“If you’ve never done it, you won’t understand.” I shrug. “The first time was my favorite. I’ve been chasing the high ever since.”

“Feelings of euphoria can be addictive, but that rush of adrenaline can be achieved in other ways. Ways that don’t involve taking lives. Have you ever considered them?”

I pause, debating how much to play along while my mind churns. Until recently, I watched people plan their lives to gain some measure of control. Then I would go about ruining said “plan” to wreak havoc and cause disruption, which happened to involve killing. A lot. It kept things interesting and my hands busy.

Idle hands are the devil’s work, after all.

But then I saw the most unadulterated, wrathful, and fucking beautiful demonstration of chaos a year ago… and it made me higher than cocaine. I’ve been obsessed with the source ever since.

So, yes, I’ve considered other alternatives to experience feelings of euphoria. And she’s it. The only thing that’s made me feel alive since my first murder.

Dr. Geneva Andrews is my toy.

And I won’t share her with anyone. Not this psychologist who thinks he can manipulate me. Not that fucking boyfriend of hers. Not even her profession and ironclad morals will stop me from playing with her.

Until she breaks into tiny little p

i

e

c

e

s.

CHAPTER 4

It’s Friday, but when you’re married to your work, every day is the same. I guess my life is a compilation of Mondays then.

I sit at my desk, the hum of the activity outside my office completely muted by my noise-canceling headphones. With my back facing the wall, I’ll be sure to notice if anyone opens my door. Although, everyone knows better than to interrupt me when I have my headphones on, unless it’s urgent.

My notes from this morning are displayed on my computer screen, along with the stark images of the victim and the crime scene. Just like every other time, the details etch themselves on my memory. They’ll stay there until the case is solved.

If the case is solved.

“Case #1025-0731, Crime Scene Analysis. Location: 1207 Maple Street. Victim: Julia Mills, mid-thirties, found deceased in her residence. Time of death is estimated between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m.”

I type steadily, describing the scene thoroughly, noting the position of the body, the state of the room, and the lack of forced entry. The blood spatter is only in the living room, while the rest of the house remains untouched by the violent struggle.

“You put up a fight, Julia,” I whisper to the victim. I stop to briefly run my fingertips over her gruesome image. “We’ll catch this son of a bitch.”

I move onto the profile development. The methodical arrangement of the scene suggests an organized offender, someone who plans and executes with precision. There’s a ritualistic element to the positioning of the body, indicating a possible psychological compulsion.

“The suspect has a meticulous nature and possibly a background in forensic knowledge,” I mutter to myself. “The lack of forced entry suggests the victim may have known the perp or was deceived into allowing them in.”

I lose track of time as I continue adding to the report until I save the file and send it to the lead detective. A knock sounds the moment I remove my headphones.

“Come in,” I call out, looking up from my desk.

The door swings open and Detective Allen Harris steps inside. His graying hair is cropped short, and a perpetual five o’clock shadow frames his square jaw. He smiles at me, then pauses, glancing around my office with a raised brow.

“You know, Gen, your office always feels like a morgue. There’s no color in this room.”

The walls are pristine white and every piece of furniture, down to the wall clock, is black. The starkness of the decor is only softened by the natural light coming in through the windows. The flooring is a polished concrete, the gray surface adding to the minimalist aesthetic. To me, my office is a haven of efficiency.

Inwardly, I sigh. “I find it easier to focus without distractions.”

“Fair enough. But a plant wouldn’t hurt.”

I smile at him and gesture to the empty chair in front of my desk. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

He takes the proffered seat, his expression turning serious. “I saw your report hit my inbox. I’m sure it’ll be just as good as the others.”

“Thank you.” I scan his face, noting the way he’s clenching his jaw and the tension lining his mouth. How tightly he’s clutching a folder in his right hand. “Is there something else you wanted to discuss with me, Allen?”

My use of his first name is a subtle tactic to put him at ease. It’s a reminder that we’re more than co-workers. We’re colleagues, fighting on the side of justice.

Allen scrubs the back of his neck before his posture loses some of its stress. But only infinitesimally. Damn. I brace myself when he opens his mouth.

“Ghost refuses to speak to any of the professionals. We’re talking about days of silence. For fuck’s sake, we don’t even have a psych profile on him yet.”

“Where is he locked up?”

“Blackwater Correctional Facility,” he says. “Usually that place knows how to handle people like him.”

“Except he’s not like anyone else.”

My pulse kicks up a notch, just like every other time I’ve thought about Ghost. I assumed I’d get over my curiosity concerning him by burying myself in work and focusing on other criminals, but that’s not been the case.

Like a ghost, he haunts me.

Allen sighs. “Before he stopped speaking, Ghost said he has information on the Riverton case.”

My mouth drops open. I quickly snap my jaw closed with a succinct click. “Anna Lee, the eight-year-old who disappeared two days ago? But how would Ghost know anything about her? He was in prison before she was reported missing.”

“I don’t know. It could be a sick joke to mess with us, or…”

I thrum my fingers on my desktop. “Or he could have pertinent information.”

“You know the first forty-eight hours are crucial. The chances of finding her alive decrease the longer she remains missing. We’re past that.”

“Damn it.” I halt my fingers and tilt my head. “Why are you telling me this? Is it because I dabbled with the idea of writing an article about Ghost for peer review? If so, I’m not doing that anymore. After I saw him murder that man in court, I won’t have anything to do with him.”

“That’s too bad because Ghost wants something from you. He’s asked for you… by name.”

“What?!”

My raised voice has Allen blinking at my uncharacteristic reaction. I clear my throat to regain my stoic composure, the one that keeps my emotions locked away where they’re safe and can’t hurt me. Or anyone else.

“I’m sorry,” I say, gentling my voice. “You surprised me.”

“Right back at you. Anyway, like I just said, Ghost refuses to speak to anyone but you.”

Why me?

Dread coats my insides like molasses. Yet there’s an unwanted spark lit inside me as well, one that I can’t ignore. Despite witnessing Ghost kill someone, I remain captivated by him. His sense of twisted humor pairs with his devious actions to create a macabre allure that’s hard for me to shake.

“How does he even know who I am?”

“I honestly have no idea, Gen. What I do know is you’re the best in your field.”

I wave a hand in dismissal. “It’s easy to be successful when you don’t have a life. But I can’t do it.” I shake my head for emphasis.

“You’re our only in, and we’re out of options.”