Code Name: Grace (Jameson Force Security 6.5)

Plus, before he fell into a criminal life of lifting precious items, he spent time in the Marine Corps, so he’s also handy with a gun and has other specialized skills.

Whatever the two men are discussing, their conversation ends with laughter and a handshake. I observe this only because all the offices on the second floor are made of glass, including mine, which sits just opposite Kynan’s on the cavernous second floor.

Saint exits, smiling at me. “Dr. Ellery. Looking fab today.”

“How’s that pregnant wife of yours?” I ask as we move past each other.

“She’s gloriously beautiful, as always.” He shoots me a roguish grin, and I can’t help but sigh a little in romantic jealousy. Sin, his wife, hit the jackpot with him.

Turning to Kynan’s office, I see him staring at me from behind his desk. He waves his hand, indicating I should come in. I do, shutting the door behind me.

Kynan has the largest office, and both his guest chairs are comfortable. I sink into the closest, crossing one leg over the other. While most folks who work here dress casually on any given day, I always wear a skirt and blouse or a dress. It’s not that I feel the need to look professional—I just like being girlie.

“So what’s up?” he asks, settling back in his chair.

“I need to take some time off,” I reply.

“It’s the Christmas holidays,” he points out succinctly in his crisp British accent. “We’re closed tomorrow—Christmas Eve—and not opening until next Monday.”

“I might need more than that, but I’m not sure. Just wanting to give you a heads-up.”

Because this could take some time, given how stubborn I know Clay to be.

“Are you okay?” he asks. He leans forward, obvious concern in his expression.

“No.”

Kynan blinks, and his eyes harden a bit. Not because he’s offended by my answer, but because he’s offended by whoever has caused me not to be okay. “Talk to me,” he demands.

Instead, I ask him a question. “When you hired me, did you do a deep background check?”

I get an instantaneous shake of his head. “Just your references and a criminal record check. I didn’t think I needed to do more since you were so highly recommended. Is there something I should be worried about?”

Now I shake mine. “No, not like you’re thinking.”

Kynan waits me out. A patient man, he doesn’t need a lot of words. Besides, I’m the one who has a story to tell.

“My parents are dead,” I say, figuring that’s the most appropriate place to start.

His surprise is given away by a slight jerk of his chin. “You said you went to visit them in Atlanta at Thanksgiving.”

Nodding, I give him an apologetic smile. “I did. I visit their graves every Thanksgiving.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning forward to clasp his hands on his desk. “I’m really sorry, Corinne.”

I hold up a hand, indicating it’s not his fault he didn’t know. Softly, I ask another question. “Have you ever heard of the Salt Slasher?”

Kynan’s eyes cloud with worry, and he slowly shakes his head.

“He was a serial killer in Atlanta. He had about a five-year spree of terrorizing the city, but he only killed once a year… on Thanksgiving, so it was extremely hard for law enforcement to gather tangible information to lead to his capture.”

“When was this?” he asks.

“His first murder was sixteen years ago,” I reply. Only fifteen at the time, I had a vague memory of hearing about it. Obviously, my parents had been worried. But at fifteen, I’d been interested in boys and Friday night football games, not murders.

Kynan leans a little to the left, pulling a drawer open. From within, he pulls out a pint flask and two paper cups. Quietly, he unscrews the cap and pours an inch of brown liquid into each. It’s quaint and charming, and I appreciate the drink he hands me. He knows this story isn’t going anywhere good.

I accept the cup, bring it to my lips, and shoot it down. After he swallows his own, he says, “I was still in England at the time.”

“It was national news, but it only came up once a year and was quickly forgotten again. At any rate, the killer targeted married couples. He’d stalk them for weeks ahead of time to learn their routines, sometimes stealing keys and security codes, always patiently waiting until he felt he could sneak in and do his dirty work undisturbed.”

“And what exactly was his dirty work?” Kynan asks, his voice slightly hoarse, and I realize I don’t think I’ve ever seen this man more uncomfortable in my entire time working here.

It’s amazing how time can numb certain things, and I find myself able to relate the gruesome details to my boss without so much as blinking an eye.

“His modus operandi was always the same. He’d slash his victims’ throats while they slept in their bed. Always starting with the man, then moving to the woman. It was so quick, so violent, and so very silent because he cut their throats, and the victims never knew what had happened. After they were dead, he would pour salt into their throat wounds, and that’s how he became known at The Salt Slasher.”