Page 2

The husband, though…ooph.

On the surface, a good looking man. Prematurely grey, including his close cropped beard, dressed in a casual linen shirt and matching pants of soft cream, looking trim and fit. His lines told a very different story. Salmon annoyance connected with the pumpkin orange of anticipation, laced with dulled yellow, a twisted sort of joy. All heavily wound with pitch black.

“Borrowman,” I instructed grimly, “Get your cuffs ready.”

“Fuck me,” he groaned, already reaching for them. “Which one?”

“Husband.”

“Dammit, I had a feeling. He was taking it too calmly.”

Yeah, that would have been a tell. Borrowman’s not got my eyes, of course, but after so many years on the job, he was good at reading people. I’d bet anything the husband had only stopped here because it was too suspicious for him to turn around and drive like a bat out of hell. Also pointless, he’d be caught and questioned regardless.

He would have stayed free longer if he’d run, though. As he’d soon learn.

We kept walking over and as soon as we got in front of the couple, Donovan eased up to my side, putting himself into a position where he could respond immediately if someone lunged at me. He’d gotten the position down to a T after being with me this long. I no longer had to worry about my physical safety. It was one of the best gifts Donovan’s ever given me.

“Mr. Carrington,” Borrowman greeted him with a very neutral, cold tone. “I’m going to need to put both hands behind your back.”

The man looked at Borrowman for a long moment and then snorted. “You don’t have probable cause, Detective.”

Oh, he shouldn’t have said that. Shaking my head, I started rattling off information. “Forty-three, born in the New England area, on your second marriage, four kids—”

His wife’s lines sparked with surprise and then outrage.

Then again, he hadn’t told her about any of those children, they were all affair babies. Something she clearly didn’t know about.

“—and a very seriously twisted obsession with pain and death that’s led you to killing sixteen people and then eating them. Seems your obsession with human flesh came from an experience in your late teens. I can keep going.” I smiled at him. “You don’t want me to keep going.”

Now Carrington was scared, his fear an emerald green that wrapped around his memory and connection with this place. His hands shook as he stared at me. “Who the hell are you?”

“Jonathan Havili,” Borrowman introduced me, grin evil now. “Arguably the best Reader in the known world. I’m very, very lucky to have him as a friend and coworker, as it lets me clap evil men like you behind bars. Hands, sir. If you cooperate nicely, maybe your wife will call a lawyer for you.”

She stared at her husband like she didn’t know him. (She didn’t.) “I won’t be calling shit for a man like him. I knew you were cheating on me—I couldn’t prove it, but I knew—but a cannibal?! Is that why you refused to even touch me anymore, because I’m not dead?!”

Ooph. Yeah, I could see from her lines she’d been on the brink of divorcing him. She should have listened to her instincts earlier, really.

Donovan spoke very gently, his voice a deep rumble. “That’s actually a good thing. Can you imagine kissing a mouth that ate human flesh? I’m throwing up in my mouth just thinking about it.”

The idea sparked something nasty in her mind and she immediately left the patio chair she’d been sitting in, racing off to the side, and threw up violently.

Honestly? Totally valid response.

Carrington stared after her and gave a long sigh. “She’s going to divorce me and take every cent, now. Thanks for that.”

Seriously? That was his worry, money? “Sir, you won’t need to fret about that.”

His eyes turned back to mine. He was nervous of what’d happen next, but there was nothing in his eyes, no emotion, just a morbid curiosity. “Why’s that? Because I’ll be in prison?”

“You’re not going to get back out, either. Serial killers and cannibals aren’t let back out.”

“Heh. I have a good lawyer.”

“Sir, you could have God himself advocating for you,” Borrowman informed him, tightening the last cuff, “but it’s not going to save you in this instance.”

Serial killers like him really didn’t get how heinous their actions were to the rest of us. They were so detached from emotion, it didn’t make sense to them killing was unforgiveable. After all, they had no problem doing it, so why should it be bad? This man’s mind was very, very broken. His communication and empathy lines were truncated, literally burnt at the ends. No amount of medication or therapy would be able to get through to him, either.

Frankly, a cell or a grave were the only two places he should be going from here on out.