The Butcher and the Wren(50)

“Yeah, I can see someone remembering that about him,” she says quietly, eyeing Richard at the table, who is listening with concern.

Leroux continues, “I’ll follow up with him and see if we can get a positive ID for Jeremy Rose.”

He clears his throat, his voice hoarse.

“I’ll put together an affidavit to bring before a judge after we get an address for the Rose property. We have to try to get to him as soon as possible because he will likely try to run. The news is running a bunch of shit, and he no doubt knows he fucked up now.”

“I’m coming down there. I want to go with you once you get the warrants.”

Leroux scoffs. “Wren, no. This is too much. You have done enough already. Without you, I wouldn’t have as much on this creep as I do. You kicked this all into gear. You deserve to take a step back.”

“I appreciate that, John. I do. But I’m coming. How are you so sure there aren’t going to be more bodies on his property? We still have a few open missing persons cases, and I wouldn’t be shocked to find them rotting out there in his swamp. A medical examiner should be there.”

“Wren …”

She interrupts, “And besides, if he tries to run or is hiding, seeing me may draw him out. After all, he made a lot of effort to get my attention. Why would he hide from me now?”

Leroux sighs. “I’m not using you as bait, Wren.”

“I know. I just need to be there. Let me be there,” she pleads.

There is silence again on the other line. After a whispered curse, he concedes.

“You’re a big girl. I can’t stop you from going when you have a valid reason to. Meet me at the station. Broussard just got here, so I’m going for the warrants now.”

“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

She hangs up the phone and looks back at Richard. His kind face is twisted with concern.

“I don’t want you to go,” he says forcefully.

She knows his fears are valid. If the situation were reversed, she wouldn’t want him running into this situation either.

“Richard, I know this is scary,” she begins, crossing the kitchen to sit next to him in a chair.

“It’s not scary, Wren. It’s horrifying. And so dangerous! This guy tried to kill you. He tried to end your life, and he waited years to come out of hiding just to lure you to him,” he exclaims, breathless. “Now you want to walk right into his house? That’s insane. It’s insane, and I can’t let you do it!” Richard’s voice breaks. He claps a hand over his mouth and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I won’t.”

“I know. I know. But I’ll be surrounded by law enforcement. John and Will, and a bunch of other armed officers, will be there. You can trust them to keep me safe, and I won’t do anything to put myself in danger.”

“More danger, you mean.”

“I will come home to you. I promise. I just. I have to close this out. I have to see him taken away in handcuffs, or I’ll never sleep again. Please try to understand this.”

She is on the verge of tears, the physical exhaustion and emotional toll starting to wear down at the strong walls she works so hard to keep standing. Richard looks down, collecting himself for a second before looking back up again. His eyes blink rapidly, holding in his own tears. His eyes are red-rimmed and fearful. He grabs her hands.

“Come home to me,” he pleads.

She squeezes his hands back, leaning her head so her forehead is against his.

“I promise.”





CHAPTER 33





JEREMY SPINS THE ANTIQUE RING between his fingers.

As he walks through his home, he slows his breath and attempts to cultivate some calm. This beautiful, decrepit farmhouse has been an extension of him throughout his entire life. He grew up here, learned lessons here, and now he hunts here.

He chuckles to himself, dropping the ring into his pocket as he runs his hand down an intricately carved doorframe. For a second, he can’t believe everything is about to change, that the carefully constructed structure he exists within will be forced to shift. He can feel something ignite inside of himself. Like a power surge, he instinctively punches the same wooden frame he had been caressing. He sees red, first from his newly cracked and bleeding knuckles. They throb as the broken skin pulls apart with each flex of his fingers. He lazily smears it on the white doorframe, dragging his fingertips in it as blood droplets crash to the floor below him. He blinks several times, but the red remains. It’s everywhere. His greatest failure will force him from this sanctuary, and he’s never felt anger like this.

She’ll pay.

He stalks into the living room at the front of the house and feels positively intoxicated with rage. He finds an antique crystal vase in his hand, turns it over, and feels like if he squeezed it hard enough, it would turn to dust in his palm. The blood from his knuckles smudges onto the green-tinted glass, and before it can slip through his grip he throws it against the wall in front of him, letting a guttural growl escape his lips as he does. It shatters into a beautiful, dangerous rain. A mosaic of glass bounces to the ground around his feet.

Jeremy pauses, looking down at the shards of glass as the light dances around, reflecting off his chaos and creating a prism effect. He stands there, panting. Rarely has he known such animalistic rage. He takes a long breath in, using his unbloodied hand to carefully move a strand of blond hair from his forehead and tuck it back into place. He makes his way to the kitchen and carefully turns his hand over to examine his tattered knuckles. He creaks on the sink and begins to wash away the evidence of his lonely outburst. As the blood changes from red to pink, mixing with the water swirling into the steel sink below, he gazes out the window into the stretch of bayou that seems to touch the other side of the Earth. After what could be a minute or an hour, he dries his hands, wrapping the three damaged knuckles in medical tape and flexing his fingers for comfort.