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  He opened the door and they stepped into the old, rundown rental they had been living in. Forrest green paint peeled from the walls. The ceiling, discolored and stained, dipped in the middle. He sighed, looking around at what his life had become, at where he’d found himself.

  She watched him peel his bloodstained shirt from his body and toss it on the old floral-print sofa then step toward the kitchen table. There it was, the list, cryptic and coded. It was the blueprint of everything to come. It was a roadmap to murder, but more than that, it was a means of retribution, of revenge.

  Names, locations, partnerships . . . it was all there, spelled out in perfect science. Her hand rested softly on his shoulder as she came to join him. He looked at her from the corner of his eye, focusing in on the small scar near the nape of her neck. Retribution doesn’t always come without a price, it seemed.

  “Who’s next?” she asked, her words falling softly on his ears.

  “Number eight,” he answered, his chest still rising and falling in heavy breaths. It was always like this after a kill. The adrenaline, the energy . . . they stayed with him for hours, fueled by anger and frustration.

  “Just breathe.” She ran the tips of her fingers down his abdomen.

  “I’ll breathe when we’re done.” He flicked her hand away. “I’ll breathe when we’ve set things right.”

  “We’re going to do it. They’ll see.”

  “And what until then?” he snapped. “You want me to come back and sleep like a baby? No. We have a job to do. You and me. This isn’t a game. This is life and death. I won’t rest until they’ve all paid. And neither will you.”

  She stepped back, looking deep into his eyes. She loved him, yes, and she always would, but this thing was changing him. Their path seemed to get darker and darker each day. It wasn’t the victims or the murders, no . . . not at all. It was her husband, the man she loved and promised to spend the rest of her life with. It was seeing him go further and further into the darkness, each day losing another piece of himself to their quest.

  “I wasn’t suggesting that we stop,” she said, watching him remove his belt and toss it to the floor. “I was just trying to comfort you. That’s all.”

  He raised his eyes and focused in on her then stepped closer. She’d been his rock for so long. She was the person he came to when he couldn’t see his way clear of a problem. Now, though, he was blinded by emotion, blinded even to her, it seemed.

  “Comfort . . .” He sighed. “I can’t be comfortable here. We don’t belong here. You and I . . . we belong home. We belong in the life we built. Until we get it back, there is no comfort. Don’t you understand that?”

  It wasn’t the case. Not for her, anyway. She missed her home, of course. She missed her life and her friends, but she still had him. She still had the man she loved. Maybe he was right, though. Maybe that just wasn’t enough. But how long? she wondered. How long until he ran tired, until that fire within him burned out?

  “I just don’t want to lose you in all of this.” Connie stepped toward him, running her hands through his dark shaggy hair. “What good will getting it all back do if we don’t have each other?”

  “You’re not going to lose me.” He took a slow and steady breath. “But this is my plan. This is the way it has to be. You can leave now, if you want. You can give up on us. Just know that if you do, you won’t have lost me. You’ll have thrown me away. There’s a difference. Now . . . tell me what you want to do.”

  She loved him and there was nothing she could do to sway those feelings. Things were different now, though. Their lives had changed. The world had changed. But walking away . . . no, that just wasn’t an option. She’d come too far and spilled too much blood for it not to matter.

  After all, she’d set out on this path knowing where it led, knowing the price she would have to pay, and she wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, unbuttoning his jeans and slowly tracing the lines of his abdomen. “I’m here with you.”

  “Good girl.” He pressed his lips hard against hers.

  Chapter Five

  MONDAY, 11 PM

  CONNIE

  It wasn’t a bad apartment. It was just one Virginia wouldn’t have chosen. There just seemed to be something unsettling about connected balconies, especially when they were as easily accessible as the ones she looked at now. It wasn’t a safety issue, not really. After all, the woman knew how to protect herself. It was more the thought of being that close to someone you don’t know as they live the most private parts of their lives.

  People did all sorts of things once they got home. The kind of things they would do nowhere else. There’s a sense of safety a person finds once they close the doors behind them, a sense of solitude and comfort. Suddenly, all bets are off, and from that solitude calls out the truest version of who they are or they want to be.

  She stopped, watching from the window as a woman wearing a virtual reality headset danced on a stripper pole in her living room. She wasn’t traditionally attractive, nor did she possess the kind of physical attributes needed for employment in such a field. But from the look on her face as she traced her lips with her finger and slowly grinded to the bottom of the pole, Virginia knew how much that woman wished she were someone else.

  Below her and a few windows over, she watched a man cooking in his kitchen and dancing around with a glass of red wine in his hand. A bright operatic voice emitted from his widows as he spun and dipped, all the while stirring the pot of boiling liquid on his stove.

  Something told her he wasn’t a dancer nor a singer, but in that place deep inside of him, the one that only shines through when a person finds themselves home alone, he finally got to live the life he couldn’t have outside those walls. There was nothing terribly wrong with these people, and Virginia wasn’t judging them for their actions. It wasn’t that at all. It was the intimacy of the whole thing that rubbed her the wrong way. Private moments should stay private, she thought.

  She rang the buzzer next to the journalist’s last name and spoke into the microphone. “Savannah police,” she said. “I need to speak with—”

  The buzzer sounded, freeing the door lock for a moment. She gripped the handle and stepped inside. A few moments later, she found herself getting off the elevator and walking down a large and brightly lit hallway.

  “Come on in,” he said, opening the door before she had a chance to knock.

  Virginia stepped inside. The faint smell of marijuana wafted through the air and settled on her nose. She looked around. The place was bright with light blue walls and high-end fixtures. A large oak table sat near the balcony door, just off the living room. Stainless steel appliances and white cabinets made up the kitchen.

  “Nice place,” she said, scanning the room. “Who knew journalism paid so well?”

  Taylor Clarke was a few years younger than her with a wide muscular frame and dark hair. A day’s worth of stubble shadowed his face, and his hair sat in that messy but tamed look only the most attractive of guys can pull off.

  “What can I help you with . . . ?” His voice faded as he searched for a name.

  “Nixon. Detective Nixon,” she finished. “I’m here about the crime you recently witnessed.”

  “Not so much witnessed as heard.” He stepped toward a small bar. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, watching him pour himself a glass of sparkling water. “Why don’t you start by telling me what it is you heard?”

  “I’ve already told the other guy everything I know.” He took a seat on the grey leather couch.

  “And now you’re telling me.”

  “Forceful.” He smiled. “I like it.”

  “What time did you arrive at the hotel?”

  “About eight o’clock,” he answered, leaning back in his seat.

  She couldn’t help but notice the confidence he seemed to have, even in the presence of an officer. The way his strong chest presse
d hard against his shirt. He was attractive, and, though it wasn’t something she usually found herself thinking about, he still managed to catch her eye.

  “How long were you in the room before you heard anyone enter the next room?”

  “Hard to say . . .” He grinned. “I was with someone, if you get my drift.”

  Of course she got it. There was no way not to with that crooked smile across his face and that twinkle in his eye. He was almost playful in his expressions, turning his cheeks up and narrowing his eyes each time he looked at her. It was cute, but she didn’t have time for it.

  “Tell me exactly what you heard.”

  He followed up with a vague account of hearing six gunshots. Three, then three again a minute later. It was basically nothing new or even very helpful. That is, until he mentioned something she hadn’t seen in her notes. Something that might help her later.

  “Connie . . .” He looked at her. “I heard the name Connie. Someone said it a couple of times.”

  “Was it the victim?” she asked. “Were they speaking to the killer?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I only heard things. In the beginning, I thought it was a television show or something. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

  “How about—”

  “Let me ask you something . . .” Taylor interrupted. “Do you think this was an isolated case, or do you think it’s part of something bigger?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  The question took her by surprise. She had her personal theories, but she hadn’t shared them with anyone other than her superiors, and even then, it was more of a passing concern than anything real. But there was something about the way he asked his question, something that led her to believe he maybe knew more than he was letting on.

  “I really can’t speak on an open investigation,” she answered.

  “Really?” He gave a coy smile. “No theories on what might be going on? No reason the killer would have chosen those two victims among the crowds of people down in that bar?”

  “Bar . . .” She leaned in. “I thought you only heard the crime.”

  “Sometimes, I ask questions. I’m a journalist. That’s what I do.”

  Chapter Six

  MONDAY, 11:30 PM

  VIRGINIA

  She couldn’t help but feel like he was holding something back as she watched him from her car. Maybe she was wrong about those large balconies. They did, after all, give her a great vantage point of Taylor as he paced back and forth in his apartment. He’d tossed the sparkling water down the drain soon after she’d left and replaced it with what looked at be whisky, though it was hard to tell from so far away.

  She shuffled through her back seat, trying to find the binoculars she’s lost nearly two months ago and kept forgetting to replace. She was sure they were in the car, likely in that dark hole that exists between the seat and the center console. It was no use, though, and after a few minutes, she gave up. She turned back in her seat to see that he’d vanished from view.

  Virginia looked around. Had he left the building? Was he watching her from the streets? She leaned up and took a quick scan of the surrounding area but found nothing. Nearly ready to give up and drive away, she saw him pop back into view. He sat on the couch, this time typing furiously on his laptop as he continued to sip his whisky.

  She never cared much for the drink, preferring to stick to light liquor as opposed to dark. Moscow Mule was her drink of choice, though she didn’t much care for the name. Still, the mix of ginger beer, vodka, and lime made for a perfect way to bring the day to its close. That is, of course, once she’d had her last cup of coffee.

  “Ugh.” Virginia pulled the cup away from her lips and placed it in the cupholder. She hadn’t realized how long she’d spent in the young journalist’s apartment. So long that her coffee had become nearly room temperature.

  The man typed feverishly away on his laptop for the next twenty minutes until, satisfied she’d seen enough, Virginia started her car and drove away. It was nearly midnight, which for the woman meant going home to an empty apartment or heading to the shooting range. It was closed at this hour, but she’d managed to work a deal with the owner, getting herself a spare key to the place in exchange for overlooking a gambling match that seemed a little too real and a little too illegal in the state of Georgia.

  She dropped her car window, letting the cool night air rush in. Neon signs framed the towering cityscape of Savannah’s downtown. She’d seen the city grow and change so much in the years she’d spent there. Virginia hated this side of town, though, the poorer and more urban side. Crime was an everyday occurrence for its residents, the sound of gunshots something that at that point barely phased them anymore.

  On the streets lay the homeless, who were to people like Ronald Stone, the scourge of the city. He’d been elected mayor nearly two years before on a campaign of cleaning up the streets, of lessening the homeless population and demolishing old buildings that seemed to be a hotbed for things like drugs and crime.

  Virginia hadn’t seen much change, though. To her, he was nothing more than another politician trying to lie his way to the top. She couldn’t stand them, the people in power, the ones who had in the past caused her so much grief.

  She pulled her car to a stop in the small parking lot and leaned back in her seat for a moment. Virginia couldn’t seem to get him out of her head. What was it that had stayed with her for so long? Was it what he’d said? Did he know more than he was letting on or was he just a journalist who knew how to spark the interest of people? She had more questions than answers.

  “Okay,” she muttered to herself, stepping out of her Dodge Charger and heading for the door.

  She paused at the sound of footsteps behind her then pulled her gun from its holster and spun around. The parking lot was dimly lit, with only a single light near the entryway. She could barely make him out, the shadowy figure coming toward her.

  “Stop,” she said and raised her gun.

  The figure kept moving, though, shuffling toward her and mumbling something. Did he need help? Was he coming to harm her? She wrapped her finger around the trigger, gently squeezing it.

  “Stop,” she repeated.

  Still, there was nothing. No response, no change in movement, nothing. Vee lowered her head, focusing her vision. There at the top of the figure sat a puff of grey hair. It streamed down the sides of a face she couldn’t quite make out beneath the shadows of a hooded sweatshirt.

  Then a few moments later, the figure stepped into the light. It was an elderly woman. She mumbled to herself as she slowly brushed past the detective. A thick stench wafted up from her tattered robes and carried across the night air, assaulting Virginia like an arsenal. Then she passed. She hadn’t even noticed the detective, too lost in the chaos of her own mind.

  “Right . . .” Virginia muttered to herself then headed for the door.

  Taylor Clarke weighed heavily on her mind, as did the murder of the young couple. Why three shots each when one would have done the trick? Why them? Why a young and seemingly innocent pair? Did the killer know he was going to propose, and if so, why leave behind the ring? Why was there no struggle, no sign of a break-in?

  Questions spilled into her mind as she took aim of the target in the shooting range, squeezed the trigger, and fired off her first round of the night. There was a mystery here, one she would need to unravel, one perhaps bigger than anyone saw coming.

  Chapter Seven

  MONDAY, 11:30 PM

  TAYLOR

  Taylor poured himself a glass of whiskey and began pacing through his apartment. It wasn’t his nerves that caused him to do this, however. It was more of a concentration thing. A habit he’d picked up somewhere along the way in his journalism career. He just found that his mind worked better if his body was moving.

  He remembered seeing the young couple before heading up to his room. They seemed happy and ordinary enough, though that wasn’t the way he would describe them in
his article. Happy and content victims are a boring read for just about anyone. No one watches or reads the news for the good stories. People like danger, deceit, and lies. Housewives want to read about the kind of dangers they know exist but never want to deal with. Teenagers want to read about worlds that take them away from the problems of youth. It was standard practice to fluff the truth a little. So . . . he thought to himself. Maybe that girl didn’t look so happy after all.

  Had he been completely honest about everything he’d heard at the hotel? Maybe. It was just another habit of his, to try and retain a little information for himself. It was a kind of extra kick for his articles, something to add a little pizzazz.

  He thought about the detective. Virginia . . . was that her name? It was an old Southern name, one you didn’t hear much of anymore thanks to the newer generation’s penchant for naming their children after fruits and video game characters. Still, there was something nice about the way it sounded and about the old-school vibe it gave him. Not to mention, she was pretty cute, too.

  It wasn’t so much that he’d found her sexy or seductive. But . . . he had girls for that. Virginia Nixon struck him as a hodgepodge of many different things. But most of all, she was tough and no-nonsense, something Taylor struggled to find in the women he’d dated thus far. Well, that and he’d always had a thing for redheads . . .

  “Connie,” he said aloud, taking another sip of his whiskey.

  The drink reminded him of his childhood, of days spent in the Kentucky hills and hollers. The sweet darkness of the barrel-aged drink always brought him back to those places, to long nights with his friends lost in a blur of alcohol after sneaking into the town’s distillery and snatching a few bottles. He missed it even more with age.