It’s Saturday morning. One week from the discovery of Aubrey’s body. Five days since the news of Lacey’s disappearance and my face-to-face meeting with Aaron Jansen.
“What makes you think this is the work of a copycat?” I had asked, hunched over my cold coffee. “We hardly know anything about these cases at this point.”
“The location, the timing. Two fifteen-year-old girls who fit the profile of your father’s victims show up missing and dead weeks before the twentieth anniversary of Lena Rhodes’s disappearance. Not only that, but they happen in Baton Rouge—the city where Dick Davis’s family now lives.”
“Okay, but there are differences, too. They never found the bodies of my dad’s victims.”
“Right,” Aaron said. “But I think this copycat wants the bodies to be discovered. He wants credit for his work. He dumped Aubrey in a cemetery, in her last known location. It was just a matter of time before she was found.”
“Yeah, but that’s what I’m saying. That doesn’t sound like he’s copying my dad. It sounds like he selected Aubrey at random, killed her on the spot, and left her body there in a hurry. This wasn’t a calculated crime.”
“Or the spot where he dumped her has some sort of significance. It holds special meaning. Maybe there are clues on her body that he wanted to be found.”
“Cypress Cemetery does not hold any special meaning to my dad,” I said, getting agitated. “The timing of her murder, it’s just a coincidence—”
“So, it’s also just a coincidence that Lacey was snatched next, minutes after walking out of your office?”
I hesitated.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve seen this guy around before, Chloe. Copycats—they copy for a reason. Maybe they revere the guy they’re trying to emulate or maybe they revile him, but either way, they copy their style. Their victims. They try to become the killer that came before them, maybe even beat them at their own game.”
I raised my eyebrows, took another sip of my coffee.
“Copycats murder because they’re obsessed with another murderer,” Aaron continued, placing his arms on the table and leaning in. “They know everything about them—which means that this person could very well know you. He could be watching you. He could have seen Lacey walking out of your office. I’m just asking you to trust your gut here. Pay attention to what’s going on, and listen to your instincts.”
I thought back to Cypress Cemetery, to the feeling of eyes on my back as I walked to my car and drove to my office. I shifted in my chair, growing more uncomfortable by the minute. Talk of my dad always left me feeling guilt-ridden, but I could never tell where the guilt was supposed to be aimed. Did I feel guilty for betraying him, for being the sole finger pointed in his direction and locking him in a cage for the rest of his days? Or did I feel guilty for sharing his blood, his DNA, his last name? So many times, when talk of my father came up, I felt the overwhelming need to apologize. I wanted to apologize to Aaron, to Lena’s parents, to the town of Breaux Bridge. I wanted to apologize to everyone for simply existing. There would be so much less pain in the world if Richard Davis had never been born.
But he was, and because of that, so was I.
I feel a movement next to me and glance over toward Daniel, lying awake and staring in my direction. He’s watching me, watching my eyes flicker across the ceiling as I replay that conversation with Aaron in my mind.
“Good morning.” He sighs, his voice thick with sleep, as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer. His skin is warm, safe. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I say, moving deeper into his arms. I brush against his hips and smile, the bulge in his boxers rubbing against my leg. I twist around so I’m facing him before gripping my legs tightly around his hips, and soon we begin to make love in mutual, somnolent silence. Our bodies are pressed together, slightly damp with early morning sweat, and he kisses me hard, his tongue down my throat, his teeth on my lip. His hands start to snake across my body, up my legs and across my stomach, before passing my chest and working their way toward my throat.
I continue kissing him, trying to ignore the feeling of his hands around my neck. Waiting for him to move them somewhere else, anywhere else. But he doesn’t. He keeps going, his hands still resting there as he pumps harder and harder, faster and faster. He starts to squeeze, and I let out a scream before shooting backward, moving as far away from him as I can.