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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

ROMAN

I watch as Sydney races from the room. “Give her a minute,” I say picking up the notebook and flicking through the pages. It’s filled with notes on locations, dates and even names, some of which match those of the dead women. Blake thumbs through the stack of papers while Oz looks through the photos.

Kincaid’s records are good and will help put the puzzle pieces together, somewhat, at least. Especially, the locations. Putting the notebook aside, I reach for the box and drag it towards me. The small velvet box slides inside, hitting the side, along with something else. I put the ring box, which I’m going to guess contains wedding bands from Kincaid and Sydney’s mother, on the table, then slide my hand around the inside of the box. My hand brushes against something solid, and I pull it out.

A phone.

It’s a fucking phone. The son of a bitch had a way to contact JC all this time.

The old flip phone is switch off, so I turn it on and wait for it to load. When it does, I’m met with a fucking pass code screen.

“Oz,” I say, holding out the phone for him to take. “I’ll be back in a second.” I stalk down the hall to the small downstairs toilet and knock on the door after trying the handle. “Sydney, open the door.”

Her muffled sobs reach me through the door. “J-ju-just give me a minute, please.”

“Not a fucking chance. Open the door. Now,” I demand, hoping that if nothing else, my demand will piss her off enough to come out. Clothes rustle and feet shuffle on the floor, and I imagine her getting to her feet. A second later, the lock clicks, then the door swings open, revealing a red, puffy-faced Sydney.

I smirk at the frustration practically spilling from her. “You can be miserable later. But right now, we need to find your father.”

“Arsehole,” she mutters as I walk back to the kitchen.

The smile on my face grows, and I silently promise to make her pay for it later. When I reach the kitchen with Sydney, Oz has already unlocked the phone and hands it back to me.

I scroll through the messages, noting the dates. There is no pattern to the messages that I can see, and often there are months between JC’s initial message each time and the next one. I bet my fucking arse that each message to Kincaid will co-inside with dates Kincaid has been away.

The battery alert flashes, letting me know it needs charging. I gather everything up and shove it back in the box.

Thanking Oz, I say, “It’s getting late. Let’s go back to the house, so I can charge this. And we can eat while we go through all it all.”

The mood is sombre as we lock up and leave. I know Sydney is struggling, but no good can come from wrapping her in cotton wool.

Back at the house, Blake heads to the kitchen to make food while I take the box to the living room. I’m not alone as I set the box down on the coffee table. Her footsteps echo in the large room, and I slowly turn to find her right behind me, staring at the box like it’s going to leap off the table and attack her.

“I want to hurt him, Roman. I want him to hurt like all those girls, like me, like you do.” She looks up at me, tears slashed with pain roll down her cheeks. “Does that make me a bad person?”

I step into her, cupping her face. “Fuck no, Sydney. It makes you human.” I can see she doesn’t believe me. “Listen to me, you’re not a bad person for wanting the bastard to pay for what he did. An eye for an eye, right?”

She shakes her head, refuting me. “Yes, but I’ve also struggled with that. How can you be a good person if you want to inflict the same misery on someone else no matter what their crime?”

“Again, because you’re human. You believe God created you, yes?” She nods, as much as my hold on her face allows. “Right, then if those emotions, those feelings, were wrong, why would he have made it so you can feel them? And don’t tell me that’s the devil’s work, Sydney. Because that’s bullshit. They are the things that make us human, inherently so, and synonymous with humanity and humility.”

Her tears fall faster now, and I know she’s getting it. “You’ve killed people before, haven’t you?”

I’m not sure where she’s going with this, but it’s a conversation we need to have, whether now is the right time or not. “Yes,” I say firmly, making sure she understands I don’t regret the things I’ve done.

Her eyes drop momentarily, and when she raises them again, I sense nerves. “What’s it like?”

I hope I do a good enough job of hiding my shock. I kiss her, then step back and sit on the sofa. “You’re not talking about the physicality or mechanics of it, are you?”

“No,” she says, joining me on the sofa as I scrub my hands over my face. “It’s a blot, a stain, on your soul each time you do it. And that stain spreads like a cancer. For some, it takes over them completely, that is the devil at work, wiping out all the goodness inside you. But for others, me and Blake, I like to think, those stains become a way to honour the dead. Not those we’ve killed, because they deserve no honour, but the ones those people hurt. Just like JC.”

“I like that idea,” she whispers as she tucks one leg under herself and turns my way. “Tell me about your family.”

This is definitely not a conversation I want to have, even less than talking about all the people I’ve killed. “What about them?” I ask, unable to hide the bite to my tone.

“Where are they? Do you have any other siblings?”

“They live in Richmond, and I haven’t seen or spoken to them in years. And no, I don’t have any other siblings. Annabel was it.”

“Why? Why don’t you speak to them?”

“Because they don’t approve of my lifestyle, and I’m not talking about how I murder people.” I push to my feet, needing to get away from this conversation.

I pass Blake on the way out, and he grabs my arm, stopping me. “Hey?—”

“I’m good. Just leave it. I’ll be back in a minute.” He lets me go, and I jog upstairs to our room, slamming the door behind me.