If the start of the day was any indication of how the rest of it would pan out, Mason knew he was in for another roller coaster from hell.
It had started at sunrise with Bill banging on his front door. Against the confused and panicked questions from his family, Mason threw on a shirt, armed himself, and pulled open the door to a start.
“It’s happened,” Bill had said then, and that was enough.
Now, Mason climbed out of Bill’s car and followed him through to the crime scene. They were at a motel on the outskirts of town—a place he knew too well. Eight years ago, he had found little Ryan Carter here, standing in death’s doorway. Was history here to repeat itself?
They made their way through the crowd of curious civilians until they reached a barricade. Bill granted them access with a flash of his homicide credentials, and Mason followed in behind him. The closer they got to the motel—surrounded by officers, detectives, photographers and crime techs—the more Mason’s mouth went dry. He didn’t know what to expect, but the fuss at the window gave him a rough idea.
They went inside. Workers turned and stared at Mason like he was an intruder who wasn’t welcome. It was fine by him. If he had the chance, he would be out of here, too, but in the next room was something that would link him to the crime at one point or another. All it took was a quick glance.
“Jesus Christ,” he said as he came into the room, a hand cupped over his mouth to keep himself from vomiting. Mason had seen more than enough dead bodies in his time to not let something like this bother him, but this one hit him where it hurt—right in his nostalgic heart.
Hanging from the window was a woman, fully clothed but showing signs of bruising and surface-level scratches. Her face was pale, her neck angled in a broken way as the noose tugged at her throat. Her eyes were wide but lifeless. Her skin was bluish white.
“It was him,” Bill whispered in his ear. “Police confirmed she’s one of the missing twins. He did it, buddy. He…”
Mason felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his stomach. He kept his mouth shut tight to fight the urge to hurl. As he did so, more horrors revealed themselves to him. Bill stepped forward as if in slow motion, pointing to the markings on the wall. It suddenly became clear why the victim had needed to bleed; there was a familiar red message marked on the wall. One for him, caused by the killer who was coming back. If anything, this proved how serious he was—how far he would go to put Mason and his family through hell once again.
The message, scribed in this poor lady’s blood, fell in line with the message from his old case. It was word-for-word, only this was done in bold capitals. Like it demanded to be read:
OFTEN THROUGH MY CURTAINS PEEP