Page 63

CHAPTER

SIXTY-TWO

The basement fell silent after the killer’s footsteps disappeared up the stairs.

Logan could hear him moving around above them, preparing whatever twisted finale he had planned. The sound of equipment being moved, doors opening and closing—the methodical preparations of a madman.

He glanced at Morgan, unable to hide his worry. “Did he hurt you? Physically, I mean?”

She shook her head, her dark hair falling across her face.

“No. He . . . he just keeps sedating me. And he keeps talking. About his photographs, about how we’re creating art together, about how no one else understands my work the way he does.

” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s all mumbo jumbo, Logan. He’s completely delusional.”

A mixture of relief and rage rushed through Logan. Relief that Morgan wasn’t physically harmed. Rage at the psychological torture she’d endured.

“I’m going to get you out of here.” His jaw tightened so fast that an ache followed. But he meant the words.

“How? We’re both tied up, and?—”

He didn’t know how. But he couldn’t let her die.

“I’ll find a way.” Logan’s voice carried a conviction he wasn’t sure he felt. “Morgan, there’s something I need to tell you. In case . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

She looked at him with those intelligent eyes that had first captured his attention years ago. “What is it?”

Logan took a shaky breath. “I’m so sorry about Bobby.”

“What happened?”

“I was undercover with the Iron Brotherhood. I encouraged him to get out. I’d already gotten approval from my handler and had arranged for Bobby’s extraction and protection. I wasn’t going to let him go down with the others. But before I had the chance . . .”

Morgan remained silent, letting him continue.

“If I’d been a better undercover officer, if I’d kept my distance emotionally, Bobby might have surrendered. Might still be alive.” Logan met her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Morgan.”

Tears began sliding down her cheeks. “Why didn’t you trust me with this?”

“Because I fell in love with you from the moment we first met.” Logan’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in your eyes. I was afraid I’d lose you.”

Morgan’s tears flowed freely now. “Logan, I . . .”

“I know I hurt you by keeping the truth from you. I’m sorry.”

“When you told me this at the award ceremony, I just needed more time to process what you said,” Morgan whispered. “It wasn’t that I hated you. I just . . . it was a lot.”

“Then it was too late,” Logan said.

“No.” Morgan’s voice grew stronger. “It’s not too late. We’re going to get out of here, and we’re going to have time to figure this out. Together.”

Logan wanted to believe her, wanted to hold onto that hope. But the sound of footsteps overhead reminded him of their reality. Somewhere above them, a killer was preparing for his final masterpiece.

“I love you, Logan,” Morgan said suddenly. “I should have said it before. I should have said a lot of things.”

Logan’s heart seemed to break and heal simultaneously. After everything they’d been through, all the missed opportunities and unspoken words, Morgan was giving him the one thing he’d always wanted to hear.

“I love you too, Morgan.”

The footsteps stopped moving overhead, replaced by an eerie silence that made both of them tense. Then, drifting down through the floorboards, came the sound of laughter.

Not the warm laughter of joy or humor, but something cold and twisted—the sound of someone who genuinely enjoyed the suffering of others. A psychotic giggle that seemed to go on forever, echoing through the basement like a promise of horrors to come.

Logan and Morgan stared at each other in the dim light, both thinking the same thing: Whatever was coming next would test every ounce of strength and courage they had left.

The laughter finally stopped, but somehow the silence that followed was even more terrifying.

Andi paced the conference room while Yazzie coordinated search teams over the radio.

Every minute that passed felt like an hour, and they were no closer to finding Logan or figuring out where the killer might stage his finale.

“Wait.” Andi suddenly stopped mid-pace. “Did anyone go to Zimmerman’s house? To look for evidence the killer might have left behind?”

“Logan went there after we found the pharmacy closed, but then we got the call about the crime scene at the lightning tree,” Yazzie said. “I’m pretty sure he never made it inside.”

“So Zimmerman’s house is untouched?” Duke’s steely gaze met Yazzie’s.

“As far as I know.” Yazzie ran a hand over his face. “We’ve been so focused on the active scenes that we never circled back.”

Hope surged inside Andi. “That could be exactly what we need. If the killer took Zimmerman from his house, there might be evidence of how he operates—maybe even clues about where he’s holding his victims.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Duke agreed.

Twenty minutes later, the three of them pulled up to Zimmerman’s place.

“Stand back,” Yazzie said.

Then he kicked the front door open.

Inside, the house felt frozen in time. A half-eaten sandwich sat on the kitchen counter, and a coffee mug still sat by the sink with a ring of dried residue at the bottom.

Zimmerman had been interrupted mid-routine.

“No obvious signs of struggle,” Duke observed as he moved through the living room. “This guy is either really good or Zimmerman didn’t see it coming.”

Andi moved toward the back of the house, noting the careful way everything had been left undisturbed. The killer was methodical, professional.

But as she entered Zimmerman’s bedroom, something caught her attention.

The window was slightly ajar—not broken, just unlatched. Like someone had climbed out in a hurry.

Or had been taken out.

But what she saw in the bathroom made her blood run cold.

Andi picked it up the bottle with trembling fingers and held it to the light.

Her throat went dry.

“Duke.” Her voice was barely steady. “You need to see this.”

Even as Duke’s footsteps approached, Andi’s mind was racing.

“What is it?” Duke asked from the doorway.

Andi showed him what she’d found.