PROLOGUE
JUSTICE
Present day, Chicago
Justice pulled himself out of bed, showered and dressed. He pulled the soft cotton of his shirt over the scars that ran the length of his ribs, running his fingers along the rough edges, long ago faded to a shade lighter than the rest. Their jagged edges—the skin broken—were all that remained of that day—when his life changed forever, the scars left to remind him of the killer he’d become.
He groaned, as he always did, when memories crawled over him like shadows, crippling him and taking possession of his mind. He fought to push them away, as they played out in his head like a bad movie—forcing him to watch, to stay conscious, to remain a witness, scene-by-scene, to every kill that had taken place that day.
He was a prisoner of his mind, driven to watch as the reels played on, always in slow motion—never letting up—never giving him peace.
Peace was elusive, leaving only relentless rage.
He tried to force the memories away, as the fury swept through him now, like fire traveling the path of gasoline, eating everything in its path. But he remained unsuccessful in stopping his nightmares, this time, too, as they played across the darkened screens of his eyes. The dark-red blood of those murdered boys—sprayed across the clean, white snow.
Justice knew the anger was the leftover remnants of the boy he’d once been, still plaguing him because he felt so helpless to change the past.
Even knowing, the rage took him to his knees like a blow to his midsection, stealing the air from his lungs. He’d done a lot of things since, to make it right, but the killing he’d been forced to, while he was but a boy himself, did nothing to wash his hands clean of the blood. And his nightmares only served to knock him down, a slave to the memories hidden, buried in his mind.
That was the day everything good was stolen from his life.
That was the day he let loose the monster hidden beneath his boyhood face.
He looked up. He didn’t see the ceiling above—but the sky. He wanted to beg the heavens to release him—to let him go. He prayed for the gentle rains to wash him clean—the way they washed away the blood that covered him that day. Yet, nothing could ever make him clean again.
Nothing could take it back.
Nothing could change the fact he’d murdered nine boys.
Dragging himself off the floor, he forced a black slate in his mind to shield him from the view that would torment him. Such thoughts weren’t doing him any good. The only way to change it—was to fulfill the prophecy.
That—and get Jes back.
Though, if he could change her part in it—he would.
Feeling a touch better, he forced himself to walk to the bathroom, to finished getting ready. He even managed to fix himself a cup of coffee, from a single-cup coffee maker. He headed out the door before the sun broke the horizon. He’d been hot on her trail since coming home, and he wasn’t letting up—though he had no intention of letting her know that he lived nearby.
He’d put his hand on the doorknob when his phone rang. Snarling, he reached into his pocket, grabbed his cell and flipped it open without missing a beat. He, again, placed his hand on the doorknob when his sister’s words stopped him.
“What?!”
His sister started to repeat herself, but he stopped her. “No, I heard you the first time. Did she say anything else?” He listened, all thoughts of going out the door, now gone as he stood there, staring off into space. Four words kept drumming through his head.
Jes had found him.
“She left her card?” he repeated, going numb.
What kind of cop left a calling card for a murderer?
“It’ll be alright,” he reassured his sister. “I’m heading out, now. We’ll sort it all out when I get there.”
Though his thoughts churned, he managed to lock up and get into his truck. He didn’t speed. He didn’t believe emotions warranted such behavior, although he understood the impulse. For him, anyway, things needed to be thought out and executed precisely. He didn’t do things in the heat of the moment—not anymore.
The last time he’d let his emotions rule his head, it cost him everything.
During his hour-long drive to his sister’s house, through bumper-to-bumper traffic, Justice planned. And by the time he got to his sister’s house, he’d formulated a plan—a contingency plan for the one that Jes unwittingly blew for him.
He parked in front of the house—sandwiched between the others—with hardly a front yard or a back, and only a sidewalk and a tall fence in between. How many plans would Jes blow for him? Reaching the door, he stopped again, with his hand on the knob, as before.
Jes.
All these years, she’d been the thing that kept him moving forward. Well, Jes—and his sisters. But Jes hated him. She hadn’t seen him since they were kids, but she still hated him—for what he’d done to those kids in that alley.
That was okay. He’d never become used to the monster inside him, either. And he never would.
When he turned the handle and walked into Jasmine’s house, he found all three of his sisters gathered in the kitchen. One of them cooked something that smelled delicious. All three muttered something, lamenting that they knew they shouldn’t have come back to Chicago yet.
But that’s not what they’d been saying when they convinced him to return. It was time, and they knew it.
Still, they’d been gone all this time. How could Jes possibly know he’d returned? And even if she had known they were back—how could she have found him so quickly?