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- Author: Meghan O'Flynn
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Book online «Famished by Meghan O'Flynn (most popular novels txt) 📖». Author Meghan O'Flynn
42. Saturday, December 5th
43. Sunday, December 6th
Epilogue
FREE SHORT STORY
Welcome to Ash Park
HUGE SALE!
Sneak Peek: CONVICTION
Sneak Peak: SHADOW’S KEEP
Also by Meghan O’Flynn
About the Author
For my father, who raised me lovingly—and
quite normally—and who should not be blamed
for the twisted nature of my work.
I love you, Daddy.
Always.
Focus, or she’s dead.
Petrosky ground his teeth together, but it didn’t stop the panic from swelling hot and frantic within him. After the arrest last week, this crime should have been fucking impossible.
He wished it were a copycat. He knew it wasn’t.
Anger knotted his chest as he examined the corpse that lay in the middle of the cavernous living room. Dominic Harwick’s intestines spilled onto the white marble floor as though someone had tried to run off with them. His eyes were wide, milky at the edges already, so it had been awhile since someone gutted his sorry ass and turned him into a rag doll in a three-thousand-dollar suit.
That rich prick should have been able to protect her.
Petrosky looked at the couch: luxurious, empty, cold. Last week Hannah had sat on that couch, staring at him with wide green eyes that made her seem older than her twenty-three years. She had been happy like Julie had been before she was stolen from him. He pictured Hannah as she might have been at eight years old, skirt twirling, dark hair flying, face flushed with sun, like one of the photos of Julie he kept tucked in his wallet.
They all started so innocent, so pure, so…vulnerable.
The idea that Hannah was the catalyst in the deaths of eight others, the cornerstone of some serial killer’s plan, had not occurred to him when they first met. But it had later. It did now.
Petrosky resisted the urge to kick the body and refocused on the couch. Crimson congealed along the white leather as if marking Hannah’s departure.
He wondered if the blood was hers.
The click of a doorknob caught Petrosky’s attention. He turned to see Bryant Graves, the lead FBI agent, entering the room from the garage door, followed by four other agents. Petrosky tried not to think about what might be in the garage. Instead, he watched the four men survey the living room from different angles, their movements practically choreographed.
“Damn, does everyone that girl knows get whacked?” one of the agents asked.
“Pretty much,” said another.
A plain-clothed agent stooped to inspect a chunk of scalp on the floor. Whitish-blond hair waved, tentacle-like, from the dead skin, beckoning Petrosky to touch it.
“You know this guy?” one of Graves’s cronies asked from the doorway.
“Dominic Harwick.” Petrosky nearly spat out the bastard’s name.
“No signs of forced entry, so one of them knew the killer,” Graves said.
“She knew the killer,” Petrosky said. “Obsession builds over time. This level of obsession indicates it was probably someone she knew well.”
But who?
Petrosky turned back to the floor in front of him, where words scrawled in blood had dried sickly brown in the morning light.
Ever drifting down the stream—
Lingering in the golden gleam—
Life, what is it but a dream?
Petrosky’s gut clenched. He forced himself to look at Graves. “And, Han—” Hannah. Her name caught in his throat, sharp like a razor blade. “The girl?”
“There are bloody drag marks heading out to the back shower and a pile of bloody clothes,” Graves said. “He must have cleaned her up before taking her. We’ve got the techs on it now, but they’re working the perimeter first.” Graves bent and used a pencil to lift the edge of the scalp, but it was suctioned to the floor with dried blood.
“Hair? That’s new,” said another voice. Petrosky didn’t bother to find out who had spoken. He stared at the coppery stains on the floor, his muscles twitching with anticipation. Someone could be tearing her apart as the agents roped off the room. How long did she have? He wanted to run, to find her, but he had no idea where to look.
“Bag it,” Graves said to the agent examining the scalp, then turned to Petrosky. “It’s all been connected from the beginning. Either Hannah Montgomery was his target all along, or she’s just another random victim. I think the fact that she isn’t filleted on the floor like the others points to her being the goal, not an extra.”
“He’s got something special planned for her,” Petrosky whispered. He hung his head, hoping it wasn’t already too late.
If it was, it was all his fault.
The killer looked at the ceiling, listening for the call of a night bird, a cricket, a barking dog. But the cemetery was silent, save for the moaning of the wind and the whispering rustle of leaves outside. These were the noises of the dead.
The one-family mausoleum was made of thick white bricks turned gray with age and reinforced with mortar and stone. The walls were a barrier against the outside sounds of gunshots and throbbing bass lines emanating from cars with rims larger than their wheels.
The walls also muffled
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