He wasn’t in a hurry.

He read farther in the journal, noting the more frequent mistakes. It’d affected his speech, too. When talking to the cat, he heard odd words coming from his mouth, but in his mind, he spoke the correct ones. It’d scared him at first, but his doctor said it was to be expected.

A soft voice spoke in his head: You don’t know what fear is.

She was right. His fear was nothing compared to hers. And giving her what she needed had provided a purpose in his last year of life. He’d spent too many years feeling sorry for himself and living a lie. Once he’d seen the light of what he needed to do, he’d been on the road to peace.

The path before him was clear. He’d crossed several bridges and was approaching his goal.

He’d spent the last few months working on his plans. So much analysis and planning. But it was paying off. He’d watched the news and seen the gleam in the eyes of the reporters. Even as they said how awful the murders were, they couldn’t hide their pleasure at sharing the gruesome news. Everyone was interested in death.

Especially when someone important had died in a publicly horrifying way.

He’d researched before he dealt the cuts of death. The Internet was packed with articles on how to properly slash a wrist. There were some twisted and sick people out there. He’d learned he had to cut deep and long to create an effective exit for the blood. Blood spatter reports had warned him about what to expect from that first cut. He’d stumbled across blog posts that talked about the hesitation cuts on the wrists of timid people who tried to commit suicide.

You’ve made a decision, one post read. Now don’t be a wuss and leave evidence that you had doubts. Show them you meant it! Your dead body will tell the story to the medical examiner. Make it a powerful one and be fearless about your choice.

Fearless. He liked the word; it felt powerful on his tongue. He’d been a coward in the past. But now he’d learned to be fearless. And his new path would prove it.

He’d known the Fremont Bridge would get the public’s attention. He’d chosen it because it was Portland’s jewel of a bridge. It had the most traffic, stood the highest, and gleamed the brightest. Sorta like Carson.

He snorted.

The country bridge was for contrast. In the same way that Aaron was different from Carson. He’d also selected the quiet location out of caution, in case residents were watching for odd activity on the downtown Portland bridges. He’d liked the rural feel of his choice. His reconnaissance before Aaron’s hanging had shown a lack of cameras. Completely different from his research about the Fremont Bridge. For that mission he’d known cameras would see him from a few locations, but he’d chosen his route for minimal exposure; he couldn’t be caught.

Yet.

It’d been a quiet, less stressful night for hanging a body. He’d peered over the edge of the Vernonia Bridge, but it hadn’t compared to the rush he’d received from the Fremont. On the Fremont, his life had been in his hands. With the push of his toes, he could have ended everything. But he’d chosen to follow his plan.

It wasn’t about him anymore.

10

Harold’s Bar was the epitome of a dive. Up close Ava saw the outside walls hadn’t been painted in this century, and the bricks held decades of grime that nearly hid their original red shade. The obligatory beer signs glowed, beckoning the rush-hour commuters to spend a few bucks before heading home.

Ava hesitated and glanced at the time on her phone. She had a task force meeting in an hour. It’ll just take a few minutes. I’m already here.

Go in. Ask a few questions. Leave and get back to work hunting a killer.

Decision made, she pulled open the door. Smoking in Oregon bars had been banned since 2009, but she encountered a strong wave of cigarette odor that leaked from the floor, walls, and ceiling. The building was dimly lit, with a half dozen patrons sitting on stools at the wooden bar along one side of the small room, their focus on two TVs above the glass bottles of liquor. Her stomach growled as she picked up a heavenly spicy smell from the kitchen. Sort of a mix of Thai and Mexican.

She wouldn’t stay long. Her hunt for Jayne had taken more time than she’d expected. She had a murderer to find. That was her job.

I can’t completely turn my back on my sister.

No one sat at the tables scattered about the small room. In the far corner was a raised platform for a band to entertain a minuscule dance floor. Her ears ached at the thought of live rock echoing off the walls in the cramped space.

Was she getting old?

She stepped up to the bar as the bartender slammed the cash drawer and turned to greet her. He froze, but his gaze rapidly swept from her hair to her chest, lingering too long.

He knows Jayne.

Light finally dawned in his eyes, and he grinned.

He wasn’t unattractive if you didn’t mind super-scrawny guys who looked to Billy Ray Cyrus for their grooming inspiration. Ava would have bet big money that the bartender had once embraced the mullet, but now he sported Billy’s lank, chin-length hair and soul patch.

“Well, if it ain’t the FBI!” Soul Patch announced to the closest customer. The senior citizen on the stool glanced at Ava, clearly wasn’t impressed, and went back to watching his TV.

Ava flashed her best Jayne smile for the bartender. “I see Jayne’s mentioned me.”

Soul Patch braced his hands on the bar, his smile broad. “She might have bragged her twin was an FBI agent a time or two. So you’re what Jayne would look like if she was a brunette and role-played being a good girl.” He leered.