Free The Butcher by Jennifer Hillier Page A

“I understand now why you finally agreed to meet me. You must have been blown away when I sent you the picture of me and Sarah.”
    â€œThat’s putting it mildly.” Sam looked around. Jason was watching them closely, and she gave him a little wave to let him know everything was all right.
    â€œYour husband?” Bonnie asked.
    â€œJust a really good friend.”
    â€œWow, what a looker.”
    â€œOh, he knows,” Sam said with a laugh. “Did you want to sit down somewhere? Find a coffee shop, or a place to eat?”
    â€œOf course. I’m sure you have lots of questions.” They started walking toward Jason, who met them halfway, and Sam made a quick introduction as the two shook hands. Smiling at the two of them, Bonnie continued, “We lived together for about a year. You, me, and your mom. I used to babysit you whenever I wasn’t working. You used to call me Baba, because you couldn’t pronounce Bonnie.”
    A tingle went through Sam then and she looked at Jason, who cocked his head and grinned. Yes, that was right. While she didn’t remember Bonnie, the nickname “Baba” was strangely familiar, and suddenly everything the woman was saying rang true.
    There was so much Sam wanted to ask, but she didn’t know where to start. To hell with it, she thought. “Bonnie, where are you staying?”
    â€œThe Sixth Avenue Inn.”
    â€œWhy don’t you come back to my place? I can make some dinner, and we can talk. Would you be okay with that?”
    Jason cleared his throat. Sam ignored him.
    Bonnie nodded, and another sad smile appeared on her face. “Sure, I would love that. I . . . there’s a lot to tell you. I’m sure you have so many questions.”
    â€œI want to hear everything.” Sam took a breath. “About my mom, the Butcher, all of it.”
    â€œAnd I’m prepared to tell you everything,” Bonnie said. “I mean, you’re writing a book about him, so I would have, anyway. But now that I know who you are . . . my God, if anyone deserves the truth, it’s you, Samantha.”

9
    The only way Matt could handle it was to not think about it. Which wasn’t working that well. Because even when he was able to put it out of his mind, his body reminded him. Acid was eating his stomach, knots had turned his shoulders into pretzels, and he was delirious from lack of sleep. He had no appetite, and the leftover pizza sitting on his plate tasted like cardboard.
    So, he drank. It was his fourth Corona. By the time he went to bed tonight that number would be doubled . . . but who was counting.
    Matt might not be an expert on serial killers the way Sam was, but it was common knowledge for anyone who’d lived in the Northwest during the eighties that the Butcher’s MO was to chop off left hands. And in Matt’s garage, inside an old crate, were jars full of left hands. There was no denying who his grandfather really was. Edward Shank, the former chief of police of Seattle, was the fucking Beacon Hill Butcher. It might have been impossible to believe had Matt not seen it with his own damn eyes.
    He took another long swallow of his beer, trying to force out of his mind the mental images of that poor young girl being tortured.
    His grandfather had always been the hero, a legend, the ultimate good guy whose job was to catch the bad guys. Matt could still remember that day in seventh grade when the Chief had come to talk to the kids at his school for career day. It was a few years after he’d brought down Rufus Wedge, and everybody knew who the Chief was. His fellow classmates had been delighted. The teachers were in awe.
    It had all been a lie. Not only was Edward Shank not a good guy, he was the villain. And not only was he the villain, he was a monster. A monster who had terrorized the entire Northwest for years because he tortured, raped, and murdered young girls.
    Matt