, kicking his feet up onto the table as he leaned back in his chair. “I mean, honestly, do you know that and pretend you don’t? Or do you really, genuinely not know?”

“I don’t consider myself intelligent, if that’s what you’re asking,” Bo said, lifting his gaze from his notebook.

“What the hell do you consider yourself, then?”

“Abnormal,” Bo said simply. He dropped his gaze back to his notebook, clicking the end of his pen before writing out the notes on Cleo Marshall’s apartment.

“You think you’re not normal?” Jacob asked.

“Well, Detective, either I’m not normal, or the rest of the world isn’t normal. You may take your pick on that.”

“No one’s normal. Who are we to judge the definition of normal?”

“Detective Mason, I taught a chemistry class full of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds when I was ten.” Bo looked back up at Jacob. “Again, I am not normal. No matter what the possible definitions of the word are, I am rather far from every single one of them. There is no denying that.”

“I personally think that’s pretty fucking cool,” Jacob said.

“In all fairness, Detective, that’s because you aren’t exactly normal, either.”

Jacob laughed. “Damn right, I’m not. Normality is overrated, Austen.”

“Normality is overrated,” Bo repeated. He shook his head as he looked back at his notebook. “Normality is what this country is based upon, Detective Mason. There’s a reason most presidents are elected to two terms. There’s a reason why farmers plant corn one year and beans the next. There’s a reason why the prices of meats and produce fluctuate at an expected price at expected intervals. The human race doesn’t like change, and when change occurs, it takes far too long for them to accept it, and by the time they do accept it, do you know what happens?”

Jacob clapped his hands together once. “More change.”

Bo smiled faintly. “Bingo.”

“See, kid, this is why I like you. You’re mind-blowingly intelligent—despite what you say—and you still don’t talk down to me,” Jacob said.

“You’re not exactly stupid, Detective Mason. It’d be hard to talk down to you without intentionally putting in the effort to do so.” Bo said. 

Jacob blew a short burst of air from his nose, shaking his head. “Not exactly stupid, huh?” he questioned. “My Alice would disagree.”

“I can only imagine she believes you’re stupid because she loves you,” Bo said. He looked up at Jacob, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Not as much as you love her, I think, but she cares quite a lot about you.”

Jacob smiled. “I loved her for just over ten years before she ever knew that I did. She’s got a lot of catching up to do. I’m okay waiting.”

“Dallas was like that with Kathy,” Bo found himself saying. “He was… head over heels for her. He felt… normal when she was around him, I suppose,” he said. His gaze fell to his notebook once more, but he had nothing left to write. “Kathy normalized the killer urge inside of him, made him feel like he could control it just a little better whenever she was around.” 

Jacob crossed his arms over his chest, rocking back in his chair. “Dallas was Hangman, right? That’s what you called him?”

“Well, Kathy’s the one who named the infamous killer ‘Hangman’. I played little to no role in that case until after she and Dallas fled California.”

“He only killed criminals, you know. I did my research on that,” Jacob said.

“Yes, I know.”

“Nearly pain-free, instantaneous. According to what I read, anyway. He didn’t torture his victims, if you could even call them that.”

“Except for Max,” Bo said.

“Max?”

“Never mind,” Bo said quietly. He clicked the end of his pen several times, thinking. He remembered looking at the crime scene photos of Max Baker, the man Dallas had stabbed a total of thirty-two times, some prior to death, some post-mortem. It wasn’t only Max that had suffered at the hands of Dallas. Douglass Brass had suffered greatly, a murderer who had wanted Kathy to feel emotional pain before he killed her, too. Douglass had been beaten and left nearly unrecognizable. Dallas had waterboarded him, according to both the evidence and Dallas’s testimony. Dallas had broken all of the bones in Douglass’s fingers and, after he had suffered enough, Dallas had slit his throat.

Why? Douglass Brass had murdered a young woman that Kathy Baker considered a daughter. Kathy had begged Dallas to kill the man responsible, to torture him so that he felt like a victim before he finally died. With the amount of injuries, there was no way he hadn’t felt like one before Dallas had finally given him the mercy of death.

“Bo?” Jacob asked, almost cautiously. Bo lifted his head, but he didn’t respond. “You okay?”

“Marvelous,” Bo said.

“Right,” Jacob said quietly.

“I’m just… going to finish these notes, Detective. I’m not going to have anything of use until tomorrow morning. I’d like to compile information and… whatnot before I report back to you.”

“Is that Austen code for, ‘Get the hell out of my lab’?” Jacob asked.

“No, that’s Austen code for, ‘I’m done talking for the day’,” Bo said.

“Ah.” Jacob dropped his feet to the floor, tipping the chair back to all fours. “Well, I’ll head upstairs and let you do your thing, then.” Bo nodded. “I’ll see you later, Austen.” Again, Bo only offered a nod.

6:00 PM; MINNESOTA, THE SURGEON’S HOUSE

Cleo watched in silence as the older man and Gordon worked in tandem to carry Natalie’s unconscious body out of the cell and lift her onto the gurney that stood just outside the open cell door. Cleo took in the oxygen mask over Natalie’s mouth and nose, the IV bag that Gordon held in one hand.

The older man glanced back at Cleo, smiling softly. “Eat your supper, darling. Everything’s going to be okay,” he promised. The two men pushed Natalie away from the cells, opening a door that Cleo had never noticed before. They disappeared into the room, turned on a light, and shut the door.

Cleo sank to the floor, hands wrapped around the bars of the cell door. Natalie was strong. Natalie was a survivor.

God, she hoped Natalie was still a fighter, too.

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