Page 28

“Yeah, you’ve watched Dexter, we get it,” I mutter sourly to no one.

I don’t know all the details yet, but I can piece together enough of what happened from the news clips and the stuff I picked up on my police scanner.

Earlier tonight, the police received a credible tip that Patrick McCleary was involved in the murder, right before the school year started, of a Jane Doe whose body was found in Hawthorne Hollow, the small coastal town down the hill from the Knightsblood campus.

And no, I had nothing to do with that.

Anyway, the police received photo evidence that traces of that unknown dead girl’s blood and a few articles of her clothing containing matching hair samples were in Patrick’s townhouse.

So they came. They saw the evidence.

But even though the blood really is Jane Doe’s, I don’t think McCleary had a single thing to do with her death.

I do think Damiano fucking cheated, though.

My guess is, he broke into the Hawthorne Hollow police station and got into their evidence locker. Like me, he also knew about Patrick’s stage 4 cancer, and that for the last month he’s been fairly bedridden. Which means, after the police arrested him on suspicion of murder most foul, they stuck him in an ambulance to take him into custody at the hospital, rather than to a jail cell.

Well, wouldn’t you believe it, that very same ambulance seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth on its way to New York Presbyterian. The two EMTs in the back with Patrick were found a few hours ago, tied up and groggy in the middle of Central Park with zero memory of what happened except for the smell of ozone and antiseptic before they conked out.

I hate how impressed I am with him for pulling this off.

Obviously, Lamiano was the one driving the ambulance. He must have taken a detour, gassed the back of the ambulance, ditched the EMTs, and then driven an unconscious Patrick here to the Red Hook docks to kill him in the most boring way possible.

Seriously, I’m offended.

Also impressed.

But mostly offended.

I turn to level a withering look at Patrick. Then, without even really thinking, I grab the fire extinguisher off the wall of the ambulance bay and start smashing.

There’s basically no blood, thanks to Lamiano's vampiric bloodletting ritual or whatever stupid shit he does as his “calling card”. But that doesn’t stop me from making a delightfully pulpy mess of Patrick’s face. Then I get medieval on his groin until I’m satisfied his child-raping shrimp dick is the consistency of oatmeal.

I exhale as I toss the extinguisher aside and examine my latest masterpiece.

“More like a mess-terpiece, amirite, Pat?” I giggle loudly.

Patrick doesn’t laugh. Asshat.

With a frown, I turn to leave. As I do, my gaze lands on the inside wall of the ambulance, right next to the open doors.

Apparently, Damiano did leave some blood behind…in the form of the words “Finders Keepers” written on the wall.

I roll my eyes.

The prick didn’t even have the balls to write it with his finger. He used a fucking stencil sheet.

“God, could you be any fucking lamer,” I mutter.

My jaw sets.

Much as I hate to admit it, I am impressed: both with the planning this took and by fact that he actually pulled it off. I’m even a little tickled by the personalized note he left for me.

But the fucker cheated. No one said anything about stealing from police evidence lockers, right?!

Cheaters don’t win.

Or, if they do… They’re going to regret it.