Page 110 of Unholy Masks

“It was an antique, gifted at the time the orphanage was started.”

“She must have found a way to go back.”

“Yes, I’m going back tomorrow.”

“Want me to come with you?” he asked.

“No. You deal with this bastard,” I said, letting out a long sigh. “Ryden?”

“Yes?” He looked up, gray eyes bright with promises I hadn’t even asked for yet.

“Promise me you won’t die?” I said as he took my hand in his, his thumb softly tracing circles on my skin.

“Not planning to, Red. I’ve got a reason to stick around now,” he said with a grin.

“Good,” I said, smiling. “I’m not great at funerals. I never knew what to do.” I joked, but this wasn’t a joke. I never wanted to be in a position to mourn him, miss him.

“Guess I’ll just have to live a long time to spare you the trouble.”

He laughed, and it was enough to make me smile.

Ryden held my hand as we walked toward the house.

I froze when we reached the front steps.

There in front of our front door was the same envelope I was holding.

Fuck.

“It’s from him, isn’t it?” I asked, staring at the innocuous-looking packet. But this wasn’t something innocent. He knew where Ryden lived, who Ryden was. Who I was.

Ryden ripped open the envelope and grabbed the card out.

The card was a cream stock that was often used for invitations. Polished. Rich. The edges shimmered faintly in the light, embossed with a crest that made my stomach twist. It was the same tattoo he painted on his victims.

That sick—

Just the right color, right ink. He was meticulous, and he didn’t do it because he was bored. This was to show how much he cared.

I ran my thumb along the edge of the paper.

“He wants to impress you,” I said. “This wasn’t some random game. He knew you. And for some reason, he respects you, and hates Thatcher.”

Ryden handed me the card.

There was a thick blotch of ink right there. His anger bled into his words.

“Fucking Thatcher,” Ryden said.

“Do you think Thatcher stole what was intended for you?” I asked, but I already knew I was right.

“Yes, and he’s not pleased,” Ryden said, scratching his chin. “He must have been watching me. He knew I was looking for him.”

“He must have been closer than we thought,” I said, shaking my head. “Now this bastard knows where you live.”

One too many serial killers knew where we lived, how we lived. They knew where we worked, where we stopped by to get our coffees.

I rubbed a hand over my chest.