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It had really only been after she and Kilkenny had gone to Texas to look into the decade-old death of his wife, Shay, that Raisa had come to realize that she wasn’t defined by her blood. She was defined by the family shechose, not the one she was born into.
Isabel had served as a stark reminder of what Raisa could have become. It had reminded her whenever she wanted to make the lazy choice, the selfish choice, the choice that was unjust, that the road to hell could be paved with those missteps.
The sky lightened, and still Raisa sat on the floor staring at perhaps the last words she’d ever get from Isabel.
There would be plenty of time to dissect them later. Right now, she couldn’t think of much beyond the confusing miasma of relief, joy, grief, anger, fear.
Raisa’s cell phone rang, vibrating on the floor next to her foot. She grabbed for it and checked the screen.
Kilkenny.
She let it go to voicemail, though she offered him a silent apology as she did.
Most of her life had been spent as a loner—beyond the little band of foster kids who’d grown up on the streets alongside her. As one of two forensic linguists employed full-time by the Bureau, she was shipped around the country more often than she was in Tacoma. She became friendly enough with some agents—the ones who didn’t see her as an irritating paper pusher—but she never stayed long enough to transition to actual allies.
That had been before Kilkenny, though. As a forensic psychologist, he was also loaned out to investigations all over the country. Prior to getting to know him, she’d thought him too aloof to care about the fact that they both had lonely jobs. Now that she’d spent the past year beingable to call him a friend, she realized they’d both been craving a partner in a way their positions would never allow them to have.
She didn’t want to ignore his call, but she also couldn’t bring herself to answer it. She knew what he was going to tell her.
For just a little longer, she wanted to live in this Schrödinger’s moment where Isabel was both alive and dead. The minute was ruined by a text from Kilkenny anyway.
Turn on the news.
Raisa fumbled for her remote, half-glad and half-irritated that she’d sprung for basic cable when she moved into the bungalow. She knew what she would find, but needed it confirmed.
Needed to see the cat actually dead.
Across the bottom of the TV screen, the chyron read:
Serial Killer Isabel Parker Found Dead in Cell
Chapter Two
Delaney
Day Four
Someone was watching Delaney Moore.
Even though she was usually the one on the other side of the feeling, she recognized when there were eyes on the back of her neck as easily as any prey animal would.
Her basement apartment had a tiny window that let in light on only the sunniest days in Seattle—and those were few and far between. Delaney stared at the bushes beyond the glass for a long while, but of course, there was no one there.
Still, she had survived to nearly forty years of age because she listened to her gut.
Her eyes flicked to a piece of paper that she kept pinned to the corkboard above her computer.
You’re as guilty as I am.
At the time she’d received it, she’d wanted to litigate the accusation she’d known was from Isabel. It was unfair, even though both of Delaney’s sisters seemed to think it was accurate. But Isabel hadbeen a prolific serial killer; Delaney’s only crime was not being able to stop her.
It was true that Delaney hadn’t wanted Isabel to end up dead, which she’d thought was the likely outcome of going to the FBI about her suspicions. So she’d never given any law enforcement agencies information about how to find her sister—or even told anyone her sister was likely killing people.
Perhaps thatdidmake her at least half as guilty as Isabel.
She was certain philosophy and ethics classes could have a field day with the Parker sisters.
None of that mattered right now, though.