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Inside was a newspaper clipping.
It was from a few years ago, detailing a sad case of a dog having to be put down because it had bitten a young girl who’d been visiting the area with her family.
One quote in particular had been highlighted in bright yellow.
“He’s got the taste of blood now. It’s a tragedy, but you gotta do what you gotta do.”
That insightful take on the situation had been from a school board member who clearly shouldn’t have been asked about it, considering the blood thing was a myth.
There didn’t seem to be any hidden codes here—this was a clear message. Someone had gotten the taste for killing and now needed to be stopped.
Raisa stood and quickly dressed, making sure to lock the article clipping in beside her gun.
Then she headed for the harbor.
The entire way there, she kept glancing over her shoulder, waiting for the rev of an engine. She even had to shove her shaking hands into the pockets of her blazer.
She thought of Kilkenny’s warning.Isabel wants you in Gig Harbor.
She thought of St. Ivany’s serious expression.Why do you think the SUV was aiming for Agent Kilkenny and not you?
And she let herself think about Isabel, what Isabel would want most, if Isabel had known she was marked for murder.
Raisa, Delaney, and Isabel all dead. Because how could Raisa and Delaney be permitted to live if it wasn’t beneath the shadow of their older sister?
It was early, but Essi Halla stood at the rail of her boat, coffee in hand, watching the sun come up. The scene was so perfect it almost looked like it was a setup for a next possible book cover. The title could beHow to Use Your Father’s Death as a Way to Grift the Real Victims of an Infamous Serial Killer.
Perhaps a little wordy, but at least it would be accurate.
Essi turned when Raisa called out a greeting, breaking into a smile before she caught sight of Raisa’s face.
“What’s wrong?” Essi asked, and Raisa saw in that moment what so many of Essi’s victims must have. Genuine concern—empathy, even. It was such a skill to be able to portray that.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you’ve aged thirty years since I last saw you,” Essi said. “And also like you’re a Victorian child suffering from tuberculosis.”
Raisa huffed out a breath. She couldn’t even be insulted—she was sure that was exactly what she looked like. “My partner. He was involved in a hit-and-run. He’s currently in the hospital.”
“Oh.” Essi had the controlled reactions of a practiced lawyer. Her mouth pursed into a distressed moue, her brows pinched together, her voice settled into something soft and gentle. “I’m so sorry. Will he ...?”
She shook her head, cutting herself off. “Well, what can I help you with? I’m sure you’re not here right now to shoot the shit.”
Raisa was thankful she didn’t have to handle Essi’s sympathy. That was one of the hardest things about grief and trauma. Everyone wanted you to makethemfeel better when all you wanted to do was curl up into a tight ball to protect yourself from feeling anything.
“Have you ever encountered a young woman named Emily Logan?” Raisa asked.
Essi considered it for a moment. “No, not that I can recall.”
“She might have gone by another handle online,” Raisa said. “She was a college student who was writing about the benefits of armchair detectives in relation to the rise of true crime podcasts and documentaries.”
“Honestly, I get emails from people like that all the time,” Essi said. She tapped a long neon-pink nail against her coffee mug. “Oh, here—let me search the folder I keep those in.”
She disappeared into the cabin, only to emerge a minute later with a tablet. “Oh, shit. You were right.”
Raisa’s heartbeat ticked up as she took the device Essi held out.
An email from Emily Logan.