Till Death(86)

“But there would’ve been evidence of another person. No matter how careful someone is, they always leave trace evidence behind. Hair. Skin cells. Fingerprints,” he explained. “There had to have been something.”

I considered that as I took a much smaller sip of wine. “How hard did they look for additional evidence?”

He opened his mouth.

“Evidence of there being another person? They never suspected that and I . . . I never gave them any real concrete evidence seriously suggesting it.” His eyes came back to mine. “And they thought they got him. What do you think they did?”

Lifting his hand, he thrust his fingers through his hair and then clasped the back of his neck. “I wasn’t a part of that investigation. Because of our relationship, I was out.”

I glanced down at my wine.

“They probably bagged everything they could and then they would’ve filed it after combing through it,” he said. “They would’ve scanned for fingerprints, but nothing is a hundred percent. They were probably looking for prints to match the victims, but I would think they’d come across something.”

“None of that means it’s impossible.”

Cole was quiet while I took a huge gulp of the wine, wincing at the slight bitterness. “No. It’s not impossible.”

I lowered my glass to the table as I lifted my gaze to his. “What if it is the case? What if there were two of them, and I never realized that?”

His gaze sharpened as it shot back to mine. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Put the blame on yourself.”

“I’m—”

“Yeah, you are. You’re thinking that you missed something and if you had figured it out, you would’ve been able to warn the agents. There was nothing you could’ve done, Sasha. And you don’t even really know if there were two men.” He curled his hand around my neck and forced my gaze to him. “Don’t put that kind of guilt on yourself.”

Biting my lip, I nodded the best I could with his hand on my neck.

“I’m serious, babe. I know what that kind of guilt does. Fucking eats you alive,” he said in a low voice. “You have no idea how many times I lay awake at night asking myself what if I’d just walked you to the car—”

“No. We talked about that.” I placed my hands on his chest. “There was nothing you . . .” Trailing off, I sighed heavily. “I see what you did there. You can’t blame yourself. I can’t blame myself.”

His eyes softened. “No, you can’t.”

“Neither can you,” I whispered.

He brought his forehead to mine. “That will always be a work in progress no matter what.”

I closed my eyes. “I hate hearing that.”

“I hate knowing that you’ve got to go through this shit again.”

Sliding my hand to his shoulder, I tugged on him. He came, wrapping an arm around me and gathering me close. “It’s just not me who’s going through this again.”

“You’re all that matters,” he replied, his lips brushing my cheek.

I turned my head, unable to shake the questions Striker had raised. “If Striker is right, you know what that means.”

Cole didn’t respond, but his arm tightened around me.

“He’s probably been around this whole time. Living here. Interacting with people and . . .” Something occurred to me. “But there haven’t been any murders, have there?” I pulled back. “Before the woman in Frederick disappeared?”

“There’ve been murders, but nothing like this. Nothing unsolved.”

I rose, picking up my wine glass. “Here’s the thing. If this is a copycat or someone who was working with the Groom before, they either haven’t been abducting women for ten years or they’ve done a damn good job at hiding it until now.”

“Until you came back,” he said, scooting back to the edge of the couch. “So this person knew you were coming back or the Frederick abduction is a coincidence.”

“Either way, I doubt someone just up and decides to copycat a serial killer, right?”

“I don’t think there’s really a playbook on that, but I can check the NCIC—it’s a database that tracks crimes,” he explained. “See if there’s been any suspicious murders or kidnappings that have been reported in the tristate area.”

Placing my wine glass on the counter, I stood there, running my palms over the edge of the counter. Being told I shouldn’t feel guilty was totally different than actually feeling that way. Truth was, my return had tripped something. Either ignited a murderous rampage or exposed it.

“I want to run something by you,” Cole said, and when I looked over, he was standing by the coffee table. “How about you stay with me for a couple of days.”

I faced him. “Cole—”

“I know it’s hard with the inn, but I would just feel better if you were at my place. There aren’t a hundred different points of entry, the possibility that someone could sneak in there during the day and wait until everyone is asleep. I don’t have to worry about someone losing a key and this fucker picking it up and getting in here,” he said, and I shivered. “Nor do I have to worry about some asshole showing up and scaring you, like Currie and Striker. You’ll be safer at my place.”