Thirteen (Eddie Flynn #4)

by Steve Cavanagh

The killer had folded a one-dollar bill to look like a butterfly and put it in Carl Tozer’s mouth.

Research at the National Registry of Exonerations tells us that out of every twenty-five people who are convicted and given a death sentence in the United States, one of them is innocent.

Kane sat down and thought about the sound made by Brenda’s skull as it broke on the hood of his Chevy Silverado. The single drum-strike of something hard and hollow, cracking on metal. And that crunch a microsecond earlier. Too close in time to be distinguishable. Yet it was there, in that cluster of sounds. Like a chord on a guitar, the echoes of her clavicle and cervical spine disintegrating. To Kane, it had sounded almost melodic. Like an orchestra unleashing a single blast of music before beginning their overture.

The number three equates to some form of truth or fact in our subconscious. It is somehow divine. Jesus rose on the third day. The Holy Trinity. Third time lucky. Three strikes and you’re out.