Never Die Alone

Of course she knew that, but she let him go on as she locked her door, then spied St. Ives stalking a chipmunk through the azaleas. No, you don’t, she thought, and set her bag down to grab the cat before he pounced. Not that he would have much of a chance of catching the chipmunk, which darted into a crack between the rocks on her path.

“What can I do for you, Milo?” she asked as she retraced her steps, unlocked the door again, and deposited the tabby inside. Be good, she mentally ordered the cat, who wandered off in search of a patch of sunlight.

“I, uh, just needed to talk. I was hoping we could meet.”

“Today?” Again she locked her door and headed to her car.

He cleared his throat, still sounded as if he needed to catch his breath. “Yeah, it’s . . . it’s important.”

But so were a million other things.

“I’d hire you,” he said quickly, as if he understood she was going to decline. “You know, so you’d be my counselor. That’s what you offered, right? To everyone in the group? Back when we started up.”

She had. But now was just not a good time. “Well, yes. Sure,” she heard herself saying as she bent down to pick up her bag again. The chipmunk, or one just like him, scampered over the rocks to the edge of her garden. “I’d be glad to have you as a client,” she said, checking her watch.

“I could come over now, to your house. That’s where you have your office, right?”

“One of them, yes. But now won’t work,” she said. “I’m already booked this afternoon.”

“But . . . well, I just need to talk to you.” His anxiety was taking over.

“How about tomorrow? I’m not near my calendar, but I think—”

“No, I, um, I’m busy. I need to see you today,” he insisted. And then, as if hearing the desperation in his voice, he added, “Sorry. I mean, if it would work for you. It’s really important.”

She managed to unlock her car with her remote. It beeped in response. “What’s going on, Milo?” She opened the car door and tossed her bags onto the passenger seat, then slid into the warm interior.

He hesitated for a beat.

She waited.

Finally, he went on in a raspy voice. “It’s about my twin.” He was nearly panting now. “There’s something you need to know about her.”

Bentz rubbed the kinks from the back of his neck and heard his stomach grumble from lack of food. Upon returning to the station, he’d checked on Samantha Wheeler and made certain she was safe. It was time to double up on surveillance of her place. If Father John was back, he would eventually go after her, and she was aware of that fact. Dr. Sam had agreed to take some time off, allowing some of her older shows that had been taped to be aired until she could set up shop remotely at a secure location. She’d already worked things out with the radio station.

One problem dealt with, if not solved. Who knew who would be Father John’s next victim, if not Samantha Wheeler? Another prostitute? It was likely, if the killer kept with his MO of years before. Today, at a press conference, the public would be informed that the serial killer was at large again. Already, the FBI was sending agents, which, this time around, Bentz welcomed. He could use the bureau’s intelligence and resources in tracking down the sick bastard he’d thought would never be a problem again.

But he’d been wrong.

Just as he feared, he’d been wrong about Donovan Caldwell, the poor son of a bitch. Jonas Hayes had sent pictures of Caldwell’s cell, complete with a dark pool of blood on the floor and bed, and the eerie crimson message written on the wall opposite his bunk: I’M INNOCENT

Was he?

And was the real 21 Killer now stalking the streets of New Orleans?

Bentz turned back to his computer monitor and clicked on the Play arrow. He was viewing the security footage shot at the parking lot near Bourbon Street, where a camera had caught a tall man, his face hidden, arguing, then subduing a shorter female and forcing her into the back of his van, a white Dodge it looked like. The lab had enhanced the videotape and printed individual photographs from its frame. Although the man’s face was turned away, Bentz could have sworn he looked familiar. As for the victim, he had only to view the last picture taken of Zoe and Chloe De

The edge of the license plate was visible. Louisiana plate. A bit of a pelican and the starting letters KF, but that was all.

Not much, but something. He’d already called the DMV and was searching records. Once he had a list of potential vehicles, he’d double-check to make certain the girls didn’t know any of the registered owners. A long shot. But, again, better than nothing.

When his phone rang, he picked up without checking caller ID. “Detective Bentz.”

“This is Detective Phillipa Osgoode from the Phoenix PD.” The woman’s voice was all business. “You called the other day about the missing Reeves twins, Garrett and Gavin.”

“That’s right,” he said, reaching for the sheaf of papers. “We’ve got a situation where twin girls have gone missing on the eve of their twenty-first birthdays.” He explained about the ongoing investigation and how Bria

Osgoode told him that she was aware of the 21 Killer. “The Reeves investigation is still open,” she said, “but I just don’t think our missing twins fit your guy’s MO, what with them both being male.”

“That was my thought,” Bentz admitted. Osgoode promised to keep him informed of any developments, and they ended the call. He took one last look at the photos of the brothers who went missing in Arizona, then shoved the file to the bottom of the stack of papers. He didn’t think the Reeves brothers were victims of 21.

Unfortunately he couldn’t say the same for the De

Not a good sign.

Not a good sign at all.

Jase drove to his apartment at the speed of light. His rage, temporarily abated while dealing with Bria

Forced to ease up on the accelerator as traffic slowed near the St. Louis Cathedral with its three spires knifing upward into the hazy sky, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. A throng of tourists had spilled onto the streets around Jackson Square, walking and talking throughout the musicians, mimes, and dancers positioned on corners and steps and sidewalks. Jase usually enjoyed watching the street performers, cases open, and hats on the ground for tip collection, but today, the scene was lost on him.

He told himself to calm down, try to think rationally and deal with his father in a civilized, adult ma

But that probably wasn’t going to happen.

Not the way he felt, not knowing his whole damned life had been a lie.

The sluggish traffic started moving again. He flipped down his visor and felt his jaw clamp tight, his fingers clench the wheel in a death grip. Who the hell did Edward Bridges think he was, manipulating his kids, lying to his family and playing the victim? What kind of piss-poor excuse of a man would keep the truth from his own sons?

The same kind of man who would bury a body and keep his mouth shut for years. A man who would lie to protect his own son, to protect you.

Jase cursed as the guilt that he’d never been able to outrun wrapped a little tighter around his lungs, so tight, he had trouble drawing a breath. For so many years he’d lived his own lie, and yet he was willing to tear his father limb from limb for doing the same.