Dead Giveaway
Author
Nichole Severn
Reads
17.0K
Chapters
20
Chapter One
Her keys cut into the palm of her hand.
Genevieve Alexander couldn’t move, couldn’t think. She hadn’t gotten more than two steps into the house before her instincts had warned her to run. The backs of her knees shook as she took in the blood. Shadows distorted the face of the victim, but she didn’t need the lights on to identify the woman staring back at her. The killer’s MO was already familiar, but crime scene photos were nothing compared to the real thing.
The Contractor.
It was impossible. The killer she’d prosecuted for stringing his victims from their own ceilings like marionettes had been sentenced to life behind bars without parole. This... This was something else. This was her home.
But the holes the medical examiner would find in each joint of the victim’s body weren’t the worst part. Posed with the help of industrial-strength fishing line and steel eyelet screws, the woman stood there as though she’d simply been waiting for Genevieve to come home from work.
Because she had been. Waiting.
Reality pierced through paralyzing confusion and fear. Unpocketing her phone, she stumbled away from the scene in her once pristine living room. She couldn’t contaminate the scene.
She collided with a wall of muscle.
Her scream cut short as a gloved hand clamped over her mouth.
“Hello, Genevieve.” The unfamiliar voice grated against every cell in her body as he hauled her back into his chest. “Do you like my gift? I made her for you.”
She struggled against the grip around her face and midsection. Head craned back, she couldn’t see more than the blood spatter across her ceiling, and panic infused her nervous system. She clutched her phone, stretching her thumb across the screen to dial 9-1-1, but the man at her back was so much stronger, so much bigger. A hit of spiced cologne burned the back of her throat.
He pressed his mouth against her ear. “Drop the phone. I wouldn’t want anyone disturbing us until I’m ready.”
Genevieve shook her head. No. It was her only lifeline. Her only guarantee she didn’t end up like the victim on the other side of the room. Tears burned in her eyes. Pain lightninged through her lower back, and she arched against her attacker. Her protest died in his hand.
“You always try to control the situation on your terms. That’s what makes you such a good district attorney, but the only way you’re going to get through this tonight is if you do exactly as I say.” A prick of pain centered over her throat. A blade? “Understand?”
She tapped her thumb against the screen, unsure if she’d hit the right buttons. She loosened her grip around the device. The hard thunk of metal meeting hardwood was as loud as the final nail in her own coffin. Had the call gone through? Her hair tugged at the base of her skull as she tried to lift her head, but he held her secure.
“Good. Now, I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth. If you scream, you die. If you attempt to escape or overpower me, you die,” he said. “Any questions?”
Genevieve shook her head. She had to play along, had to do whatever it took to survive. Her exhales warmed the skin around her mouth as he peeled his gloved grip from her face. Closing her eyes, she recalled the layout of the house, where she’d stashed the gun she’d received as an engagement gift all those years ago. Her gaze settled on the brick fireplace a mere three feet from the victim, the one she’d taped her weapon inside. Had he searched the house? Had he already found it? Only one way to find out. “What do you want?”
“To give you one last chance to prove yourself.” Her attacker smoothed her hair over her shoulder. Too close. Her gut revolted at his touch, but she’d have to buy her time before making her move. “Ms. Johnson here was nice enough to keep me company while I waited for you to come home. Unfortunately, she couldn’t talk much after I drilled the first hole in her knee. I always pegged her for a better conversationalist, but now I know better.”
Elisa Johnson? The contours of her assistant’s features sharpened against the shadows threatening to consume her, and Genevieve’s heart squeezed in her chest. Fire-red hair clung to the curves of an oval face and interrupted the flawless outline of full lips. Pale skin had lightened in the wash of moonlight, but it was her eyes that demanded attention. Impossibly green and empty. Her knees weakened, but the solid mass at her back refused to let her fall. She tried to process his last words, but escape had overridden any sense of logic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean you’re giving me a chance to prove myself? I don’t know you.”
“But I know you, Genevieve. Did you think the Contractor would be so easy to apprehend? That I’d let some random amateur with a grudge tarnish my name like that?” A growl vibrated through his chest and straight into her. “I’ve spent a year building my reputation, and one case with all the answers you’re looking for comes along, and you just roll over. Is that what it’s come to these days? You’re supposed to make sense of the evidence. Not make it fit your personal agenda, Counselor.”
Thousands of crime scene photos, half a dozen incident reports, countless witness interviews and investigation reports filed through her mind in less time than it took for her to take her next breath. “You’re...you’re lying. We have the right man. He confessed.”
“Everyone wants to be known for something, don’t they?” he asked. “Isn’t that why you became district attorney? Isn’t that why you bury yourself in your work during your sixteen-hour days, why you handle all of your cases personally and try to fill that missing piece you’ve been living with for so long?”
He’d studied her. Stalked her. Learned about her.
The blade dug into her skin as he maneuvered her back into the living room, but Genevieve wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Her heels scraped against the hardwood floor. His grip slid to the nape of her neck, forcing her to confront the victim. Genevieve closed her eyes, but there was no erasing the images left behind.
“Look at her, Genevieve.” He shook her hard enough to make her back teeth hit together. Leaning in, he leveled his gaze in her peripheral vision, but it was still too dark to make out anything significant. “Elisa Johnson is dead because you disappointed me. Out of everyone who worked that investigation, I expected you to see the lies, but maybe I’ve given you too much credit. Don’t worry. I’m going to give you one more chance to become the opponent I deserve.”
Once more chance? Genevieve forced herself to take a deep breath. Her attention cut to the fireplace. Her heart threatened to beat straight out of her chest. She had one shot to make it out of this alive. She wasn’t going to fail. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to hurt anyone else.”
“Sure, I do. Otherwise, what’s the point?” he asked.
Sirens echoed through the large living room, growing closer. Red and blue patrol lights cut through her sheer curtains and sped around the room. Relief and panic combined in a twisted tornado of emotion. She couldn’t let him get away. She couldn’t let him do this to someone else.
“Seems our time together has come to an end, Genevieve, but I know we’ll meet again.” The grip at the back of her neck lightened, the pain in her back subsiding. “I promised to give you one more chance, and I’m a man of my word. Show me I didn’t make a mistake when I chose you.”
Genevieve ignored the bite of pain at her throat as she lunged for the fireplace. The corner of the brick crushed the air from her lungs, but she shot her hand up into the chimney and ripped the gun she’d duct-taped there free. Spinning to confront the killer, she took aim at an empty room. Her breath sawed in and out of her chest. Sweat built in her hairline as shouts penetrated the bubble of fear in her chest. She heard the front door slam against the wall behind it, and in a split second, flashlight beams centered on her. Then the body.
“Drop the weapon! Interlace your hands behind your head!” An officer closed in on her, then slowed. Disbelief hitched his voice an octave higher. “Ms. Alexander, put the gun on the floor, turn around and interlace your hands behind your head. Now.”
“He was here.” Her fingers shook as the past few minutes replayed in her head. She tried to keep her voice even despite the storm churning inside. He’d said he’d chosen her, that he wanted her to prove herself. What did that mean? What did Elise Johnson have to do with any of it? She released her grip on the weapon, catching the trigger cage around her index finger and slowly placed her gun on the floor. “He was here.”
But he’d be long gone by now. Most likely through the trees surrounding the back half of her property, and he’d left Elise behind to remind her of her failure to bring him down. They hadn’t been able to connect the Contractor’s victims, but he’d chosen her assistant for a reason.
Because of her.
An officer collected her weapon from the floor while another maneuvered behind her. Wrenching her arms at her lower back, he secured both wrists into cuffs. The ratcheting of metal seemed louder in that moment. Two others arced their flashlights over the victim’s face, her hands, clothing and legs. They took in the bloody screws installed at each of the body’s joints. The drill holes would measure out to be caused by a 5/16 drill bit once the medical examiner had a chance to do the autopsy. Just like the others.
Only that wasn’t true. Air caught in her throat. She hadn’t seen it before now, she’d been too caught up in the investigation at the time. The last victim, the one they’d connected back to the man they believed to be the Contractor. Corey Singleton. He’d used a 3/8 drill bit.
He hadn’t been the Contractor at all.
He’d been the copycat.
“What the hell is that?” one of the uniforms asked.
Her attention slid to the woman at her side, strung up for all to see. The answer to his question settled at the front of her mind. Her voice deadpanned as she realized the outfit she’d carefully chosen this morning before heading into the office had been stained with the victim’s blood. She rose to her feet at the officer’s cue, the world clearer than it’d ever been before. Her mouth dried as she considered the implications of what’d just happened. “My punishment.”
“ACCORDING TO ALAMOSA POLICE, a suspect in the death of Elisa Johnson’s horrific murder has been arrested and is in custody for questioning. District Attorney Genevieve Alexander was found at her home, holding a gun at police as they responded to the 9-1-1 call from Alexander’s cell phone. Upon arrival, police discovered the mutilated body of Johnson and blood matching the victim’s DNA on the DA’s clothing.”
Genevieve.
Easton Ford twisted toward the television. He lunged for the remote, knocking it to the floor in the too-small cabin, and hit the volume button. The news anchor went on to warn viewers and small children before plastering photos from the crime scene across the screen. Hell. The positioning of the body, the amount of blood left behind... He’d seen the worst in people stationed overseas—survived the worst—but this was different. This was sociopathic. B-roll video of Alamosa PD’s main suspect answering questions outside the courthouse replaced the horrific images of the scene.
A surge of familiarity knotted in his gut. Wavy dark brown hair, wide almond-shaped eyes and flawless skin triggered his protective instincts as he watched Genevieve in her element in front of the camera. The deep red blouse and black skirt clung to her lean frame like a second skin, but it was the honesty and brightness in her eyes that compelled him to take a step forward. The numbers in the corner of the screen dated the video a couple months old, but, even after all this time, she hadn’t changed much at all. How long had it been? Fifteen years? More? He’d been a silly kid in love with his high school sweetheart, ready to take on the world for her.
Before the world had taught him happily-ever-afters didn’t exist.
Not for him.
Three knocks punctured through the focused haze he had on the TV, and he hit the power button. It’d been months since he’d picked up a weapon, but his instincts automatically had him wanting to reach for the safe under his bed. He was being paranoid. The only people who dared to knock on his door out here in the middle of nowhere were his mother and the pain-in-the-ass police chief of Battle Mountain. His brother.
A growl of irritation built in his chest. As the most recent volunteer reserve officer for Battle Mountain PD, he’d taken the brunt of shifts these past few months since Weston had gone and gotten himself a fiancée, but today was his day off. Easton tossed the remote onto the couch. Three steps. That was all it took to cross his small satellite cabin on his family’s property.
Whispering Pines Ranch had become more of a retreat to tourists and strangers than a safe haven recently, but his father’s death two months ago had made an increase in reservations necessary to keep the ranch running. His mother was doing the best she could, but his intention to disappear—to detach—from the world and everybody in it was getting harder to accomplish every time some tourist needed directions.
He ripped the door back on its hinges, prepared to reestablish the rules of the ranch.
And froze.
“Hi.” One word. That was it. She stood there as though he hadn’t seen police escort her from her home in Alamosa in cuffs or the blood staining her clothing on the news mere minutes ago. As though she hadn’t left him at the altar on their wedding day. As though she hadn’t gutted his heart before an IED had tried to finish the job in Afghanistan. Genevieve Alexander, in the flesh. Her hair whipped into her face as spring struggled to hang on a little bit longer. “I heard you were back in the States.”
Easton crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame. Scanning the property, he pegged what he assumed was her vehicle parked along the dirt driveway. Damn. He hadn’t even heard her coming. Too distracted by the news that she’d been found in the middle of one of the most gruesome crime scenes in history. “I heard you were arrested for your assistant’s murder.”
“That’s why I’m here.” She swiped her hair away from her face, exposing the delicate pattern of bruises across the front of her throat. “I didn’t kill Elisa. I found her dead, strung up like a puppet, when I got home from work. The man who killed her. He was waiting for me in the house.”
He pushed off from the door frame, gaze locked on the outline of a thumb print along the side of her neck. An uncontrollable heat exploded through him as Easton closed the distance between them. He pushed her hair out of the way to get a better look. “Who?”
“I don’t know. I was in the middle of calling 9-1-1 when he attacked me. I wasn’t sure the call had gone through until the police were breaking down my front door.” Genevieve seemed to curl in on herself, deep green eyes distant as she lowered her attention to his boots. “Alamosa PD didn’t have any other choice but to take me into custody when they responded to the call. They found me at the scene, covered in the Elisa’s blood—”
“With a gun in your hand,” he said.
She nodded. “I kept it taped to the inside of my chimney for protection. The work I do and the people I prosecute... I make enemies. I didn’t want to be unprepared, but I never expected this. I told the police everything he said to me. They’re still trying to corroborate I’d just left the courthouse fifteen minutes prior to the call, but they don’t have any evidence to file charges. So I was released a few hours ago.”
“And you came here.” Genevieve didn’t have the inclination or the strength to hang a woman from the ceiling, and the evidence of bruising around the back of her neck said she was telling the truth. Someone had attacked her.
“I didn’t know where else to go. I need your help, Easton.” She set her chin. “You have every right to hate me after what I did, but whoever killed Elisa Johnson is going to kill again. He’s doing this because of me, and you’re the only one I can trust to handle yourself while I investigate.”
“You want to take on a killer without the support of the police.” Battle-ready tension hardened the muscles down his spine. Easton pulled his shoulders back, and suddenly, she seemed so much smaller than a minute ago. “What do you mean he’s doing this because of you?”
“That’s why he killed Elisa. That’s why he was waiting for me in my house.” Her voice shook. Unlike anything he’d heard before. “Have you heard of the Contractor?”
His instincts kicked into overdrive, and everything inside of him went cold. Easton stepped back. The victim in Genevieve’s home. He’d seen that kind of depravity before. “Serial killer. Strung his victims up from the ceiling using fishing line and steel eyelets. You think he has something to do with this?”
“I think he is this.” Another tendril of breeze filtered through her hair and released the hint of her perfume as she countered his escape. “The man who killed my assistant isn’t the same man I prosecuted for the deaths of those four women. He’s...disappointed in me for falling for a copycat, disappointed that I took his reputation from him.”
“And you believed him?” he asked.
“I prosecuted Corey Singleton on four counts of first-degree murder. The investigating detectives recovered trace DNA from the last scene that pointed them to Singleton. He had a history of violence, a connection with the last victim and was in possession of the drill bit used to burrow holes into the victim’s joints. Forensics matched the blood on the drill to her almost immediately.” Color drained from her face. “I had everything I needed to prosecute him for the first three deaths through evidence from that scene alone, but there was something different about the last victim compared to the other three. I didn’t make the connection until it was too late.”
Pressure built behind his sternum the longer Easton let her work her way back into his life. “What connection?”
“Corey Singleton used a 3/18 drill bit to kill his last victim, but the first three? They were murdered using a 5/16th,” she said. “I know it doesn’t sound like much, but if the man who killed Elisa was lying, why the change in tools? Serial killers have a compulsion to carry out their kills systematically. There’s a ritual behind this, an origin story. Something police were never able to pinpoint with Singleton.”
“There are any number of reasons for the change. He could’ve broken the original drill bit, lost it. Maybe he made the change to do exactly what you’re doing right now. Throw doubt on the investigation and his guilt. It’s obvious Singleton didn’t kill your assistant as he’s serving the rest of his life behind bars, but the man waiting for you in your home could easily be the copycat. Why take him at his word?” Awareness charged through his veins as her perfume infiltrated his personal space. What the hell was he doing here? What was it about Genevieve that pulled him in to the point he could momentarily forget what she’d done?
“Because I was there,” she said. “I heard the truth in his voice.”
“You and I both know that wouldn’t hold up in court, Counselor.” No. He couldn’t put himself through this again. Not after he’d just started to get his balance under the crushing weight of grief. For his father two months ago. For his unit he hadn’t been able to save last year. He’d done his part in bringing down a killer determined to rip his family apart. He wouldn’t put them through that again. He wouldn’t lose anyone else.
Easton forced himself to detach, to take a step back. He set his hand on the doorknob, and that mesmerizing gaze honed on the movement. “You’ve got an entire police force capable of uncovering the truth and protecting you, Genevieve. I’m not one of them.”
He moved to close the door.
She slammed her hand against it. Fire simmered in her gaze, and a responding heat flared under his rib cage. “I read the papers, Easton. I know you had a hand in apprehending that man who killed those three victims here in Battle Mountain, including your father. He targeted your future sister-in-law. Someone you didn’t even know.” Genevieve let her fingers slip down the weathered wood of the cabin’s front door and straightened. “Please. Whoever’s doing this... He’s not going to stop. He wants to prove he’s the real Contractor. He believes I’m a key player in his game, and I’m scared. I can’t do this without you.”
The old brass doorknob protested under his grip. “Then I suggest you start running.”
He closed the door behind him.
