Beneath Blackwater River Leslie Wolfe (me reader txt) 📖

the table, not caring about the droplets that found their way out and landed on the shiny, lacquered surface.

That’s when he saw it.

An envelope, unsealed, propped against the TV remote, with his name in block letters handwritten on it.

He opened and read it, although his vision was blurry, the characters dancing on the sheet of paper in front of him.

You’ll never see me again.

Don’t come find me.

Although there were only two short phrases, he had to read the letter twice to get its meaning.

His woman had left him.

Him!

Thankless, ignorant, disrespectful bitch! A coward to leave him a note instead of confronting him, of telling him to his face. He would’ve showed her.

His face grew a dark shade of red, while the veins on his temples pulsated in sync with his thunderous heart, fueling his headache. Rage grew inside him until he couldn’t see straight anymore, and he looked for something to hit, but Nicole was gone, cowardly escaping the lesson she had coming. His fists landed on the wall instead, the drywall no match for his well-developed arms. The hole he punched in the wall had bloodstains on the edges, but he didn’t feel the hurt, only the fury. He rushed into the bedroom again and yanked her clothes off their hangers, stomping on them, tearing them to shreds. Then he moved on to the bedsheets, and when he was done with those, he returned to the kitchen, the dishes in the sink his next target. He sent them flying across the room, where they met the tiled wall and fell to the floor in pieces and shards.

“Aargh! That fucking whore!” he bellowed, turning on his heel, looking for more things to break. “I’ll kill her with my own two hands, that’s what I’ll do.” A crockpot flew across the room and hit the window, cracking it before it landed in the sink. “If it’s the last thing I’ll do, I’ll fucking kill that bitch.”

That’s when his phone rang, the cheerful ring tone at odds with the concert of roars and crashes.

“For fuck’s sake,” he shouted, as if the caller could hear him. He panted, out of breath, not sure if he wanted to take the call or not, not sure what to do. He’d never felt so angry in his life.

Then he saw the phone’s display, as it peeked from the jacket’s pocket. Instead of the caller’s name, a triple dollar sign appeared, which only he knew the meaning of. Swallowing his rage, he grabbed the phone and answered.

“Hello,” he said, panting hard, out of breath.

“Am I interrupting anything?” The caller’s voice was cold and stern, the man unwilling to take any of his bullshit.

Scott knew better than to do anything but get ready to take some orders. “No, sir,” he replied, barely catching his breath. “What can I do for you?”

“That new cop, Kay Sharp, I need you on her twenty-four-seven,” he said, and paused for a second, but Scott wasn’t fast enough to reply, still out of breath. “I want you on her like white on rice, you hear me?”

“Y—yes, sir,” Scott managed, “but she’s a fed, you know. Tailing a fed is dangerous. I’ve done it a couple of times, but—”

“Then don’t get caught,” the man replied with a dismissive scoff. “Get the job done. And if she gets too close, get rid of her.”

He wondered whether it was the right time to ask for more money, since he was going to work around the clock, and take a hell of a risk. “About that,” he started to say, “since she’s a fed and all, I think we should discuss a different arrangement—”

“Do you like being alive? Do you like that arrangement?” the man asked calmly, and Scott felt a chill traveling through his veins. “Then leave the thinking to me,” he added, just as calmly, with an undertone of resolve in his voice that couldn’t be misunderstood.

He ended the call before Scott dared finish his thought.

He definitely needed to ask for more money. Triple-Dollar-Sign had always paid him well.

Tailing a fed is dangerous, but killing one carries the death penalty.

32DNA

The azure of the sky had gradually turned purple, then a star-pierced, pitch black, the colors shifting quickly as they always did that time of year. A waxing crescent still lingered above the barren trees, giving the landscape residual Halloween vibes four days into November.

Kay had made good time to Redding Hospital, willfully ignoring the pain that had nested between her shoulders and was climbing up her neck in knife-like stabs. Every now and then, she ran her hand across her nape, trying to relieve the tension that was sharpening the pain jabs, absentmindedly, while her thoughts circled obsessively around Rose Harrelson and Alyssa Caldwell.

Which one of them was lying in Doc Whitmore’s morgue? Soon enough they’d both know, and that knowledge would define the course of her investigation. That knowledge would be the first solid lead she’d landed since she saw the girl’s body submerged under the falls.

For a brief moment, she found herself missing the serial killer inquiries of her past as an FBI profiler, the discipline in them, the rigor, the clear and simple procedures. Victimology. Profiling. Geography. Elliot might’ve believed that those cases felt simple for her, because she was good at doing that work, nothing else, but she liked to believe there was more, like her understanding of the criminal psyche, her ability to put herself in an unsub’s shoes and anticipate his next move. And if she could catch a serial killer, she definitely could manage collaring the unsub who’d kidnapped a three-year-old, fourteen years ago, or the one who’d slashed Alyssa’s throat beneath Blackwater River Falls.

Were they one and the same? She frowned as the thought crossed her mind. Could that be possible?

The problem with Alyssa’s murder case was simple: there were too many questions and not nearly enough answers. Rose’s kidnapping case suffered from exactly the same issue.

Strange coincidences everywhere she looked.

Kay approached the hospital driving at