Tomorrow Is Never Promised

Chapter 5 Part 1

Oliver

I inserted my house key into the lock and twisted, pushing the door open and walking into the small entryway. I closed the door behind me and latched the deadbolt before setting my keys in the dish on the table next to the door.

What a day.

I kicked my shoes off at the door, and pulled at my tie with my left hand, throwing it over the back of the couch, thankful for the extra breathing room. I dragged my feet into the kitchen and pulled the refrigerator door open, grabbing a cold beer out of the door. I tried twisting the top off but it didn’t budge. I looked around the mostly empty kitchen for my bottle opener but came up empty handed. I let out a frustrated noise and placed the top of the bottle against the butcher block counter and slammed my hand against the top.

There was a hiss and a pop as the cap flew off and clattered to the floor. I picked it up and threw it in the trash, then took a pull off my beer, savoring the way the cool liquid slid down my throat. I opened the fridge again and pulled some leftover lasagna I had made last night out. I made a plate and after it was done cooking in the microwave, I set myself down at the small breakfast bar in the kitchen.

What the hell was Captain Harvey thinking? There was no way that Detective Beck-Ethan-and I would be able to work together. He was a dangerous distraction, and the last thing I needed during this case was a distraction. Even if that distraction was a tall, beefy, deep voiced man with jade eyes and completely kissable lips-NO. No way am I going there on that thought process.

But damn was he handsome.

I groaned and took another drink of my beer before retreating up the stairs to the master bedroom. I needed a shower, and my bed.

I picked at the buttons of my shirt, finally getting them all undone and tossing it in the hamper. I shuffled into the bathroom and turned the shower on, shucking my pants and boxers in one motion.

God and the way he said my name. It just rolled off his tongue in a ridiculously hot fashion. Or was that just me imagining things? It was probably just me imagining things.

I stepped under the spray of the hot shower, beer in tow, and let the heat relax me. I took another drink of my beer and leaned back into the shower wall, completely failing miserably at not thinking about Ethan Beck.

He intrigued me, and scared me all at the same time. He had ruggedly good looks, could probably get any girl he wanted. Yet an absence of a ring indicated that he wasn’t married, and the way he stared into my eyes made me feel like maybe he wasn’t entirely straight. That was the part that scared me.

Being a psychologist I knew that sexuality was more a spectrum than it was completely black or white. I wanted to know where Ethan fell on that spectrum. More importantly, why the hell did I care if he was into guys or not? It’s not like I could even go there.

Maybe.

Nope, couldn’t go there-wouldn’t go there.

I quickly finished up my shower and stepped out, drying myself off with my towel. I didn't even bother putting clothes on as I climbed into bed, flopping down on my stomach. I pulled the covers up around my waist and relaxed into my mattress.

Tomorrow would be a new day, and I would have to try and figure out a way I could work side by side with Ethan without any distractions.

Good f*****g luck.

*****

"Mom, Dad!" I called out as I stepped through the front door.

The house was quiet, too quiet. I knew my parents were home because their cars were both in the driveway.

I closed the front door and dropped my bag in the large entryway. I stepped into the great room, the fireplace was going, and there were two wine glasses sitting on the coffee table. Except one was tipped over, its contents spilled all over the expensive Persian rug.

Something wasn't right.

I felt a strong grip grab me from behind and I immediately started fighting back, kicking, yelling for my parents. But the grip only tightened around me. There was no escape, and my breathing quickened as I tried to think of a way out.

I brought my elbow back and made contact with the person's chest. They grunted and I fell to the floor on my hands and knees. I tried to run away but a hand tripped me at the ankle and I fell onto the floor.

I felt a hand grab me by the arm and flip me over. The figure loomed over me, their face obscured into a shadowy nothingness. I tried to fight them off with my hands, but they grabbed them and somehow managed to hold them above my head while the other hand brought a large knife right into my chest.

I jerked upright in bed, a cold sweat breaking out all over my body, my breathing rough and shaky from the vividness of my nightmare. I looked at the time on my watch, it was four-thirty. Might as well start my day now because I'm not going to be able to go back to sleep.

I slid out of bed and made my way downstairs to start the coffee maker. Might as well just give me an IV of the stuff, that was the only way I was going to make it through this day.

I was just about to pour myself a much needed cup of coffee when my phone went off. I snatched it off the counter and looked at the screen. I didn't recognize the number but it might be the station.

“This is Doctor Reagan.” I answered, sleepiness still stuck in my voice.

“Oliver?” It was Ethan, and his tone suggested that good news was not going to follow. “Sorry for waking you.”

“It’s… um… fine.” I struggled to find adequate words. Ethan was the last person I expected to be on the other side of this call. “What’s going on? How did you get my number?”

“That’s not important. How quickly can you get to the West Hills?” His tone was urgent, and I heard shuffling in the background like he was trying to get stuff together. Something was going on.

“Depends on what part of the hills.” My pulse quickened. What was going on?

“Kings Heights, I'll send you the address. There was another murder.”

Ice crept into my veins at that statement. Another murder? Was it the same killer?

"Is it related to the other two victims?"

"I don't know. But Detective Shaw said he wants us both there, so my guess is yes." He replied.

“Okay, I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone.

I pulled a travel mug out of the cabinet and poured most of the contents of the coffee pot into it. Then I ran back upstairs to get dressed.

I crossed over to my dresser and pulled on a pair of boxers, and some light colored denim jeans. Then walked over to my closet and fished out a long sleeve t-shirt. Normally I would wear a pair of nice slacks and a button down shirt for work. But with how urgent Ethan sounded on the phone, I didn’t think there would be time for me to get all gussied up. Within ten minutes I was out the front door and clambering into my car.

Kings Heights was nestled in the West Hills just west of Nob Hill, so it wasn't hard to find. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were older more expensive homes, with manicured lawns, shrubs that gave the homes a decent amount of privacy, and views of the city that gave them their worth in dollar signs.

I pulled up to the house, at least I assumed it was the right house, judging by all the police activity. I pulled up behind Ethan’s car, he was leaning against it, smoking a cigarette, looking like something out of Grease with his leather bomber jacket and slicked back hair. Why that did something to my insides, I couldn’t really explain. I shook off the feelings and killed the engine to my car, stepping out into the light drizzle.

He stubbed the cigarette he was smoking, by flicking the cherry off with his middle finger. "That was quick." He stated with a surprised tone.

"I just live over in St. Johns," I glanced at the dead cigarette in his hand and c****d an eyebrow at him. "You smoke?"

A blush crept up into his cheeks. "Only when I'm stressed."

That made sense to me, not that I would ever encourage someone to pick up smoking as a vice. But we all had our ways of dealing with life's stress and I had to admit, there were worse things than smoking.

"What have we got?" I asked.

"I don't know yet, I was waiting for you."

I shot him a confused look. "Why were you waiting for me?"

"You are my partner, are you not?" He questions in a gruff tone.

"Well yeah, it's just interesting is all."

"No It's not interesting, it's just common decency."

There was something about his tone of voice that came across as flustered. Like he was denying something within himself and covering it up as an act of respect. As if I couldn't make my own way into a crime scene, and he felt the need to escort me in. It was rather adorable, and the fact that I thought of Detect-Ethan as adorable was exactly the problem with us being partners.

Focus Oliver, murder victim.

"Whatever you say Detective." I tease, and that gets a frustrated noise out of him that I don't think I was meant to hear. Nevertheless it leaves me smirking.

We began climbing the steps to the house, a vibrant two story Queen Anne that looked like it should belong on the cover of Better Homes and Garden, but instead was crawling with police and CSI. Neighbors were gathering outside their homes, trying to get a better look at what was happening. Welcome to suburbia.

“Detectives! Detectives!” I heard a woman shout out, causing Ethan and I to both turn on the spot.

“Fuck.” Ethan gritted through his teeth.

She was a young woman, more than likely late twenties, with wavy blonde hair that cascaded down her shoulders over a periwinkle blazer. Her eyes were a piercing gray, the type that bore into you until you revealed all of your secrets. Judging by the cell phone in one hand, and the conspicuous press badge hanging around her neck, she could only be one thing.

“Samantha Herring, Portland Post. Care to comment on the situation.”

“No.” Ethan growled, turning around heading further up the steps. I turned and followed him. But the woman was relentless.

“Well homicide is here so that can only mean one thing.” I heard her heels clacking against the pavement as she followed.

Ethan turned around, neck rigid and face stern.

“Have you vultures ever stopped to think that these are people?”

“Is that on record?” She rebounded with a smirk.

Ethan scoffed and shook his head. “Get outta here.”

We turned back around but she called out again. “This is the third murder in two weeks detective! The people have a right to know!”

Ethan ignored her, continuing his trek up the path towards the front door.

“f*****g reporters.” I heard him growl under his breath.

We stepped into the open entryway, a hallway in front of us that led directly into a kitchen, a staircase to our right, and an immaculate living area to our left.

"Ethan, there you are.”

I looked over to see Sully striding toward us. Of course Sully would be here, he was the supervising Detective, the one who oversaw them all.

“See you had a run in with the press.” He added with a smirk.

Ethan responded with a grunt which amused me. Was he always so grumpy?

Sully turned his gaze to me. “He doesn’t like the press.”

“Vultures, the whole lot of them.” Ethan responded with an annoyed tone.

“I see you’re as warm and fuzzy as ever.” Sully ribbed.

“It’s five in the morning, and I haven’t had my coffee.” Ethan pointed out.

Sully raised his hands defensively and chuckled. “Alright-alright, let’s go in then.”

He turned around and led us towards the staircase; a wide, solid wood number shaped like a U.

"No ID, but the mail downstairs is addressed to Joseph and Patti Franklin. From what CSI can determine the time of death was about three hours ago, before we got the call." He explained as we began climbing the wide and solid staircase.

"Who called it in?" Ethan asked, pulling on a pair of exam gloves.

"That's the thing," Sully's expression was troubled. "It was the killer."

We all stopped at the top landing, Ethan looking at Sully with furrowed brows. "The killer?"

Sully nodded. "Yes, and unfortunately they were using a voice modulator."

"Fuck." Ethan gritted through his teeth. “So he’s cocky.”

“Some killers like to call in their own murders, take credit, a way to stroke their ego so to speak.” I blurted out, which get’s me a look from both Sully and Ethan.

“Or he’s just cocky.” Ethan pointed out.

I shook my head. “If he were cocky then he would be outside observing the scene. I don’t think our killer is like that.”

We continued down a hallway toward a set of large french doors. With each step my feet seemed to get heavier, like I was wading through mud. I had never seen a crime scene before, I didn’t know if I was ready for this.

“What is our killer like then?” Sully questioned, jerking me out of my own self-doubt. He was looking at me with a hint of genuine curiousity.

“Well, he kills primarily at night, under the shadow of darkness. The way he kills and the method at which he has displayed the bodies suggests that he’s proud of his killings. Like an artist or-“ I stopped in the doorway, frozen, my eyes going wide as I took in the crime scene before me.

“Or a psycho.” Ethan looked at me out of the corner of his eye before stepping through the doorway.

It was an utter bloodbath. Wherever you could think of finding blood there it was. On the bed, on the floor, the walls, hell even the ceiling. It was gruesome, and never in my five years as a Profiler had I seen anything like it. Maybe I was out of my depth on this one. Or maybe this was just hitting too close to home.

"Oliver?"

I jerked my head towards Ethan, who gave me a look of concern. Had he asked me something?

"What?" I asked stupidly.

"Are you okay?" He spoke slowly.

I nodded my head and took a sharp raggedy breath. "I'm fine."

He approached me, those green eyes locked with mine, that look of concern still plastered on his face. Ethan, concerned about me? What dimension did I just fall into?

"If you need a minute, I'll understand." His tone was calm and caring.

I picked up the faint smell of cigarettes and coffee on his breath, and surprisingly, it didn't make me want to retreat. If anything it made me want to lean in closer, to be shrouded by his comforting voice. I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes shut for a split second.

"I'll be fine." I ground out.

He reached up and gave my bicep a reassuring squeeze, sending a warm feeling cascading up my arm before nodding and turning back around to observe the scene.

Touch me like that again, please.

I shook my head, not wanting to let my thoughts go there. I took out my pocket book and began jotting down notes of the crime scene. Listening to the conversation around me.

"Any sign of forced entry?" Ethan asked one of the officers standing in the corner of the room.

"Downstairs office window, it looked like it was painted shut, which explains why it probably wasn't locked." He informed.

"No home alarm?" Ethan probed.

"No, they do have cameras. But they’re old school, tape recorded."

"And let me guess? Tapes are missing?"

"Yes."

Ethan scoffed. "Son of a bitch."

I could understand his frustration. Even though this was 2021, people could still get away with murder if they were smart about it. So that meant we were dealing with someone who wasn't an amateur. They probably did their research, even so much as scoping their potential victims out before killing them.

There were two victims, a male and a female. The male was fully clothed except for a shirt, the female on the other hand, was stripped bare. My stomach rolled at the thought that was coursing through my brain.

"Was this woman sexually assaulted?" I asked, hoping like hell my intuition was wrong.

One of the CSI's looked at me and nodded her head. I could tell she was trying to maintain a sense of professionalism in her role. But I could see deep down that she was struggling to keep it together. So was I.

Breathe Oliver.

I took a deep breath and continued my examination of the bodies. There were puncture wounds all over their chests and abdomen, which would explain the blood spray on the ceiling. I counted them, there were thirteen.

"Detective?"

Four heads turned in my direction, giving me an expectant look.

"Beck." I clarified.

He crossed the room towards me. "You know you could just call me by my first name."

I ignored that statement. Because to call him Ethan would be moving into a more comfortable relationship with him, and I didn't want to enter that zone with him.

"How many stab wounds do you see?" I asked.

He glanced down at the bodies, his eyes moving as he counted.

"Thirteen." He shrugged as if it's a mute point.

"Just like our other two victims." I c****d an eyebrow at him.

"You think these are connected to Casey Campbell and Kyle Harding?" He questioned, his tone not quite believing.

I nodded my head seriously, looking him dead in the eye.

C'mon Ethan, have my back on this.

"We would need more evidence to tie these murders to the others. But I could see why you would think that given the number of stab wounds on all four victims."

It wasn't exactly a denial, but I would take it. That just means that we would need to find another piece that ties them all together, and I could definitely do that.

Ethan turned to the photographer collecting evidence. "Take pictures of everything, even if it doesn’t look like evidence I don’t care. I don't want a single stone left unturned."

The man looked up at Ethan, a slightly annoyed look on his face as if someone didn’t need to tell him how to do his job. Instead he nodded his head and continued snapping pictures with his camera.

I turned around and began to walk away when something caught my eye in the bathroom, forcing me to stop in my tracks. I pushed the door open to get a better look, flicked the light on, and was faced with a message written on the mirror.

And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six

I could tell by the words that it was a scripture verse, but it made absolutely no sense to me.

"Find something?" Ethan asked from behind me.

"I… don't know," I stepped aside to give him a better look. "Does this make any sense to you?"

He stepped closer, reading the message. As he did his eyebrows raised.

"Revelations, chapter thirteen, verses sixteen to seventeen."

"You know scripture?" I asked, my eyebrows flying up.

He gave me an incredulous look, as if I should have known this fact about him.

"I was raised in an Irish-Catholic household and I was an altar boy." He explained.

For some reason I couldn't picture him in that light. This man, who had an industrial piercing sticking through the cartilage of his right ear, small gauges in both ears, a sharp undercut hairstyle with the top slicked back, and a few biker looking rings adorning his index and middle finger, was an altar boy at one point?

Who are you Ethan Beck?

"What?" He asked, giving me a confused look.

I shook my head, my eyebrows shooting up and my lips pursing together. "Nothing." I replied in an innocent tone.

A slight grin teased the corner of his mouth. "Probably trying to figure out how a guy like me was ever an altar boy?" He asked in an amused tone.

Yes

I shook my head further. "No."

"Hm." He responded, giving me a calculated look. Yeah he wasn't buying it.

"What does it mean?" I asked, quickly changing the subject.

He gave me a facetious grin, knowing full well I was changing the subject to avoid being caught.

"It's a reference to the book of revelations. It's said that in the end times an evil, false prophet, will require everyone to receive the mark of the beast, identifying themselves as followers of Satan. Those who refuse will be executed."

"Thats… twisted."

Ethan chuckled and shook his head. "The book of revelations isn't exactly known for its comforting passages." He flagged down the photographer to come over and take a picture of the mirror.

"Do you think whoever we're dealing with is a satanic worshiper then?" I asked.

"You're the psychologist, you tell me." He gave me an amused grin before stepping out of the bathroom.

Well the psychologist in me told me yes, that's exactly who we were dealing with. But if that was the case, where was the ritualistic symbolism that was at the other two crime scenes? Had they missed something with the other two victims?

“I mean with the scripture verse it would appear the killer is devoutly religious, probably a satanist judging by its meaning.” I made an educated guess.

“You think that he killed them because they refused the mark of the beast?” He arched an eyebrow at me.

“Too on the nose?” I asked, following Ethan out of the bedroom.

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time a killer was literal with their messages.”

As we descended the staircase I started going over every piece of information from all of the cases. There had to be some way these were connected. When we reached the front door Ethan turned around to face me.

“What?” I gave him a confused look.

"Why don't we get coffee? You can go over with me what's running through your mind.”

Why did he seem nervous over the prospect of coffee?

"What makes you think I have stuff running through my mind?" I questioned, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"Because, whenever you're deep in thought you get this crease in-between your eyebrows." He motioned at the space between his own eyebrows as he spoke.

I was a little taken aback by that observation. I didn't like that he knew my little quirks on our first day on the job together. He was very astute, and it made me think about what else he had noticed about me. Did he know that I felt this odd attraction to him as well.

A wide grin spread across his face. "See, you're doing it again."

I rolled my eyes and pushed past him, my annoyance reaching its peak. "Fine, coffee."

"Great, let's meet in front of the station. The coffee shop I wanna take you to isn't too far away from there." He replied with that stupid grin still plastered on his face.

I made a frustrated noise once he was out of earshot and climbing into his car. What the hell was I getting myself into?