Psychopath's Prey Read online

  She takes a deep breath and speaks up. “He wasn’t at first.” She licks her lips, while cracking her knuckles. “He was so gentle, so attentive. It felt like I was the only girl in the world for him.” She gulps from the water bottle then continues. “Everything changed once we got married. He became quiet, nervous, and every little thing would piss him off. It started with screaming and gradually transformed into punches.”

  My heart aches for her, imagining how scary it must be to have the one person you trust the most turn their back on you and transform into a monster. People often ask how all those women could not see the signs, that it must be obvious. The truth is that the abusers are the best at hiding it.

  Deception is their favorite mask, because that’s how they lure in their victims.

  My brows furrow, my mind lingering on that information, but I shake my head, pushing it back to dwell on later. I concentrate on Mary, who now bites her thumb, nervously tapping her foot, and by the glazed look in her eyes, I realize she is not here anymore, but back in time with her husband.

  “He apologized at first. He would bring me gifts and beg me to take him back. I wasn’t weak because I didn’t say anything,” she assures me, her cheeks flushing.

  “Of course not. You were in a bad situation.”

  She laughs bitterly. “I should have run away from him the minute he became abusive, but I hoped and hoped. Then I got pregnant and I had no choice,” she finishes on a whisper.

  While all this confirms our theory, it doesn’t really help us much in the investigation, so I probe softly. “Do you remember anyone new in your circle? Someone who might have known about his abusive ways?”

  “No, it’s impossible. He was loving in public, and besides, we just recently moved.”

  Except the unsub must have spied on them. Otherwise, what explains his obsession with the victims?

  Noah raises his chin in question through the glass door, and I shake my head, because this information doesn’t move us forward. How does the unsub find these men?

  “Although—” she starts, and my ears perk up. She straightens in her seat, frowning. “One day, after he disappeared, there was this man who stopped by the door asking if I, by any chance, had lost a bike. It stood on the road, but I told him it wasn’t mine. I thought he was just a neighbor. He apologized and was about to leave, but then he murmured that my nightmare had ended. He also glanced at my baby, but I got scared and shut the door in his face.”

  The baby. He didn’t come to check on the mother.

  Oh my God.

  “Do you remember what he looked like?”

  “He wore a hoodie and sunglasses, and had a beard. I wouldn’t recognize him.” She gasps in shock. “Was he the killer?” Knowledge that it may have been the killer who stopped by her house might fill her with fear, and since I’m sure he won’t attack her, I try my best to reassure her.

  “Not likely. But this information helps us. Thank you, Mary.” She nods and I pause for a second, contemplating my next action but do it nevertheless. I place the card of the center where I used to work in her hand. “If you ever feel like talking, it’s a good place to share your pain.”

  She holds it in her hand for a few seconds, then whispers, “He is dead.”

  I smile sadly. “Unfortunately, the scars they leave behind stay.”

  She doesn’t say anything else, but puts it into her bag, and with a pat on her shoulder, she exits the office while I huff in frustration.

  We made a mistake in the profile, a small detail that changes everything.

  What did you have to live through, unsub?

  Psychopath

  Pressing the elevator button, I curse the thing for taking so long when I feel a presence next to me.

  Glancing to my side, I recognize the woman, the wife of one of my previous victims as she thinks about something, absently gazing at the doors.

  The elevator dings and she gets inside along with me. I study her features. She’s gained some weight, which is probably normal considering she just recently had a child, but there is also an aura of calmness around her.

  And most importantly, no fresh bruises.

  I don’t know what a sane person should feel in this moment, but the only thing running through my mind is the fact that her child will be free of all the nightmares his mother experienced.

  A minute later, the door slides open. I’m about to leave, when her murmured voice stops me in my tracks.

  “Thank you.” A pause as her breath hitches. “I recognize the tattoo. It was you.”

  I do not react to her statement and continue to walk toward the printing center.

  My job here is done.

  Ella

  “Where is Noah?” I fire the question at Andrea, who munches on her doughnut.

  “Have no clue. The guys are scattered all over the place. Why, do you have new information on the unsub? The wife remembered something?” She wipes her hands clean, her whole focus on me.

  “The unsub went to the house to check on her.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. But that’s not what makes it so interesting, if that word can be applied here.”

  “Then what?” She truly looks confused, while studying the pictures in front of her from the crime scenes. “He is a serial killer! And you are not concerned he was at the house?” She hustles through the notes. “We need to check surveillance cameras. Maybe they managed to catch his face.”

  “He is punishing the abuser.”

  “To protect the wives because he surrogates them for his mother. I know.” But that’s the thing though—she doesn’t understand.

  Noah and Kierian walk in, and I spin to face them. “It’s the kids.” Their brows rise, so I elaborate. “The unsub is saving the kids from having to live the life he went through. It’s not about the mothers.”

  “Meaning he surrogates himself with kids?” Andrea slaps her forehead. “This is even worse.”

  “How is this worse?” I mean, it does change the variables, but not the outcome. It just means we need to look at family men, because those will be his victims. And this profile allows us to search through databases for him.

  Noah speaks up. “He kills the fathers, because he knows no one will protect the kids. His mother, in his mind, failed him. So he is doing the dirty job, so to speak.”

  “But why is it dangerous?”

  Everyone stays silent and only Andrea speaks. “One day, he will meet a woman he wants. And he will punish her for it, because in his mind, love is a fleeting emotion that needs to be punished.”

  As in, he can fall in love with a woman?

  It’s scary to think what his love entails.

  The police officers stand in front of us, ready to listen, although I can see they huff in annoyance, clearly not expecting to hear much.

  A detective claps his hands. “Okay, everybody, listen up.”

  Quiet falls in the room as Noah clears his throat. “We are ready to present the profile.” He nods at Andrea, and she steps forward, firing information like bullets while officers write it on their notepads, their pens scratching against the paper and reminding me that I’ve missed something.

  The book. I still haven’t found the connection to the book. Why did he send it to me if it’s not related to the case?

  “Our unsub is a man around twenty-five to thirty-five years old. He needs to be in good shape to carry the bodies and fight them when they resist. All his victims have one thing in common: they abused their wives, and probably their kids. That’s why all the pain he inflicts has to do with domestic abuse.” She continues, “He grew up most likely with a violent father and psychologically absent mother.”

  “Child molestation?” one of the officers asks, but I shake my head.

  “No, at least not to him. He only hurts men, but he doesn’t touch their genitals, which implies that he wasn’t raped as a child. His mission is to bring as much pain to the victim as possible. In other words, he puts them in a helpl
ess position. Like all their victims were.”

  “He is confident, controlled, and meticulous in choosing his victims. He is extremely smart and manipulative. He is educated and charming, so it’s easy for him to be part of society. Considering that anyone rarely knows what happens behind closed doors, he spies on his victims and never picks someone randomly,” Jacob pitches in. “In other words, we are dealing with a psychopath with years of experience. He probably started back in his teens.”

  “You mentioned psychologically absent mother. What do you mean by that? Will his next victim be the wives?”

  We share a look, and I decide to answer that. “His mother probably took all of it without fighting back, allowing the husband to grow more violent. In most cases, statistically, such women either die of their injuries or commit suicide.” My heart hurts for the small child and woman who lived through hell, because no one deserves that, but at the same time, it doesn’t excuse what he does.

  “In most such cases, child has a chance, but our unsub…” Andrea pauses, then remorse fills her voice. “… had no chance.”

  “He will never stop, because in his mind, he doesn’t do anything wrong.” Jacob shares the most important information, as it’s crucial. Our unsub doesn’t feel remorse of any kind.

  In his eyes, he is the savior.

  “All those men are surrogates for his father. Each time he kills one of them, he kills his father all over again,” I say, and they blink in surprise.

  “You think his first victim was his father?”

  “One of the victims. Usually the person hates the father so much they want to inflict the most torture on them. And it takes training.”

  “So how do we catch this guy?” asks a police officer, and isn’t that a good freaking question?

  Noah steps in. “The profile gives you more or less an idea of him. If he shows up again, you will know, as he likes the attention. Catching serial killers like him takes months, if not years. He needs to make a mistake.”

  The conversation continues as they make plans and adjustments, and that’s when I catch Kierian’s gaze, as he gives me a harsh stare I can’t quite understand.

  But maybe it’s about the book. In such circumstances, can I really hide it? The team deserves to know.

  It won’t change much, since the case is now in the police’s hands unless something crucial comes up, but what if I put my team at risk?

  Psychopath

  I squeeze the plastic cup in my hand so tight it buckles, splashing hot coffee on my wrist. A policewoman close to me gasps and quickly gives me a tissue. “Thanks,” I mutter, hating every word uttered by the team as they present the profile to the police officers, because it feels like she is justifying my life, but doing it coldly and making me sound insane.

  When in fact, I’m the sanest person of them all! What do they know about my life anyway? Sociopaths, psychopaths, serial killers. Who sees our side of things, truly? Criminal psychology teaches you how to catch them.

  It doesn't teach you to truly understand them.

  But she is wrong. About my motives and my end game. She will know soon though.

  The action needs to speed up, because I can’t control my anger anymore and can barely contain myself during sex. It doesn't bring me the pleasure or clarity of the mind it used to.

  But getting Ella will, because it seems she is the only one who truly understands me.

  Mine.

  Chapter Eleven

  New York, New York

  April 2018

  Ella

  Falling on the mat, I laugh uncontrollably while Simone glares at me from above. “You, bitch, did not just give up.”

  “Ella, get your ass up. We aren’t giving you a free pass,” Chloe says, while whirling the Twister spinner again, and then ordering, “Right foot on red.” I groan into the glossy mat but lift myself up to comply, holding one hand in front of me while the other hand is on the side.

  I’m not flexible, so I feel the strain in my muscles from that. Leave it to Chloe to remember our childhood game and insist on playing it so we can cheer up.

  I know she’s worried sick about me after the whole train incident, so I agreed to this, along with a few bottles of wine and a girls’ night. Simone baked some delicious goodies, so in my book it is a win-win situation.

  “You are buying us all massages after that, just saying,” Simone informs her while glancing at the spinner to figure out where to put her left hand.

  “Me? You are the one with the rich husband!” Chloe sounds outraged and nudges her on the shoulder, and they both lose balance and end up tumbling to the floor.

  A beat and then loud giggles erupt, and I just shake my head. “Now who did that on purpose?” Before they can reply, my landline rings loudly, the screeching sound loud enough to make my ears bleed, and the girls cover theirs.

  “Fuck, Ella, make it stop.” A morning hangover apparently is a bitch to everyone, so to ease my pain and theirs, I hurry to the phone and pick it up quickly.

  “Hello,” I say breathlessly, and there is a pause on the other end of the line before the masculine voice speaks, sending shivers, and not the best kind, through me.

  “Ella Gadot?” he asks, and I nod, only then realizing how stupid it is, considering he can’t see me.

  “The one and only.”

  “My name is Noah Davis. I’m from the FBI.” All humor leaves me, and I motion for the girls to shut up with my index finger on my lips, and instantly they listen. We rarely use this signal, so they know it’s important.

  “Is everything all right? I gave my statements two days ago.” Although the police let me go before the feds arrived, but then there was nothing else to say.

  “The case is closed.” His voice is laced with authority, as if he finds it offensive I’ve interrupted him. “Would you like to work with the FBI?” Everything inside me freezes, and I pull the phone back from my ear, gaping at it in shock, because I never expected to hear those words.

  And at the same time, they are everything to me.

  “Well, yes—”

  “Terrific. Please come to the New York office tomorrow. We need to interview you first. Have all your paperwork with you.” With that, he hangs up on me while I still stand there, blinking a few times and trying to calm my rapidly beating heart.

  Will my dream come true after all?

  New York, New York

  May 2018

  Ella

  Taking a deep breath, I knock on the office door three times, and when I hear the harsh “Come in,” I step inside to find Noah behind the desk writing, probably the report on the unsub before closing the case for us.

  His jacket is thrown over his chair, his sleeves are rolled up, and a steaming cup of coffee is wrapped tightly in his left hand as he writes furiously with his right. All in all, the boss seems tired as hell and probably dreams about going home, when I’m about to bring him more problems than he expects.

  He frowns at me, but then resumes his work as if I’m not even around. “Ella, why are you still here?”

  Fumbling with my fingers, I try to search for the words, still afraid of his reaction. My mouth opens of its own accord, but the words spilling from it surprise even me. “Why did you hire me?”

  Noah pauses his writing and raises his eyes to me with an unreadable expression. “What do you mean?”

  “The FBI didn’t want me due to my past. But then you showed up and they hired me despite not having three years of experience in the field.”

  He leans back in his chair, his hands clasped in front of him as he studies me, and I shift uncomfortably, because his drilling stare has the ability to see past the façade.

  Past the lie I’m harboring, but I came to confess anyway. The man trusted me when he picked me, and by hiding the book, I showed exactly what all the professors and professionals predicted.

  A personal attachment and obsession over finding a suspect.

  Was I not cut out for the job after all? All
those years spent in training, and hoping, only to what? Find out I wasn’t meant to be an agent?

  “You showed great skills with the Smith case. Plus, your work experience spoke for itself. Sometimes it’s not about experience in the field. I believed you’d be a good asset to the team, and I wasn’t wrong. You just helped to figure out his profile, Ella.” He picks up the folder with the case and shakes it. “This case is closed because of you.”

  “We still haven’t found him.”

  He shrugs. “That is not our job.” He pauses. “Ella, we are profilers. We investigate the mind of a serial killer and help the police figure him out. It might help the police catch them. Sometimes they can do it even without our help. We are needed on other cases too. I know it’s hard to let go, but you have to learn,” he finishes, and I glance down.

  He is right, of course. Profilers cannot spend their time waiting to catch a criminal when thousands of cases await them, but I’m not sure we can let go of this one.

  So with no further delay, I say, “He sent me a book.” Noah freezes, straightening up at once. “After that, he messaged me saying it holds the key to the investigation.”

  “When did this happen?” His voice is low and harsh; his hands fist while his face is filled with barely contained fury.

  “Two days ago.”

  The table shakes as he punches it hard, the sound reverberating through the space as he stands up, shouting at me. “And you are just telling me this now?” My shoulders sag while he continues to scold me. “You should have told me the minute it happened. Do you realize how dangerous that is?”

  “I thought—”

  “What? You thought what? We need to inform the police. You are his target, Ella.”

  My brows furrow while my mouth opens and closes, desperately searching for words. “He just plays with me to see if I can figure out who he is.” We’ve studied cases like him. They feel so invincible they usually pick one of the team members to elevate themselves in their eyes.

  Hollow laughter erupts while he shakes his head in disbelief. “Ella, he is not playing with you. He hunts you.”