The drive back to Davon’s apartment was a journey through a city holding its breath. The earlier tension had morphed into a focused, almost predatory calm. They had a name that felt significant, a thread that didn’t feel like it had been handed to them by the killer himself.
“The Peacock,” Claire murmured, the name tasting foreign on her tongue. “Alistair Finch. Let’s see if this bird’s feathers are as pristine as he thinks they are.”
Inside Davon’s apartment, the sterile order was sacrificed for the sake of the hunt. Case files formed a topographical map of violence across his coffee table. His laptop hummed like a nervous familiar, its screen painting his determined face in a cold, blue light. Claire had kicked off her heels and sat cross-legged on his floor, a nest of papers around he
