Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
By the time I reach Jordan’s street, it’s empty and still, the kind of quiet you only get on a Sunday morning when everyone’s either at church or still in bed.
I park across the street and then make the perimeter check, slow and careful, scanning for cameras. Nothing visible.
At the side gate, I slip the latch and step into the narrow strip of yard. The air smells faintly of cut grass and engine oil. A quick glance through the kitchen window confirms the place is empty.
The lock is old and unremarkable. Two minutes and a little patience is all it takes before the mechanism clicks open beneath my pick. I close the door behind me and pause, listening. No hum of a fridge motor kicking on, no creak of floorboards—only the steady tick of a wall clock somewhere else in the house.
I start in the kitchen. Drawers. Cabinets. Trash. Nothing unusual. I pull open the refrigerator door, bracing myself for something I really don’t want to see. The light flickers on. Milk, condiments, and a half-eaten rotisserie chicken.
No blood. No hacked-off limbs wrapped in butcher paper. No horrors lurking in Tupperware. Just food. Normal food.
Still, my skin crawls as I shut the door again.
I head down the basement stairs, the wooden steps creaking.
Everything creepy happens in a basement, right?
Down here it smells like damp concrete and old cardboard. I scan the corners, behind the water heater, even inside a few storage bins. Dust, cobwebs, and junk, but nothing that screams Dahmer. At least, not today.
I’m actually relieved.
I go back upstairs and search room to room. I’m methodical—closet shelves, desk drawers, under the bed. Plenty of clutter, but no smoking gun.
The real treasure is in his office. A corner desk with a dust-coated printer, a stack of unopened mail, and a laptop that looks like it’s been used hard. I open it, half expecting a password prompt, but the desktop flickers to life instantly.
Sloppy. Doesn’t everyone use a password these days?
But his stupidity works in my favor. I begin clicking the keys
His search history isn’t anything unique—social media pages, a bank, a few shops…and of course porn, some of it vanilla, some of it rougher. Most of the women in the porn are blondes with fair complexions. Nothing that screams obsession with Daniela.
I scroll further back. The same patterns repeat. No searches for her name. No photos of her. No bookmarks pointing to her social media.
Frustration edges into my ribs. This was supposed to confirm my suspicions—or at least point me in the right direction.
Damn.
I was sure I had the right man.
I go into his bank accounts—his passwords are saved in his browser, and he doesn’t have his computer locked, dumbass—looking for evidence that he purchased the flowers for Daniela.
Within seconds, I’m scrolling through his transactions, my pulse ticking up with each click. Groceries. Gas. A few restaurant charges—cheap diners, nothing that matches the tone of a romantic gesture. No florist. No delivery service. Not even a suspicious PayPal note that could hide the truth.
Either Jordan’s clean…or he’s smarter than I gave him credit for.
I scroll further back, months of mundane spending blurring together. Nothing. Not even a whiff of cash withdrawals timed to coincide with the day Daniela got the bouquet.
Frustration coils tight in my chest.
I glance at the clock. He’ll be back from church soon. No time to dive in any further. If the flowers didn’t come from him, then who the hell sent them? And why do I still feel like his hands are dirty in all this?
I close the tabs, wipe away any trace of my presence with my bandana.
My mind is already spinning, building the next move.
Jordan may not be guilty of this. But that doesn’t mean he’s innocent.
He sure as hell looks at Daniela like he wants to eat her for lunch.
What am I missing?
I leave quickly out the back way, looking for anyone who might be aware of my presence. If anyone stops me, I’ll tell them I’m with the cable company and looking for access to the boxes in the neighborhood.
But no one is around, and no one asks me anything.
I’m still not convinced Jordan is wholly innocent. Is he a good churchgoing young man who plays in a praise band and knows way too much about pipe organs?
Or is that all just an elaborate ruse to hide his true nature?
Could be either.
But I don’t have any evidence, so it’s time to look somewhere else.
Hernando Reyes.
The next likely suspect.
26
DANIELA
Sunlight cuts through the blinds.
I turn away from it, groaning, and reach for my phone. The numbers on the screen jolt me upright.
Eleven a.m.
No. That can’t be right. I never sleep in like this. My body is heavy, sluggish, like I’ve been swimming through molasses all night. The truth is, I can’t even remember falling asleep.