Page 12 of Knotted their Beauty

None of it makes any fucking sense, but at the same time, it does? I don’t fucking know. The guy is a clear cut mess, of that I’m sure, and the fact that my brain keeps recognizing a pattern and forgetting immediately has me concerned.

A pattern beyond leaving a creepy porcelain doll’s head at every scene with a weird goodbye, mommy or goodbye, daddy—hence the name—shoved inside the neck hole.

That’s how we know the thirteen murders were committed by the same person. The only way.

The methods have all been different. Guns, sharp objects, blunt force. One of the victims was forced to drink acid while another assisted in removing all of his own skin. No two murders have been the same, just like the victims. Age, race, gender, none of it is consistent. There’s no connection between them. Professions, religions, education, and social status have all varied. Married, divorced, widowed, single for life. Kids, no kids, never had, never an option. The number of ways each murder differs from the one before or after is almost mind numbing.

But each scene has been spotless and completely void of evidence. To the point of wondering if The Orphan isn’t actually some celestial or paranormal being.

At this point, I wouldn’t be shocked if it’s the ghost of Elvis, and we can’t find him because he hitches a ride on the mothership with E.T.

Incorporating all of that into a report without anyone knowing it’s The Orphan is asking for a miracle. Everyone has heard of him, you’d have to be living under a rock not to since every crime has made national news, and the second I describe anything similar to what’s been made public, it’ll be obvious.

I do understand getting the info out to the masses, though.

Knowledge is power, after all.

Hearing a vague, nonspecific lecture on a hypothetical serial killer that sounds a lot like the real life one currently on the loose could help connect dots and keep everyone on this side of the law somewhat on alert. And Butler isn’t wrong in thinking that a seasoned FBI agent showing up at every police station and sheriff’s station across California would create widespread panic. It comes across as a more impending doom, immediate threat scenario that way. If that’s what he really was thinking by having me write this the way I’m struggling to.

Something is telling me that the douchebag cares very little about mass hysteria, and far too much about making me miserable.

With an annoyed huff, I go back to the files on my desk but just as I reach for my red pen, my phone rings.

“March,” I grunt as I answer.

“Uhm, Mr. March, this is Arlo.”

I sit up a little straighter, my pulse quickening for more than one reason as I realize it’s my new nanny. “Is Cali okay?”

“Yes. I mean, no, but yes,” he says as I reach for my keys and start to stand before he rushes out, “Cali is fine, but she rolled her ankle.”

This is what I get for hiring a nanny who doesn’t drive. Leaving work for ER trips, which I’d leave for anyway but that’s besides the point. “I can be there in twenty minutes, thirty tops, I just⁠—”

“No,” Arlo snaps and I pause.

Did he just bark at me?

“I mean.” He clears his throat and I grin. “You don’t have to leave work, I’ve got it under control. I just wanted to inform you of what happened.”

“What exactly happened?” I slowly sit, listening intently as the very good looking, and extremely young, omega fights his nerves.

I like that I make him nervous.

Arlo has only been with us for three days and while I’m still skeptical, Cali adores him. He’s done well so far, I have to admit it. Very attentive. Follows all of my rules. He’s gone above and beyond when it comes to keeping the apartment clean. Most importantly, Arlo seems to genuinely care about Cali.

It’s hard not to become wrapped around her little finger, I know from experience, but seeing someone else succumb to the same fate so instantly and naturally has been interesting. It’s been great, if I’m being honest. Even if it’s caused a few unwelcome thoughts to run through my head.

Like why couldn’t her own mother care for her like that and I wonder what Arlo’s lips would look like wrapped around my cock.

My daughter is my weakness. My Achilles heel. My entire fucking world and seeing someone else clearly feel the same is very sexy.

It doesn’t help that Arlo is the first person I’ve found myself attracted to since Cali’s psychotic mother, either. That made it easy to start wading through the gutter while I watched him interact with my child. If he keeps getting snippy with me, biting back even in the most subtle ways when I get shitty, I’ll be swimming in that same gutter, most likely naked and fully erect the entire time.

I should probably fire him.

Considering my strict policy when it comes to banging the nanny, I should have gotten rid of Arlo the second I found his naivety and desperation intriguing instead of alarming.

Then again, reacting that way to the hired help is nothing compared to the way I’ve started to identify with an unknown serial killer, so I shouldn’t be surprised. Concerned and booking appointments with the department shrink, but not surprised.