We Kill Killers (Psychological Thriller Book 2), page 24
“I mean, look at the applicants we had in recent years. Gen Z. An overly sensitive and entitled bunch who are more interested in TikTok likes than real life.” He scoffed. “When Rice stomped into my office thinking he was about to unveil another Watergate, it actually pissed me off. It’s not like you did anything I wouldn’t have done myself. Quite the opposite, in fact. You were cut out to be an agent from the old days when the badge meant more than hashtags. I mean, how many little girls do you know who would have had the courage to do what you did? Picking up that gun and shooting the man who killed your family.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “The balls to do that, Rose. Not many people I know would have done the same. Especially not a worm like Rice.”
Rose glanced at him, then nervously looked at the file again.
“And yet,” McCourt added, “the one thing I never understood in this whole thing: Why did you lie about it in the first place? It was self-defense, was it not?”
“If I were born on Beacon Hill, it would be,” Rose mumbled, a comment McCourt fortunately didn’t catch.
“What was that?” he asked.
Of course, she wouldn’t repeat those words. Nor would she launch into a rant about how Rice had it out for her the moment she won against him in a target shooting event during training. The contempt she saw in his eyes from that day forward. The eyes of a misogynistic prick who probably went home and took out his frustrations on his abused wife. McCourt wasn’t blind to social and economic injustices, but he showed little concern for them.
“I . . . was scared,” she finally answered truthfully, without elaborating.
McCourt frowned, then nodded. “Did they ever find out who was behind the hit?”
He hadn’t bothered to spend even a few minutes on the case files of the incident. Classic McCourt.
“They did. It was a rival gang hit. The Critters on fourth.”
“Mm-hm.” McCourt nodded. “Animals.”
At least on that, she could partially agree. It wasn’t that simple, but what the Critters had done that day went against even the hood’s code. They didn’t shoot her family as a revenge attack but simply because her brother wouldn’t snitch about the location of a warehouse full of “goods.” The real fucked-up tragedy about all this was that the Critters later joined forces with her brother’s gang, the past deaths “forgiven.” Her brother became a famous tale of loyalty to death.
A tale Rose refused to tell that way, ever.
Her brother’s death was murder, nothing else. It was the reason she’d worked so hard to become more than just another statistic. She wanted to change the country, make it a better place for others, and she wouldn’t settle for less than the best in the field—the FBI.
Rose’s eyes narrowed at the file in front of her. How could such a small thing hold the power to destroy her?
“We get to see what happens only if we don’t give up,” her brother had always told her.
Would she let a man like Rice ruin her future and everything she had worked so hard for?
With newfound confidence, Rose grabbed the file, then looked straight at McCourt. “Am I to assume this is mine now?” she asked.
“It is. Rice won’t ever be a problem again. Nor will anybody else. Sometimes, files just get lost. It happens more than you’d think at three-letter agencies.”
Rose nodded, her grip tightening on the papers that held the keys to her destruction and, now, her freedom. “Why are you doing this for me?” she asked.
McCourt shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I? You just saved the day, and the agency needs great agents like you. I need great agents like you. Trustworthy agents willing to do the job, whatever that might be. To protect the agency’s best interests.”
Or, more likely, his.
But for now, Rose was okay with this deal; asshole or not, nothing he’d asked of her so far was truly a sacrifice.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, and she meant it.
McCourt acknowledged her with a slow, meaningful nod. “Well, why don’t you go home and get some rest? We need you to look your best for the award ceremony.”
Slowly, she rose, file in hand. With a faint smile, she turned and was about to leave when McCourt leaned forward in his seat.
“Oh, one more thing, Rose.”
She turned to face him expectantly.
“That night, with Kirby,” he began, his eyes piercing her like bullets, “was anybody else at the scene with you and Richter?”
The smile vanished from Rose’s face. “Sir?” she said.
“Careful, Rose. Richter might think I’m an idiot, but unless he can show me his medical degree, I can’t shake the feeling that something is amiss here. That procedure that saved your life—I was told that most of the doctors at the hospital wouldn’t have been able to perform it. They were in awe of how a simple FBI agent without medical training was able to execute a procedure only one of their best surgeons could do, without killing the patient. Of course, I shrugged it off, supported his lies. It’s the best story for them and the public. But best doesn’t do it for me.”
Rose’s heart hammered against her chest. Of course, he wanted something in return from her. This wasn’t just a meeting to reward the agent who’d prevented one of the potentially biggest mass murders in recent history.
This was a test.
The possibility of another copy of the file in her hand crossed her mind. Now she felt stupid. How had she ever trusted or believed in this man? She would have to be his footwoman for all eternity.
“There were also those dirt bike tire marks, which it’s argued Kirby must have left while gathering his ingredients for his bomb recipe, but I find that rather . . . well, a bunch of horse shit.”
Rose stared at him, her hands shaking. Would she be the downfall of the woman who’d saved her life and helped kill Kirby?
“You see, Agent Rose, trust is a two-way street.” McCourt nodded at the file in Rose’s hand.
Her mind raced with questions and answers, lies, worries, and regrets.
“I need to know I can trust you,” McCourt added, his voice hypnotizing like that of a snake charmer. “Because if I can’t . . .”
The walls of the room seemed to close in. What about the Train Track Killer? Would she become the sad prophecy Leah Nachtnebel had predicted so bluntly at Anna’s crime scene? The snitch who helped the Train Track Killer by taking out his enemies?
Snitch. Her brother and mother had paid a heavy price for his silence. If silence was golden, maybe talking was diamonds?
“Because if I can’t trust you, I don’t need you, and if I don’t need you, the FBI doesn’t either,” McCourt continued.
The file crinkled beneath Rose’s grip. She could barely breathe, bile rising in her throat. Why did life always play her dirty? Why couldn’t she just catch a break for once?
McCourt locked eyes with her, his gaze now threatening.
“So, let me ask you one more time, Agent Rose. What the hell really went down that night?” -DOM DOM DOM, such a cliffhanger!
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Leah
I was practicing tomorrow’s program on my Vanderbilt Bösendorfer on stage at the Boston Symphony Hall. My concerts had been canceled for weeks until I healed enough to sit for an hour with only moderate pain. When I finally did, I arranged a string of fall concerts to accommodate those who had refused a refund and opted for a replacement ticket—which was practically everyone.
A moderate wave of pain struck my ribcage, enough to make me flinch but not enough to stop my play.
I pushed through Chopin’s “Revolutionary Étude,” which demanded fierce left-hand dexterity for its relentless, stormy arpeggios, symbolizing turmoil.
Not until I finished the entire piece did I allow myself to take a deep breath. I tried to ease the pain with another Tylenol.
Crystal and Mr. Hieber were watching from the first row of seats. They were both worried that I’d cancel this weekend’s concert, that I’d come back too soon.
They were right, of course, but the fuss my absence created was not in my best interest. People had laid flowers in front of my home and the symphony hall. There were so many flowers that the news stations started to pick up on the story. I needed to put an end to the drama.
I hit the last notes of the piece, sweat dripping onto the keys. Shortly after, Hieber and Crystal rose to their feet, applauding.
"Wonderful, Leah," Hieber said, his tone dripping with insincere friendliness. “We are all so relieved to see you healthy and well.”
I adjusted my choker necklace, which hid the scar from Kirby’s knife until a plastic surgeon could see to it.
“I’m certain you are, Hieber,” I replied coldly as I rose to my feet. I planned to practice at home for the rest of the day. The only reason I had come here was to approve the tuning of the piano, as tomorrow included several important guests from the music world.
I was about to leave when Hieber rushed onto the stage. “Leah,” he panted, “I wanted to ask if we might place a special guest in your personal box next to Luca Domizio’s.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. That was quite an audacious request considering nobody but myself had a say over this box. “And who would that be?” I asked.
“The Assistant Director of the FBI, Charles—”
“McCourt,” I finished, my eyes narrowing.
This could mean trouble.
Had Rose talked to him after all?
A coincidence?
Or . . . had Liam tried to find a way out of the current situation? Was his worry about losing his daughter greater than his hatred for the Train Track Killer? How could I blame him for that?
“You know him?” Hieber asked.
“No.”
Hieber rearranged his scarf. “Well . . . would it be okay if we assign him your box? Unless you have someone else in mind you wanted to invite, then—”
“You can give him the box.”
Hieber smiled, likely having secured some favors in return for clearing the box for such a high government figure.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“No, no, thank you. Go get some rest. Tomorrow will be epic.”
Epic.
I didn’t agree with that choice of word, but I understood what he was referring to: the large live screen outside the symphony hall. To honor my recovery, the mayor himself had arranged to have the street blocked during my concert to allow a crowd to follow along on a large live screen.
My gaze moved up to the box McCourt would be placed in, right next to Luca.
The fact that I had not been arrested or questioned yet indicated he could seek a private conversation with me. But why?
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as I made my way back to my car. The soft drizzle of another fall rain embraced me like a cool greeting. It was refreshing and grounding.
Whatever McCourt wanted, I would deal with him. I had never really met the man, yet I knew everything about him.
Selfish.
Narcissistic.
Arrogant.
While many despised those traits, I had no personal feelings toward them one way or the other. On the contrary, those traits would make handling him all the easier, as men like him could bend a thousand ways.
None of them were noble, which was fine as long as they did the trick.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Liam
Cowboy and I were south of Boston, watching the entrance of the Green Hill funeral home. Its ridiculously large and bright neon cross was nearly blinding. We were leaning against the car, the rain having just stopped. It was a bit cold, but the inside of the SUV felt claustrophobic, as if it were cutting off my air supply.
This whole thing with Anna weighed heavily on my soul. Another young girl gone. Her death made me feel like my work was pointless.
“They say stress kills people,” Cowboy remarked, blowing out a stream of vape from the pen he was sucking on.
“Yup. Working with serial killers can do that. But I’m an FBI agent, not some B-list model who can quit his job and start dancing on social media.”
“FBI or not, you’re too old anyway,” Cowboy said.
I frowned at him.
“Although the ladies might dig the whole broke-ass-down-on-his-luck agent vibe. If you get some Botox on that forehead and your eyebrows microbladed, you might be able to shave off a few years.”
“What?”
I watched as Cowboy admired his reflection in the mirror of our SUV. “I just got my own brows done, and the ladies are in love with them.”
“Fucking Christ,” I mumbled. “You said you’d be quiet if I let you tag along.”
“If you believed me, that’s on you.”
I ignored him. A strange silence fell between us.
“I’m really sorry about Anna,” he finally said, his tone serious. “You know, you’re not the only one who feels like we failed her. Like it was all for fucking nothing. I mean, why the hell did she do it? Why kill herself?”
Initially, I expected Cowboy to start laughing and say something stupid. However, when he remained silent, staring at the ground with sadness in his eyes, I placed my hand on his shoulder in a fatherly gesture.
“None of this is on you,” I said as his eyes met mine. “It pains me to admit it, but you’re doing an incredible job at the BAU. We’re lucky to have you here in Boston.”
His eyes lit up as if this acknowledgment was all he ever wanted. Then, suddenly, his gaze drifted off into the distance. “What the fuck is this shit?” he asked.
I followed his gaze to find Anna’s uncle and aunt stepping out of the funeral home. They appeared worn and disheveled, with baggy clothes and faces that bore signs of hardship. At first glance, compassion stirred within me, leading to thoughts of how I could help. However, my second thought was less kind when I noticed the urn they were carrying.
Or the lack of it.
Instead of holding a beautiful urn, the older man, dressed in sweats and a bomber jacket, held a plastic bag wrapped around his wrist. Undoubtedly, the bag carried Anna’s remains. He leaned over and opened the bag only to close it again with a coughing sound.
Cowboy tucked his vape away and was about to storm over, but I held him back. “It’s not our place.”
“They have her in a freaking plastic bag!” he protested.
“I know.” The words felt like acid in my throat. “But it’s not our place to tell them how to deal with a loved one.”
My intentions of walking over and expressing my condolences were completely dashed when Anna’s uncle tossed the remains in the plastic bag into the back of a black pickup truck.
“What the fuck,” I cursed, barely able to hold myself back now. This man deserved a good beating.
“People are animals,” Cowboy spat.
We watched in disgust as they drove off. My heart raced with rage. For a brief moment, I saw Anna in front of me, vibrant and alive, laughing like she did with her friends on campus when I watched her a few times in the distance from my car.
“This is fucking terrible,” Cowboy mumbled. “Just fucking terrible.”
Without another word, he got into the passenger’s side of the SUV, where he sat like a pouting child.
I took a deep breath, trying to process all of this. Deep down, I had hoped this would give me a bit of closure—shaking hands with her family, apologizing that I wasn’t able to do more for her. It would have helped with the anxiety caused by Rose’s absence from work and her silence in response to my texts.
But now, life had revealed itself as another bad rollercoaster ride: too many downs, none of them fun.
As I got into the car, my phone rang.
McCourt.
“Shit,” I muttered, staring at the screen.
“My uncle?”
I nodded, then accepted the call.
“Can’t be good this late on a Friday,” Cowboy said too loudly.
“Tell Theo to keep his whining to his therapy sessions, not my phone calls,” McCourt said, loud enough for him to hear. Cowboy rolled his eyes.
“Sir?”
“Where are you?”
“We were attending Anna’s funeral.”
“The suicide case? Why?”
“Thought it might reflect well on the FBI considering she was a survivor of the Train Track Killer.”
“Good move. Will make us look sensible and caring.”
Prick.
“Well, I need you to join me at the Boston Symphony Hall tonight.”
The phone nearly slipped from my grip as my mouth fell open. My stomach turned a thousand times over. “S-sir?” I stuttered.
“The Boston Symphony Hall. I got tickets for tonight’s performance. Rose will be there as well. It’s a work thing. I’ll meet you at headquarters around eight. We’ll ride together. Don’t be late.”
And just like that, he hung up.
I sat there, staring into nothingness out the window, paralyzed. Did he know? Had Rose talked?
This was bad.
“Did he say I can come too?” Cowboy asked.
Cowboy must have overheard everything. I ignored him.
“I mean, the pianist is really hot.”
My mind was a whirlwind of panic. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I envisioned it all. The worst-case scenario: Josie visiting me in prison. The best-case scenario: all of us simply enjoying the concert, nothing more than a treat for his Kirby stars.
“Hello?” Cowboy persisted.
“I don’t know, Cowboy, call him,” I said as I started the car.
“He didn’t say anything about me coming too?”
“I said I don’t know!” I snapped. “Fucking call him, all right!”
Cowboy looked at me, shocked.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized.
He just gave me a curt nod. “No worries. Tonight really fucked with me too. On second thought, can you just drop me off at home? I don’t feel like being anywhere near my uncle right now.”
“That makes two of us,” I mumbled.
