He knows. Oh my god, Carlyle knows. And he's going to kill me. How in the hell did he find out I was in his house? I was careful to put everything back just as I found it, and to lock every door and every drawer I unlocked.

How in the hell does he know?

I splash some cold water on my face and try to compose myself. Brice is pissed. Doesn't know why I reacted the way I did to Carlyle. I don't know if I can tell him though. I don't know if I should. Telling him might only put him in danger too.

I look at myself in the mirror and let out a long sigh. I feel like I've aged ten years in the past half an hour and probably look like it too. I dry my face and head out of the bathroom. Brice is waiting for me, and I don't want to worry him even more by keeping him waiting.

I walk down the hall to his office and stop at his door before knocking gently. He's on the phone but waves me in. Taking a deep breath in one last attempt to calm my nerves, I walk in and close the door behind me. He hangs up the phone while I take a seat across from him.

He sits back in his chair, looking at me in silence for a long moment. I can tell he's doing his best to rein in his temper and not yell at me – which, I appreciate. I don't know if I can deal with him shouting at me right now. I can tell it's a Herculean test of patience for him, though.

“Mind telling me what that was all about?” he asks.

“I plead the fifth?” I offer a smile weaker than my joke – he doesn't seem to appreciate it.

“Seriously, what is going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit, Emma,” Brice snaps. “I know something is going on. First, you're hiding something from Ava –”

“I wasn't hiding anything,” I say.

“I could see it in your face,” he says. “You weren't telling us something.”

“Because it's irrelevant,” I roar. “It has no bearing on the story because it's not something that can be proven right now.”

He sits up and looks at me strangely for a moment, and I realize I shouldn't have said that. Shit. Brice is a smart man, and I see him pulling a lot of different strings together in his mind. Please don't figure this out. Please don't figure this out. For your own safety and well-being, please don't figure this out.

“You have a suspect,” he says.

Shit. He figured it out.

“I have nothing I can prove,” I say evenly. “And without proof –”

He raises his hand, stopping me mid-sentence. Brice eyes me evenly, and I can still see the gears turning in his head. It's not a far leap from his first conclusion, to what should be the next, and I'm kicking myself for not having a better poker face. For not being able to control my feelings.

“You think it's Hawkins,” he says. “You think Carlyle Hawkins, practically the Patron Saint of Long Beach, is a mass murderer?”

“Not a mass murderer,” I correct him. “Serial killer. There's a difference in –”

“Don't play semantics with me right now, Emma,” he thunders, slamming his fist down on the desk for emphasis.

The cups and pen jar on his desk rattle with the force of the blow, and I practically jump out of my seat. A tense, silent moment passes between us.

In that moment of silence though, my fear – for reasons I don't know or understand – drains away. And in its place is white-hot anger. Anger for the victims of this man. Anger for either the incompetence or complicity of local authorities who've helped cover up a serial murderer. And anger at the killer himself for coming in here, threatening me, and making me feel small and weak. Making me feel like I'm alive because of his mercy.

“What makes you think Carlyle Hawkins –”

“Know,” I say. “I know he's the serial killer.”

“The police aren't even looking for a serial,” he says. “They haven't connected these three murders, Emma. For all we know –”

“Do you really think a man like Carlyle Hawkins gets to where he is without friends in high places who can get him out of a jam?”

“Oh, so now it's a conspiracy?” he asks. “The police and City Council are what, covering up for him?”

“Somebody is,” I say. “Those three girls were all killed by the same perp with the same MO. Yet, nobody's connected them. Why?”

“Because, maybe, the trained professionals don't see the connections you do,” he says. “Connections that may not exist except in your own mind.”

“Look at the crime scene photos,” I say. “Look at the victimology. Look at the murder weapon. It’s all the same, Brice. FBI profilers would tell you that you're looking at a serial, without a doubt. Why aren't the local cops?”

“Like I said, maybe they don’t see what you do,” he says.

“He's the killer, Brice.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I pause for a moment to collect myself. This is the moment of truth. Where the rubber meets the road, as the old saying goes. This is where I decide once and for all, whether or not I can trust Brice Kelly.

“Because I was in his house,” I say. “I found a scrapbook, Brice.”

He sits back, clearly stunned. He's silent for a long moment as he absorbs what I just said.

“That stunt he just pulled?” I continue. “That was for my benefit. I don't know how he knew I was in his house, but he does. And he wanted me to know. It was a warning to me to back off. A threat.”

Brice runs a hand over his face. I can taste bile in the back of my throat and feel like I might be sick. I fight off the nausea as best I can. My nerves are really getting to me, but I just need to struggle through it.

“He's the one who's been following me the last couple of days, Brice,” I say. “I saw him at the mall when Monica took me shopping. He was there. He was watching me. And although I haven't seen him since, I know he's keeping tabs on me.”

“Jesus, Em,” he says. “What in the fuck were you doing in his house if you suspected he was a serial killer?”

“I needed to see if I was right,” I explain, exasperated. “I needed to see if I was on the right track.”

“That was a stupid thing to do –”

“Nobody else is doing anything, goddammit!”

Brice looks as surprised as I am by my outburst. I'm not typically someone that yells, but I have to admit, that felt good. The anger flowing through me is bubbling up, forming a rage that's thick and viscous. One that's sticking to my bones. To my soul.

Nobody is seeking vengeance for these dead girls. Not the police. Not the community. Not the media. Their cases are still open and unsolved, and even worse, nobody is even trying to hunt their killer. And it's absolutely destroying me that I know who the killer is, without a shadow of a doubt, but I can't touch him. There's nothing I can do about it yet. I can't even go to the cops and tell them about the scrapbook. I can't put them on the trail. They can't investigate it because I committed a crime. And any evidence gleaned from that will be tossed, and Carlyle Hawkins will remain a free man, walking around on the streets, allowed to murder again.

Those women deserve better. All of them.

“He's killed twenty-three young girls and women, Brice,” I say as my eyes well with tears. “Twenty-three girls are dead, and nobody's looking for their killer.”

He whistles low and scrubs his face with his hands. “Twenty-three?” he asks, his voice soft. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “He had a picture of each girl, along with the date she was murdered,” I say. “At least, I'm assuming. That was the pattern with the last three. I haven't had a chance to research the other twenty. I'm sure they'll match up though.”

I see Brice thinking. Racking his brain. But, like me, he comes up empty. When he looks at me, I can see the despair in his face.

“Even if we could somehow tip the police off and they found that scrapbook,” he says. “Pictures and dates alone won’t prove anything.”

“I know,” I say.

“We need hard evidence.”

“I know,” I say again.

“But, if he knows you're on his trail, he'll be watching for you,” he says. “And I sure as hell am not going to dangle you out there as bait.”

“I'm too old for him,” I say. “He's what they call a preferential killer. He has a specific type. I fit his physical profile, but I'm too old. He prefers them to be in their late teens, early twenties.”

“Still, it's not going to be easy to get anything on this guy.”

“It's not going to be easy to get anyone to take us seriously,” I say. “Like you said, he's the Patron Saint of the damn city.”

Brice nods and sits back in his chair, lost in thought. I have to admit, I feel better after telling him everything – and knowing that he's on my side. Knowing that he's taking me seriously. It makes me feel better, and like I don't have to bear this burden alone.

I had my doubts that he'd be on my side at first, but like he has in so many other ways, Brice Kelly has surprised me once again. And proven me wrong – once again. Knowing that he's in my corner makes my heart swell with unspoken emotion.

“Maybe this is a good thing,” Brice says.

“How do you figure?”

“Well, knowing that you're on to him, maybe this means he'll stop killing,” he says. “Maybe, the risk of getting caught because he knows you're watching will deter him from doing it again.”

I shake my head. “That's not how these guys operate,” I say. “If anything, he's going to get off knowing that I'm watching him, unable to do a single damn thing about it.”

He sighs and stands up, pacing the room, his arms crossed over his chest. There's a knock on his office door. Ava. Brice waves her in and tells her to take a seat. She looks from me to Brice, and then back again.

“Is now an inconvenient time?” she asks.

“No, actually,” Brice says, before turning to me. “Fill her in.”

I look down at my hands and recount everything I just told Brice. Ava listens to me and takes it all in. And when I'm done, she pretty much has the reaction he did – sitting back in her seat, disbelief on her face.

“That's heavy,” she says. “So, that's what you were holding back in my office?”

I nod. “I was afraid that if I told you and Brice, it would put both of you in danger.”

“That's for us to worry about, Emma,” Ava says. “We’re a team here, and we all assume certain risks.”

I arch my eyebrow at her. “I don't think being stalked and murdered by a serial killer was a risk you signed on for.”

She lets out a nervous chuckle. “No, but it sounded good at the time,” she says. “Truthfully, though, this is not a burden you should be bearing on your own. If we need to, we can assign you a small security detail – I don't think Brice would be averse to that.”

I shake my head. “No. I don't need a bodyguard,” I say. “Like I said, he was here just to deliver the warning. To tell me to back off and leave him alone. I'm not his type, so I'm not in any danger.”

“You hope you're not his type,” Ava says.

“I've studied a lot of profiles on serials and criminology,” I say. “It's kind of my thing. Unless I back him into a corner, I don't think I have anything to worry about.”

“But, that means you're going to have to drop the story,” Brice says.

I sigh. “I know,” I reply. “I've been thinking a lot about that. And those girls need me to speak for them. They need somebody to do it.”

“You know,” Ava says. “That actually might be advantageous for us.”

“How do you figure?” Brice asks.

“Think about it,” she says. “We can't go to the police, because they have no probable cause to search for the scrapbook –”

“Assuming he hasn't already destroyed it,” Brice says.

“He hasn't,” I reply. “It's his trophy case. He uses it to get off.”

“Charming,” he says.

“What if we ratchet up the pressure on him, by putting a spotlight – a big public spotlight – on those murders?” Ava says. “We're talking front page, above the fold. That should be public enough.”

“What good will that do?” Brice asks. “That's likely only going to piss him off. And if he's pissed off –”

“If he's pissed off,” Ava interrupts, “he's likely to make a mistake.”

“Likely,” I say. “But not definitely.”

“And if anything, it's going to make him come after Emma,” Brice says.

Ava sits back in her seat and crosses her legs. She looks me dead in the eye for a long, unsettling moment.

“This is the job, Emma,” Ava says. “This is what journalists do. We put ourselves in the best possible position to get the story. Sometimes, that means acting as bait.”

“Are you fucking crazy, Ava?” Brice almost shouts. “This man has killed twenty-three women that we know of. And you want to put Emma in that psycho's crosshairs? You're nuts. No way. Uh-uh. Not going to happen.”

“That's not your decision to make, Brice,” Ava says.

Ava and I share a look. I know she's right. Journalists go into war zones all the time. Some investigative journalists have done even crazier things than what we're talking about to get a story, like infiltrating Mexican cartels. This is what separates the good journalists from the greats. And I want to be great.

“Bullshit,” he says hotly. “Emma, you made me a promise that you wouldn’t do something stupid and put yourself in harm's way.”

“If we control the environment, how is it putting me in harm's way?”

“You can't control the environment,” he says. “Things go sideways all the damn time. And I'd have to think that goes double when you're dealing with a psychopath like this guy.”

“Sociopath,” I correct him.

He rounds on me, his face red with anger. “Enough of these word games, Em. I don't give a fuck what he is. The answer is no!” he practically shouts. “You aren’t doing it.”

“That's not your call,” Ava says.

“Yes, it is!” he shouts. “My paper, my rules, remember?”

“Brice, calm down,” I say. “All we're talking about is publishing a few articles that tie the murders together. Like Ava said, all we’d be doing is shining a public spotlight on it. Once we do that, the cops will have no choice but to start investigating.”

“And if he comes for you?”

“He won't,” I say. “He's a smart man, obviously. And he has to know that if the police get involved, he's not going to be able to kill as freely as before. It will frustrate him, and he'll eventually make a mistake...”

“You hope,” Brice says.

“Yeah, I hope.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I – I need to think about this,” he says. “Let's – let's talk about this again later.”

It's not the answer I want, but there's nothing I can do about it right now. Like he said, his paper, his rules. Ava and I exchange a look, and we both shrug.

Brice steps into my apartment before I do, looking around, checking in closets, and anywhere else a grown man might hide. When he's confident the place is clear, he motions for me to come in. He's insisted that I stay at his place until we figure out what to do about the situation.

Honestly, I don't even argue the point because I don't want to be alone right now. Not with Carlyle knowing who I am – and what I know. For all my assertions to Brice that he'd never bother me because he's a preferential offender, I know that's not necessarily true.

Right now, I have Carlyle backed in a corner, and he's waiting to see if I press him further into it or leave him a way out.

I know that if I print the articles I have in mind, he'll come for me. That's a matter of when – not if. I just need to be sure that I'm ready when he does. Not that you can ever really be prepared for a serial killer to come calling.

As I pack up some things, I notice Brice looking around, and I'm suddenly overwhelmed with shame. I feel my cheeks flush and want to get out of here as soon as possible. Compared to his condo, I'm living in a shanty. It's small, cramped, and dingy.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I know my place isn't –”

“You know, you really need to stop apologizing for what you have or don't have,” he says. “There's no need for you to be embarrassed about where you live. And if you think I'm judging you for it, you're totally wrong.”

“Just – compared to you –”

“And comparing yourself to others is the other thing you need to stop. I had a lot of privilege growing up. I was lucky. I know you didn't have the same childhood I did. Yeah, I was probably a prick about it back in the day. I'm sorry about that. But, I never judged you. Not once. Not then, not now.”

I give him a smile, though I still feel slightly ashamed of my place. I did the best I could to make it a home, but it's nothing compared to how he lives. As I throw some things into a bag, I feel him behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist and nuzzles my neck.

“If there's one thing I wish you'd do, it's drop the chip on your shoulder about how poor you grew up,” he says.

“Spoken like a boy who got everything they wanted as a kid,” I tease.

“I'm actually talking about your dad,” he says. “I would have traded in all the stuff I owned if I could have had a father like him. Your dad cared about you. Intensely. More than life itself. I would have killed to have a dad who was even mildly interested in what I had to say, or what was happening in my life.”

It's a perspective I've never considered before. I've always been so focused on the material things, like clothes and cars, that I never stopped to think about what I had that Brice envied. It's another of those things that's so simple, and yet, profound. I can't believe I never stopped to think about it before.

“Anyway,” he says. “Got everything you need?”

I nod. “Yeah, I think so,” I say. “Let's head out.”

I follow Brice out to his car, letting him carry my bags for me. He puts them in the back seat and holds the door open for me. I give him a smile as I climb in, but my mind is still spinning with that brief little insight into his thinking – and mine.

Apparently, I'm still clinging to a lot of baggage from the past, and I need to find a way to drop a lot of it.