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  After a minute of tense silence, Danny turned on her heels and ran to the bedroom wing. In the distance, a door slammed.

  Eli manically snapped the elastic, the repetitive flicking an indication of his sensory overload.

  “Give Danny a bit of time,” Sam said. “I’m sure—”

  “Leave.” Eli stretched out the elastic and snapped it again, flinching as it slapped against a ring of red welts.

  Knowing that anything she tried to do right now would make it worse, Sam mutely climbed the stairs to the elevator and pressed the button to summon the car. Danny would forgive Eli for his breach of confidence. They shared a peculiar codependent relationship. What worried Sam was the possibility that Danny might transfer blame to her. If that happened, Eli might enable his sister’s avoidance technique and leave their employment, but Sam had no option but to cross that bridge if they came to it.

  During the ride to ground level, she tried to focus on work and considered Eli’s words. Human trafficking was a rash conclusion in the case of Fadiya Basha. That didn’t make it impossible. The only way she could figure out what was going on at that hospital was to work from the inside.

  She just had to decide if she was willing to risk her PhD in the process.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Reece

  THE FRONT DOOR banged against Reece’s beloved antique church altar. It had taken him months to restore the piece and it was one of his prize possessions. Sam stalked into the kitchen with a stormy expression.

  She scowled at the array of pots on the stove. “I thought we were ordering pizza.”

  He handed over his glass of cold wine. She looked like she could use it. “I’m making salmon Wellington, Gordon Ramsey’s recipe.”

  She took a large gulp of wine. “I was in the mood for pizza, not fancy.”

  It was odd for her to be contentious over something as silly as dinner. He took off his chef’s apron, circled the island, and wrapped his arms around her. “It’ll keep until tomorrow.” She laid her head against his chest and hugged him tightly.

  Given her mood, Reece decided against sharing his bad news. He’d forgotten to close the barn doors that led to their walk-in closet and spa bathroom. While he’d enjoyed a long steam shower, Pepin had pulled Sam’s leather jacket off a hanger. By the time Reece had discovered the puppy, there was a sizable hole chewed in the sleeve. He’d taken it to a tailor who was unsure whether the damage was mendable. Reece figured he’d wait for the outcome before confessing.

  “Where’s the dog?” she asked suspiciously, as if she could read his mind.

  “Sleeping. I took him for a run earlier.”

  In the beginning, Pepin had bounded over to welcome her every time she returned home. Now he ignored her. Reece couldn’t identify the barrier that prevented Sam from bonding with Pepin. He wished she’d talk to him. He’d learned the hard way that ignoring feelings never worked. The only way to strip their power over you was to face them.

  She took her wine into the living space and flopped onto the contemporary leather sofa. “Everything’s a big mess,” she muttered, putting her glass on an onyx side table. “Danny’s going to shut down emotionally and never speak to either of us again. Eli will probably quit.”

  Reece sat beside her. “It can’t be that bad.”

  After she told him what had happened at the penthouse, they sat quietly, watching the early evening light sparkling against the glossy grey floors.

  “That explains a lot,” Reece said finally. “About Danny’s personality, I mean. It’s why she’s so guarded and closed. How do we handle it?”

  “We don’t,” Sam said. “Acknowledging it will guarantee she’ll pull away from us. We need to pretend Eli never blurted out her secret.” She sighed and sat up, reaching for her wine. “It’s enabling, I know. Our silence gives her permission to avoid it. But forcing her to talk would be worse.” She passed him her wine glass.

  Reece took a sip and tried to imagine the horrors Danny had suffered. It was so vile he couldn’t process it. “Her own mother sold her into sex slavery,” he said with a shudder. “How does anyone recover from something like that?”

  “Many don’t,” Sam said sadly. “That level of betrayal and years of physical trauma at such a young age are the stuff of nightmares.” She took back the wine and sipped. “Why are people so awful? Sometimes I fear humanity is extinct.”

  “The weird thing is, I spoke with—”.

  Sam interrupted him. “The other problem is the internship.” She put down her wine glass in frustration. “Fadiya is a victim of sexual assault. I can’t identify the rapist unless I’m inside. But I’m morally conflicted about using the clinical practicum as a vehicle to investigate.”

  “Can you help Fadiya?” Reece asked. “Clinically, I mean.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. If I make a therapeutic error, it could have devastating results.” She frowned and ran her fingers through her short curls. “I’m angry at Emily Armstrong for putting me in this situation. Not a great foundation for learning.”

  He put his hand on her cheek and turned her face toward him. “Why don’t you meet Fadiya and then decide.”

  Sam’s phone rang and she lifted her butt from the sofa to pull it from her back pocket. “My mother,” she said with a groan. “No doubt about the wedding again.”

  She picked up and listened for a few minutes. “Mother, we aren’t doing that. We said small, remember?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “No ice sculptures, no five-hundred guests whom Reece and I have never met, no orchestra playing music we don’t like, no strangling haute-couture dresses, and absolutely no indigestible cuisine concocted from disgusting exotic ingredients.”

  Reece returned to the kitchen, noting with distaste that Sam’s voice had risen. He didn’t hear his fiancée’s parting comment, but the tone was unpleasant. She marched into the kitchen and stalked over to the kitchen island.

  “Mother is planning everything,” she told him. “Don’t start in on me about her early-onset Alzheimer’s. Since they got back from that experimental clinic in Sweden, Grace is doing fantastic.”

  With a twinge of regret, Reece covered his puff pastry in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge with his salmon. It would have been delicious.

  “She’s doing better because planning the wedding makes her happy,” he said logically.

  “Do you want to get hitched at their palatial estate on Millionaires’ Row with all Mother’s snobbish society friends?”

  “Not especially,” he admitted. “But it’s just one day. It wouldn’t kill us to suffer through it. Your mother and stepfather are all the family we have.”

  Sam smirked at him. “She wants doves. A whole flock of them.”

  Reece hated birds. It was irrational, he knew, but just thinking about nasty birds soaring over his head as he recited his vows made him itchy and anxious.

  “I need your thoughts and professional advice on something,” he said, deliberately ending the topic.

  She sat on a bar stool at the island and reached for the open bottle of wine. “I’m sorry. All I’ve done since I walked through the door is talk about me. What’s going on?”

  “Danny’s algorithm pulled numerous files from the database she generated for my sudden-death cases. It’s flagged an interesting commonality,” he said.

  Sam frowned. “When did you talk to her?”

  “Just before you got home. That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier,” he said and held up his hand. “Before you ask, she seemed fine with me.” He handed her a flyer for her favourite pizza joint. “A number of cases had multiple statement reports that described the victims as extremely rude and unpleasant people.”

  Sam looked over the take-out menu. “Examples?”

  “Neighbours described a man who fell down his cellar stairs and broke his neck as vulgar and uncivil. A month earlier, he threw a tire-deflation spike strip across his corner lot to stop kids
from cutting across his lawn on their bikes. A child fell onto the spikes and lost his eye.” Reece sipped his wine. “Then there was a suicide ruling in a shooting. The man’s wife has cerebral palsy, and neighbours claimed he frequently degraded her in public. They also stated that she often had black eyes and bruises.”

  “I suppose the hanging victim we started with was there,” Sam said. “Annalise Huang, right? Her friends told police she was an entitled ‘mean-girl’.”

  “Yup, and the woman involved in vehicular manslaughter, who appealed the ‘harshness’ of her licence suspension after killing the toddler and baby.”

  Sam reached for her phone. “Give me a sec while I order,” she said. “I spent hours at the gym. I earned a sausage pizza.”

  “Get a medium veggie, too,” Reece said.

  He waited until she’d placed the order before he continued. “I also found a second drone sighting. Harold Taylor, the wife-abuser, had complained to police about a drone following him.”

  “Just like Annalise. Any more drone references?” she asked.

  “Danny’s searching all the records now. Thoughts?” he asked.

  “I stand by my original opinion that the drone is suspicious,” she said. “If there are only two, it could be a coincidence. Any victim similarities?”

  “The victims I’m taking a closer look at are different ages, genders, and ethnicity,” he said. “Of the five suicides the algorithm flagged, all statement records noted family disbelief,” he told her. “None of the victims was depressed, none had a history of mental health issues, and none had suffered a loss or disappointment. They appear to have killed themselves for no reason.”

  “Suicide is complicated,” she said dismissively. “Often there are no obvious indicators.”

  “I suppose, but I can’t shake the certainty that this anonymous tip Gretchen received is legit. There could be homicides hidden as suicides, accidental mishaps, and natural causes. This could date back years.”

  “If one person murdered all these victims, you’re looking at a serial,” Sam said. “There must be a commonality that attracted the killer,” she said. “What about geographical?”

  “The ones I researched didn’t live anywhere near each other. As far as work, I don’t know,” he admitted. “But two were retired.”

  “Don’t discount retirees,” Sam said. “They could volunteer, shop nearby, or frequent a restaurant in your vicinity.”

  “It can’t be random, right?” he asked.

  “Selection can appear random but it typically isn’t,” she said. “The killer has a vision of an ideal victim, such as a physical characteristic or specific quality. You ruled out the obvious—gender, age, race, education—but they all share some commonality recognizable to the killer.”

  “Could specific quality be conduct?” Reece asked tentatively.

  “I suppose,” she said. “Antisocial personalities seek to feel superior to their victim and see vulnerability in their target.”

  “So behaviour could be the trigger?” he asked again.

  She studied him. “You think you know what attracts the killer.”

  Reece hesitated. He felt foolish putting his outlandish thought into words. He figured he might as well gauge Sam’s reaction to his wild theory before he voiced it to his boss.

  “I think the trigger is rude and entitled people,” he stated. “I believe the killer encounters behaviour that puts the person on his radar.”

  Aloud it sounded more preposterous that it did in his head, and he saw justifiable doubt on Sam’s face. To her credit, she didn’t laugh.

  “Nearly three-million people live in Toronto. Not to mention tourists, and business and entertainment visitors,” she said with skepticism. “We’re a friendly city but there are some real assholes out there. You’re talking about a gigantic pool of potential victims.”

  “I think it’s a specific type of rudeness,” he said. “But I’m stuck on how to identify it.”

  “You need to speak to the victims’ family, friends, and co-workers,” Sam said. “How does the drone figure into this, if it does at all?”

  “Surveillance?” Reece suggested.

  “Serial killers are cautious and won’t make a selection without a high probability of success,” she admitted hesitantly. “I suppose a killer could use a drone to learn the victims’ routines to choose the best abduction location.”

  That wasn’t Reece’s theory. He believed the killer used the drone to monitor the victims’ behaviour to ensure it fit a profile. He’d never heard of any serial killer being so particular about that sort of thing.

  “I’d like to interview Harold Taylor’s wife, the man who complained about a drone,” Reece said.

  The doorbell rang and Sam got up to pay the pizza delivery. “Can you do that without permission from the Crown attorney’s office?” she asked.

  “No,” he admitted. “I’ll have to share my unsubstantiated suspicions and see if Gretchen authorizes me to proceed.”

  Sam didn’t respond until she’d closed the door and put their pizzas on the kitchen island. “Well, she’s the one who asked you to follow-up on the tip.” She picked up his tablet and scrolled through his notes. “Any idea why Gretchen’s anonymous informant had her look at these cases?”

  His boss hadn’t disclosed anything to him about the nature of the tip. Working in the dark was frustrating, but maybe she’d be more transparent once he outlined what he’d uncovered.

  Sam opened the greasy lid of a pizza box and pulled apart a slice, separating a string of cheese with her finger.

  Reece grabbed plates from the cupboard and handed her one. “Let’s say one person did kill these people. Is there any other psychological profile—other than a psychopath—that would commit multiple homicides?” he asked.

  She scrolled through his notes again and ate her slice of pizza. After a few minutes, she put down his iPad. “I understand why the ‘serial killer’ label is bothering you. I don’t see a control or superiority aspect. Cause of death in all of these was too quick and clean.” She reached for a second slice and popped a chunk of sausage in her mouth. “We need more intel on the victims. If your hunch is right, I need to understand what repetitive conduct attracts the killer before I can judge.”

  “It’s going to be difficult to sell Gretchen,” Reece said bleakly. “I wish I had more than just my gut to go in with.”

  Sam handed him a slice of veggie pizza. “Trust your instincts. They’ve never let you down in the past.”

  That wasn’t true. A murderous sociopath had run a cult right under his nose in Uthisca, and Reece hadn’t a clue that Bueton Sanctuary was anything but a religious retreat.

  “If Gretchen denies your request to interview the families, you have an alternative,” Sam said. “Open the investigation under the agency.”

  Her suggestion shocked him. “If my boss orders me to drop it and I use my private business to continue to investigate, I’m in breach of trust,” he said.

  She shrugged. “If you believe you’re on to something and Gretchen disagrees, a killer could continue to hunt. Are you okay with that?” She picked up both pizza boxes and took them into the living space. “You don’t always have to do everything by the book.”

  “I do,” he retorted. “I’m an articling student and a Crown attorney is my principal. I’m obligated to abide by her directive.”

  She put the boxes on the coffee table. “Sorry I suggested it,” she said with a sigh. “The best advice I can give you is to trust your instincts.”

  He sensed her frustration with his rigid morality. “Thanks for listening. I needed to hear that.” He squeezed her fingers. “Let’s find something stupid to watch on the idiot-box.” She smiled at him knowingly, and reached for the remote.

  Sam’s broadminded philosophies had always been in direct opposition to Reece’s rigid principles. His inability to see the grey in ethical issues had caused problems in the pa
st. Now, they both respected each other’s boundaries and agreed to disagree before an argument ensued.

  He returned to the kitchen to grab the half bottle of wine from the island. His thoughts raced around a hamster’s wheel. His skin tingled, the way it used to when he was an inspector with the provincial police and knew he was onto something. His gut was screaming at him that Toronto citizens were at risk.

  “I know you’re out there,” he whispered. “I’m coming for you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Journal

  THIS LEATHER JOURNAL fulfills a promise I made to my father. It narrates my family’s story. When you finish reading it, you may think what you want about me. I am not seeking forgiveness. Judge me harshly, if it pleases you. Decide that only a monster is capable of what I’ve done. Then comfort yourself by believing I’m an evolutionary anomaly. Lie to yourself if you want. But when I dwindle away like the grey mist that hangs above the bayou at dawn, some likeminded soul will materialize from the dissipating vapour. We protect the innocent. We are your shadows. We see inside the darkest parts of you. We are the omnipotent judges and executioners of the unworthy.

  Call me Blu, as everyone in my childhood home of Louisiana did. I inherited my father’s coarse black hair and stature, but my eyes—a deep cobalt blue—are unique to me. Blu was a name my mother claimed suited me because the clear Louisiana sky owned my soul.

  My mother spoke with a cultured drawl, round and soft with a hint of aristocrat. As with everything about her, the accent was bogus, but I didn’t realize that fact until I was in high school and our lives had disintegrated into dust. I can’t recall how I discovered that my mother hailed from a small town in Ontario, in Canada, and not from Georgia as she claimed. It wasn’t from my father’s lips. He was a southern gentleman, so he paid no heed to her trivial mendacity.