“Logan, Jason Martin was just found dead and castrated in South Carolina,” she says in a hushed tone reserved for blasphemy. Blood rushes through my veins, and I squeeze the box in my hands as I lower it back to the desk. “Was it—” The words break off, because hope like that could destroy me if I’m wrong. She nods slowly. “They sent me the pictures. I told them it wasn’t our Scarlet Slayer because she was dead. But it’s her, Logan. The knife is the same type, the wall was painted red, and there were no hesitation marks at all. Also, the shoe was a woman’s size. It wasn’t Jake. It was her.
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