Morris said from behind her, his voice cracking a bit. “Go in there, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She could smell the odor coming from that room. The distinct scents of blood and death weren’t easy to miss.
The wooden floor creaked beneath her feet. She lifted her chin as she entered the room, squared her shoulders and prepared to find another woman, cut, tortured but—
The Doctor.
Macey took two steps inside the bedroom before she froze.
There was blood. There was so much blood. It was on the ceiling. On the walls. The victim had been restrained, but not on top of an operating room table, as was Haddox’s MO. Instead, the victim in that back bedroom had been tied to the four-poster bed. Thick ropes were around the victim’s wrists and ankles.
There were wounds on the victim’s arms. Long slashes from wrists to elbows. There were deep cuts on the victim’s face. On the torso. Horrible, deep abrasions. But...
“That’s fucking him, isn’t it?” Bowen’s whisper. His breath blew lightly against her ear and she could only nod.
They weren’t looking at a female victim. They were staring at a male who’d been horrifically tortured before death.
And Macey knew the victim in that bed. The man who’d been murdered...the man who had been a helpless victim, who’d known pain and anguish in his last moments.
That man was the notorious Doctor.
She was staring at Daniel Haddox. The killer she’d been so desperate to find was right in front of her. Only...
Someone else found him first. And that someone had made absolutely certain that Daniel would never kill again.
Goose bumps rose to cover Macey’s skin, and she couldn’t look away from the dead man on the bed.
SHE STOOD IN front of the motel room door. Door number seven at a small, no-tell-motel-type place. The paint on the door was chipped. The light to her right kept flickering, and Macey knew she should turn around and walk away. Her room was right next door. She was in room number eight. She should go back inside number eight, shut her door and stay in for the night. That was what she should do.
But Macey knew that she wasn’t going to leave. She couldn’t. So she lifted her hand and she banged against that door. Lucky seven. As if anything had been lucky. The night air was brisk, sending a chill over her skin as she waited, and a moment later—
The door opened. Bowen stood there, his hair slightly mussed and a five o’clock shadow on his jaw. “Macey? Has something happened?” His dark gaze darted over her shoulder. “Did the sheriff learn anything new?”
“Not yet.” She’d been at the crime scene for hours, unable to tear herself away, and Bowen had been right with her. They’d made sure there were no slipups at the scene. The Doctor was dead, apparently killed within the past twelve hours judging by the body’s lividity. His victims finally had justice.
So why doesn’t it feel that way?
“May I come in?” she asked when Bowen continued to stand in the doorway.
He blinked and stepped back. “Right, yes, of course.” He motioned for her to come into his room. Like the room next door, her room, the place was small but clean. Clean enough, anyway. Two double beds were in the motel room, and a nightstand was situated between them.
She stared at the nearest bed for a moment.
“Uh, Macey? You all right?”
No, I am far from all right. “I thought we’d put him in jail. I thought we’d catch him and we’d lock him up. He’d go to court, the judge would find him guilty and Daniel would never hurt anyone again.” Because he’d be locked away for the rest of his life. Caged.
Silence. The kind that stretched too long.
She looked back over her shoulder and found Bowen’s dark gaze on her. His blond hair was tousled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it and faint stubble covered his hard jaw.
“He will never hurt anyone again,” Bowen said.
Because the dead couldn’t hurt anyone. Because someone had killed the killer. Her lips wanted to tremble, so she pressed them together. Her stomach was in knots. It had been that way ever since she walked into that bloodstained back room of the cabin. “This isn’t the way I wanted it to end.”
He just stared at her. No judgment on his face.
“It isn’t.”
Bowen took a step toward her. “You don’t have to explain or justify to anyone.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Sure as hell not to me.”
Because Bowen was the man who had killed a serial murderer...long before Bowen had joined the FBI. He’d hunted down the killer himself when local law enforcement wouldn’t help him. When they wouldn’t believe him. He’d found the evidence. He’d found the killer.
And in the end, he’d had to kill that man in order to survive.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Am I supposed to be glad that he’s dead?” It wasn’t the FBI agent talking. That wasn’t who she was right then.
I don’t know who I am.
“Am I supposed to be happy that someone found Daniel Haddox and gave him the same pain that Haddox gave to his victims? Is that supposed to make me feel good?”
Bowen was leaning against the wooden motel room door. “I don’t think you’re supposed to feel any way. You just feel—Mace, you feel any way you want. You’re entitled. You were the guy’s victim.”
Her shoulders stiffened at that one word. Victim. She’d fought hard to stop being a victim. She’d joined the FBI so she would never be a victim. She’d be the one who hunted the killers. The one who brought justice. Not a victim. Never that again.
“He hurt you. He nearly killed you. If you want to be glad, then, damn it, be glad. Be—”
She found herself stumbling toward him. The control she prided herself on was in tatters. No, it had been sliced apart.
Only, not with his scalpel this time.
“Macey?”
She put her hands on his chest. “I need it to stop.”
A faint furrow appeared between his brows. “What? What do you want to stop? Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”
She licked her lips. “I need the pain to stop.”
His eyes widened. “Mace...”
“Because it’s been eating at me ever since I was on his table.” A truth she hadn’t shared with anyone else, not even the FBI shrink that her team had to see every now and then to make sure they stayed psychologically healthy while they tackled their cases. When you worked day in and day out with serials, the pressure could get to you. Everyone had to go in for psych evaluations. Only, maybe she didn’t share how she really felt during those visits.
I feel more than pressure. I feel pain. It’s what I always feel. And I need it to stop. “I thought it would end when we caught him. Closure, right? Isn’t that how it works? I catch the man who hurt me, who killed so many others, and then the pain goes away because he is locked away.” No longer hunting in the dark.
Bowen’s hands rose and curled around her shoulders. She liked his touch. It was warm and she felt so cold. But then, she always felt warmer when she was around Bowen. Warmer, safer.
“He’s dead,” she whispered. “But the pain isn’t going away.” And Macey felt a tear slide down her cheek. “Why won’t it go away?”