Suddenly, the emergency lights flickered. A single red bulb began to pulse. Then Cross’s phone rang—a blocked number. He answered.
“Talk to me, John,” Cross said without turning around.
Detective John Sampson leaned against the doorframe, his massive arms crossed. “Forensics pulled a partial from the latest scene. It’s a match to the glass Ethan used at the charity gala. The same gala where he had a front-row seat to your wife’s memorial fund.”
Cross looked up at Sampson, his face ashen. “He’s going after Nana Mama.”
“It’s a trap,” Sampson warned.
As the sirens wailed through the D.C. night, Cross made a silent promise: Step six would be Ethan’s last. One way or another, the judgment was coming home.
A chill ran through the room. Cross stared at the image. The killer wasn’t just challenging the MPC; he was mocking their failure to protect the innocent.
