“The lead team did, yes.” Clay shifted his weight on the bed, much to the unhappiness of its springs. “He dialed up Marty at eight this morning, same time as usual, and gave him the coordinates for the herd.”
The herd.
A shiver tripped down my spine at the familiar nickname for the Silver Stag victims.
“That’s new.” I skimmed the first page. A more in-depth read would have to wait. “The Silver Stag left his victims where they fell. He lost interest after he killed them. They ceased to exist for him.”
I had met cold eyes in the mirror every morning back then, but his had been arctic. Barren. Empty.
“The copycat is making a production of their deaths.” I reached the first picture and fully grasped how much I had changed since leaving Black Hat. “He’s arranging the bodies.” I flipped to the next. “This scene is staged.” And then the next. “He cares more about the death than the hunt.”
“That’s what our profiler says too.” Asa leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What else?”
“I’m not sure this is a copycat.” I smoothed a thumb over the last photo. “What made the director so sure?”
“We’ll have to fly to Asheville if you want to see for yourself.”
The last thing I wanted to see was another set of victims like the previous ones. Those still haunted me.
“All right.” I shut the file. “Pick me up in an hour.” I got to my feet. “I’ll read on the plane.”
Memorization was a cornerstone of teaching for witches. A dud spell often equaled a dead witch. I was a dab hand at cramming relevant information into my brain, where it lingered until my head hit the pillow.
Smoothie in hand, I exited the hotel, got in my car, and drove home.
Only when I sat in the safety of my own driveway did I check the cup for my initial.
There was no R to be found.
Now I had proof of shenanigans, but what did it mean? And why did it make me want to pay him back? With interest?