Legacy (Sociopath Series Book 2)(30)

Case in point: we have a lot less to go on with Blood Honey’s newest victim, but my God, are we milking the f*ck out of it. It’s not even ten a.m. and we’ve already got crackpot psychologist back on to speculate.

Speculate. Ah. It’s one of my favorite words, partly because it reminds me of speculums, and partly because it makes me a f*ckload of money. Oh, I need to think of the money right now since Posner’s cryptic little suggestion that I stay away from this—or else—has been playing on my mind; just sitting there, smiling sweetly when I stare at it, poking when I turn away, like that child at the back of the classroom who turns into an evil f*cker when he grows up.

“What’s interesting this time is the choice of victim,” Crackpot Psychologist drones onscreen. “First, we had Macy Ann Green. Mid-forties. Single mother, two sons. Then there was Jamie Perkins—fifteen years old. She was on her yearbook committee and played volleyball for her school squad. These women weren’t troubled; we don’t know how he knew them and we don’t know how he got to them, but what I can say in a professional capacity is that they’d have been a challenge, and that’s significant. Then we come to number three.” Dramatic pause. Thank you, Lore Corp media training. “Preliminary reports are suggesting she was a prostitute. That’s standard fair for your average killer—”

Kasha, our newscaster, puts up a hand in surprise. “Wait—can we just clarify that, please? There’s an average killer?”

He looks amused. Straightens his bow tie. Here is a man who’s enough of a hipster dickwad to be wearing a bow tie on a Thursday. “In my profession, yes. Absolutely. Most of the serial killers we see seek convenient targets. Prostitutes, homeless people, troubled souls…that’s why you won’t hear about them. It’s painful to say it, but these simply aren’t remarkable deaths. Blood Honey was looking pretty special in this regard because he picked challenging targets, possibly deliberately…and yet he’s changed this one up. It hints at desperation. Perhaps he’s losing some of his iron control.”

“Unless he chose a prostitute for a reason,” Kasha suggests.

“Possibly. Possibly.”

“And of course now we hear they’re considering the idea that this could be the work of more than one person.”

He shoots her an incredulous frown. “Since the timeframe between Miss Perkins’ death and victim number three isn’t clear?”

“I believe so.”

“A team would be very unlikely. We’re just going to have to wait for the press conference this afternoon and hope they have a ballpark time of death for number three. If you want my guess, I’m thinking he panicked. He didn’t wait as long as before, and he didn’t take the time to groom a specific victim. This is also significant. Blood Honey is a meticulous and controlling individual, as evidenced by his…handiwork. And the apparent lack of evidence he leaves at his crime scenes—we can’t forget that. But something got under his skin this time.”

Kasha gives a resolute nod. “It makes you wonder whether the police know more about him than they’re letting on.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

Oh, they f*cking know.

Fucking Posner. Rainbows and cupcakes? Do these words have another frequency that only *s can hear?

Fucking Agent Chen. I had Harvey keep an eye on him the entire time he was in the building, but he was in and out like a cheap john. Three of my forensic analysts are going over the footage he requested as we speak, trying to identify any familiar faces or foul play; if he won’t tell us why he wants a clip that just happens to feature me and my brother, I’ll find out for myself. I don’t believe in coincidence. Coincidence is for sloppy optimists and bad liars.

Maybe that will mash the weird slither in my veins to pulp. I suspect they call this panic. Anger, I’m good with; panic, not so much. It tugs at my most base impulses, the exact kind Dr. Crackpot would have some choice words for, I’m sure. Aeron Lore is a meticulous and controlling individual. Come on, man—you’re meant to be a goddamn professional. The only reason a guy clings to control is the same reason he clings to anything: he’s right on the edge.

The edge is getting pretty damn slippery. Maybe Blood Honey fell off.

What I’d really like to do right about now is close my eyes and think some more about speculums. They’re my happy place. But instead, I have Gwen to deal with, because Leo hired me a f*cking assistant.

“Fliss.” I sigh heavily, pressing the intercom button hard. “Send her in.”

“Of course, Mr. Lore.”

Just once, I wish Fliss would pull a Tuij and bark, what, do I look like your f*cking slave? A man needs a little banter to break up the working day, especially when his canvas of choice is too busy running her own arm of the company for a quick violation of sexual harassment policy. But no. Fliss is a Yes Girl, through and through.

A beat later, Gwen strides into the office in all her latent-superiority-complex Cleopatra glory—some of which I’ve hopefully broken down by making her wait outside for two and a half hours.

What? I had shit to do.

I gesture to the seat in front of my desk while making a show of flicking through the background check she left for me.

“Camden tells me you were here until gone eleven last night, putting this together,” I say.