Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 66839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“Well, let’s put work and gossip aside for a second.” I turned to Harry, looking into the warm eyes of my best friend for over a decade. A man who had held feelings for me that I’d never been aware of. His gaze subtly dropped to my lips before climbing back up to my eyes. He smiled, crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. He knew the spotlight was turning to him, and suddenly I was nervous.
I recognized that light in his honey-gold-colored eyes. There was a sparkle there, even though he gnawed on the inside of his bottom lip, clearly nervous about whatever he was going to say.
Was this it? The moment everything came up to the surface? What would I say? The truth, clearly, but the truth held the potential of causing excruciating pain.
“I meant to bring this up earlier, like, way earlier. I would have told you guys over the phone, I really would have, because I was just getting so desperate for you both to know already. It’s something I’ve been keeping way too close to my chest for way too long.”
He looked at me, and my heart started to race. I couldn’t act like I knew or like Jason had told me just the night before. I had to remain neutral.
Sirens blared through the diner as a cop car raced down the street, the red and blue lights bouncing off the aluminum of the walls and ceiling. Harry spoke louder to compensate. “And please, when I say it, don’t get upset or treat me different, okay?”
Upset? Why would we be upset?
I shook my head. More sirens drowned out whatever Harry said next. Six cop cars by my count. I shot Jason a look. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his shoulders tensed. Mostly all micromovements that told me he was feeling exactly what I was.
Our phones buzzed simultaneously, the vibrations making them clatter on the table. I grabbed mine, and Jace grabbed his, but I already knew what I’d be reading. The timing of the sirens and racing police cars was an ominous foreshadowing of the words that popped up on my screen. A message from the sheriff, short and to the point.
“There’s been another Pegasus murder,” Jason said, and then he stood up, clearly shocked. “Holy shit.”
I reached the part that made Jace shoot up from the booth.
“Fuck,” I said, getting up with him the moment I read the familiar victim’s name on my screen.
15
JASON QUILL
Matthew and I raced to the yellow crime tape–covered scene, following in the wake of the speeding police cars. Neither of us spoke as Matt weaved through cars, the idyllic small town blurring past with its quiet houses and friendly people, all of them none the wiser to the horror we were about to face. I wanted to keep it that way. I didn’t want anyone else in this town suffering under the terror and pain the Pegasus was causing. It made my blood boil. My fingers dug into my thighs as I squeezed, the frustration and anger manifesting themselves into a physical force.
We pulled up to the house—Sammy Sanders’s house—as police crawled around the property like a swarm of blue-clothed ants. Neighbors were gathered on nearby porches, holding hands to their chests and wiping tears from their eyes. The shock of seeing all this police activity would be enough to upset most people, but what made it worse was that everyone knew the cause. It wasn’t an isolated incident or a random accident; this was all because of a bloodthirsty serial killer who was still on the loose and who was likely already hunting their next victim.
Sheriff Mosley came up to us first, spotting us the moment we stepped out of the car. “Agent Hale, Detective Quill, thank you both for coming so quickly.”
“Of course. What happened here?” Matthew asked. His tone meant business as his hawk-like gaze scanned the area.
“The Pegasus. It was called in by Sammy’s roommate. He found her in the living room.”
“Marco Rojas?” I asked.
“That’s the one.”
We started to walk toward the house, ducking under the yellow crime tape billowing in the wind. “Did he have an alibi for the last few hours?” I asked.
“We’re working on getting that now,” the sheriff answered. She handed us protective covers to slip over our shoes. “He was really shaken when we got here. Hasn’t barely spoken a single word.”
Sheriff Mosley led us into the house. Even with the windows open and a breeze swirling through, I could still smell it: death.
Rotten. Gutted. Putrid and suffocating. I wasn’t sure exactly what happened—whether it was the pheromones released from unadulterated terror or the crusting blood soaked into the carpet or a mixture of all of it and more—but the stench smacked into me, as if I’d walked through a physical barrier. No matter how many crime scenes I had to see, there was no getting used to the smell.