Page 97 of Choosing Us

On my birthday.

My birthday.

No … that has to be a coincidence.

And yet, my gut churns.

I have to look at the data.

I whirl on my heel toward the screen. “Mason, can you pull up the dates of the other confirmed kills, please?”

He nods and quickly displays a table with each victim and the date of their death.

Almost every single one correlates to something significant in my life within a few days. The others are dates I don’t remember what I was doing, but my gut says my calendar will confirm something was happening in my life during those dates as well.

When I accepted Walker’s invitation two years ago to join the newly formed task force here in Nashville, it was less than a week after I moved from Quantico when the body of Karlie Voss was discovered in Manchester, New Hampshire.

January of last year, right around the same time of the media coverage with our team’s identification and apprehension of The Susurro killer, was also when Evangeline Lewis was discovered in a park in New York City, again, holding a carnation.

This most recent kill—on my birthday—was fueled by rage, so much so that the killer no longer required the comfort of his ritual.

He just needed something that would feel better to him. His routine was no longer the deciding factor, and taking a life was all that mattered.

No.

It couldn’t be … but as the puzzle piece clicks into place, the whooshing in my ears goes silent, telling me that this is right.

Unbelievable, but right.

“I’m afraid I…” I can barely get the words out. My mouth is completely dry, and I know this is going to sound crazy to my team, but I can’t ignore this hypothesis—it’s already too late for Jennifer Johnson.

“What is it, Harlow?” Walker asks.

I gulp in air needing to get this out but struggling to find my breath. “I think he needed to feel the rush of the kill, not just the compulsion of the ritual anymore. The ritual itself wasn’t enough … because something else felt better.” I run my hand through my hair, frustrated that I never saw this. “I think this escalation suggests a common denominator that I didn’t see before,” I slowly admit to my team as I try to test the hypothesis internally.

Except it all fits.

All of it.

“We thought his ritual was what drove him, but I think he is driven and triggered by a compulsive obsession.”

Walker’s face is completely neutral, but his fingers tap on the table as he clenches his jaw. “What is his obsession?”

“The focus of his obsession,” I admit barely above a whisper, “It’s … it’s me.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

I try to open my eyes, but a coughing fit causes me to wince in pain.

What the hell happened, and where am I?

My cheek is against a dirty concrete floor as my senses start to come back online. The coughing causes a metallic taste to flood my mouth. When did I split my lip open—and on what?

Wherever I am smells musty and damp. My eyes slowly blink open, but the darkened room has minimal light, until a flood light is turned on, blinding me as the creak of a metal door opening echoes off the concrete walls.

“Oh, good, you’re awake. I’ve been waiting, Ryan.”

I squint in the direction of the voice, but there is no recollection of who the hell this person is. He’s tall, maybe a little over six feet, lean but fit with wide cheekbones and an angular jaw.