the counter and followed him. "No. It's Shannon Green," I grumbled.
"She's not that bad," he said.
"She's high maintenance, spoiled, and has absolutely no loyalty," I said.
He rounded on me and he wasn't laughing. "Let it go, Sloan."
I rolled my eyes and sat down in the chair. "Fine." I huffed and looked back up at the board. "Tell me about Leslie Bryson."
Nathan cleared his throat. "Leslie worked at Chili's as a bartender. About twenty minutes after she clocked out at 10pm, she sent a text message to her roommate saying she was going to be late and to not wait up for her. She never came home."
"No other numbers on her phone?"
He shook his head. "None that were suspect."
"What about camera footage from the parking lot?" I asked. "Maybe she ran into the killer outside before she left."
He shrugged. "Maybe so, but there were no cameras."
"That's frustrating," I said. "What about GPS tracking on her phone?"
"Her purse and phone were found in her car which was abandoned at the Texaco gas station off of Tunnel Road," he answered.
I thought for a moment. "And no one saw anything? That's a really crowded area."
He shook his head. "No witnesses."
I looked back up at the photos of the women on the board and shook my head. "I still don't understand why there isn't some sort of public service announcement about this," I said. "It seems like the public should be made aware that there is a serial killer on the loose."
He sat down on the corner of the desk in front of me. "Well, I just found out a few days ago that all of these girls are dead. No bodies, remember? And, there has been a lot of news coverage on all the kidnappings, just not all lumped together."
"I don't watch the news," I told him.
"You're a publicist," he said, surprised.
"The last thing I want to do at the end of my workday is come home and watch news stories about murders, missing people, and violence." I tapped my finger on the desk. "You know, all the stuff you've been throwing at me since we first met."
His smile was genuine and apologetic. "I really do appreciate your help."
"I know," I mumbled. I looked around the room at all of the work he had done, practically all on his own. "How are you going to convince the FBI that there is a serial killer involved? I don't think 'my publicist friend told me they're dead' is going to cut it with the Feds."
He chuckled. "They've been exploring it as a possibility for a while now. We've also considered it might be linked to human trafficking. Now I just know which direction to focus on. It would really help if I could find the bodies."
I shook my head. "I'm not a cadaver dog."
He laughed. "I know."
"So, what do we do now? Just wait for someone else to go missing?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it helps now that I know that all of the victims are actually dead. Maybe you and I can find something that will help connect the dots." He kicked the side of the desk with his heel. "You know, even without your supernatural abilities, you're actually really good at this. Have you ever considered being a cop?"
I doubled over. "Me? Around criminals all the time? Seriously?"
He laughed and nodded his head. "Yeah, I didn't think about it that way."
"Supernatural, huh?" I asked.
"What do you call it?" he replied.
I rolled my eyes. "Lately, thanks to you, I call it a pain in my ass."
7.
IT WAS BUSINESS as usual when I returned to work on Monday. The entire week was extraordinarily boring in comparison to the weekend as I hammered out the county newsletter; warned the citizens of West Asheville of a sewage backup off of Haywood Avenue; and reminded the city to not drink and drive during the upcoming Brewgrass Festival at Memorial Stadium. Most of the city would turn out for the festival, including Adrianne and myself. It was my favorite event around the city all year.
I spent my downtime in the office and most of my evenings at home reading through some
"She's not that bad," he said.
"She's high maintenance, spoiled, and has absolutely no loyalty," I said.
He rounded on me and he wasn't laughing. "Let it go, Sloan."
I rolled my eyes and sat down in the chair. "Fine." I huffed and looked back up at the board. "Tell me about Leslie Bryson."
Nathan cleared his throat. "Leslie worked at Chili's as a bartender. About twenty minutes after she clocked out at 10pm, she sent a text message to her roommate saying she was going to be late and to not wait up for her. She never came home."
"No other numbers on her phone?"
He shook his head. "None that were suspect."
"What about camera footage from the parking lot?" I asked. "Maybe she ran into the killer outside before she left."
He shrugged. "Maybe so, but there were no cameras."
"That's frustrating," I said. "What about GPS tracking on her phone?"
"Her purse and phone were found in her car which was abandoned at the Texaco gas station off of Tunnel Road," he answered.
I thought for a moment. "And no one saw anything? That's a really crowded area."
He shook his head. "No witnesses."
I looked back up at the photos of the women on the board and shook my head. "I still don't understand why there isn't some sort of public service announcement about this," I said. "It seems like the public should be made aware that there is a serial killer on the loose."
He sat down on the corner of the desk in front of me. "Well, I just found out a few days ago that all of these girls are dead. No bodies, remember? And, there has been a lot of news coverage on all the kidnappings, just not all lumped together."
"I don't watch the news," I told him.
"You're a publicist," he said, surprised.
"The last thing I want to do at the end of my workday is come home and watch news stories about murders, missing people, and violence." I tapped my finger on the desk. "You know, all the stuff you've been throwing at me since we first met."
His smile was genuine and apologetic. "I really do appreciate your help."
"I know," I mumbled. I looked around the room at all of the work he had done, practically all on his own. "How are you going to convince the FBI that there is a serial killer involved? I don't think 'my publicist friend told me they're dead' is going to cut it with the Feds."
He chuckled. "They've been exploring it as a possibility for a while now. We've also considered it might be linked to human trafficking. Now I just know which direction to focus on. It would really help if I could find the bodies."
I shook my head. "I'm not a cadaver dog."
He laughed. "I know."
"So, what do we do now? Just wait for someone else to go missing?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it helps now that I know that all of the victims are actually dead. Maybe you and I can find something that will help connect the dots." He kicked the side of the desk with his heel. "You know, even without your supernatural abilities, you're actually really good at this. Have you ever considered being a cop?"
I doubled over. "Me? Around criminals all the time? Seriously?"
He laughed and nodded his head. "Yeah, I didn't think about it that way."
"Supernatural, huh?" I asked.
"What do you call it?" he replied.
I rolled my eyes. "Lately, thanks to you, I call it a pain in my ass."
7.
IT WAS BUSINESS as usual when I returned to work on Monday. The entire week was extraordinarily boring in comparison to the weekend as I hammered out the county newsletter; warned the citizens of West Asheville of a sewage backup off of Haywood Avenue; and reminded the city to not drink and drive during the upcoming Brewgrass Festival at Memorial Stadium. Most of the city would turn out for the festival, including Adrianne and myself. It was my favorite event around the city all year.
I spent my downtime in the office and most of my evenings at home reading through some
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