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“Why the fuck is he still alive?” she grunted. “This is nothing but tabloid trash.”
“Yes. It’s sensational,” I said. “They’ll eat this up, and he’ll get his fifteen minutes in the spotlight.”
“Are you angry?”
“Of course, I am. I’m furious.”
“Because he stole the story?”
“No,” I gritted out. “Because that bastard turned these girls into a spectacle. Like their suffering is nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing my back before pulling me into a hug. “I can still kill him,” she said with a small smile. “I’ll be careful.”
I knew she wasn’t joking. She would kill him for me.
“No.”
Thatcher was only a rich, narcissistic asshole. He was not Mason or the Strangler. If he had been, he would have died a long time ago.
“I have to leave now, Red,” I said.
“Don’t kill him in front of witnesses.”
“I’ll try not to.” I climbed upstairs, stopping halfway. She was still reading and re-reading the article, like it might change if she kept reading. “Keep yourself safe, Little Killer.”
“I will. Now go and rip Thatcher a new one,” she said.
I quickly showered and dressed. When I walked down, Yara handed me a cup of coffee.
“You’ll need this.”
Thanking her, I jogged out. My mind was spinning by the time I started the car. I sped through traffic, cars and people blurring together.
It took me less than forty minutes to reach the office. I took the elevator. When the door opened, I wished it hadn’t.
The place was a circus. In the center of all the noise, Thatcher stood, acting like a sleazy monkey who’d just discovered a new trick.
He looked up, and his eyes met mine for a fraction of a second before his grin widened. “Well, if it isn’t Ryden Sinclair,” he drawled, slow and deliberate. “I see you’ve heard the news.”
“What the fuck did you do?” I growled, marching toward him. The men and women around him, kissing his ass, slowly parted.
Fucking predators feeding on a fresh corpse!
“It’s not my fault,” Perry said, his smile never disappearing. “You wait, you lose.”
“The Tattooist? Why would you give him a name? What the fuck is wrong with you?” I growled, teeth clenched. “You fucked up.”
“Stop sitting on your high horse, Sinclair. Maybe that’s why he chose me.”
I stilled.
What the fuck did he mean by that?
“You—what? Did the killer send you a tip?” I glared at him. That had to be it.
Thatcher knew all the crucial details--the details only the killer and the cops, and I, knew.
He opened his mouth. “If you lie, I’ll fucking punch you,” I said, my voice tight, every inch of me ready to snap him like a fucking twig. “What is it?”
