CHAPTER FOUR
CONNECTION

     VICTOR Shoupe sat at his desk, the weight of three murders pressing down on him like the thick heat of the Kildare summer. The files were spread out in front of him, a chaotic mess of autopsy reports, witness statements, and grainy crime scene photos.

     Three victims. One killer.

     Rafe Cameron, Ward Cameron, and before them, Rose Cameron. The entire Cameron family was being wiped out one by one, and for the life of him, Shoupe couldn't make it make sense. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as the details churned through his mind.

     Rafe was in great shape, the kind of guy who could bench press half his body weight without breaking a sweat. Ward might have been older, but he wasn't feeble; he had a wiry strength that came from years of wealth-fueled activity—golf, boating, and whatever else rich men did to pretend they were still in their prime.

     This killer had to have been something special. Stronger than Rafe, or at least smart enough to take him by surprise. Maybe they'd used stealth, sneaking up on the father and son when they least expected it. Or maybe there were two killers, working in tandem to bring the Cameron's down.

     The possibilities were endless, and Shoupe was growing more frustrated by the minute.

     All he could do now was wait—wait for the killer to get sloppy, to leave behind something they couldn't cover up. A shoeprint in the mud. A strand of hair. The smallest trace of DNA that would crack this thing wide open.

     But waiting wasn't Shoupe's style, not anymore.

     He pulled the files closer, rifling through them for the hundredth time, his mind racing as he tried to see what he'd missed. And then it hit him: this wasn't random.

     The Cameron family had a lot of enemies, sure, but this wasn't some spur-of-the-moment crime spree. This was personal.

     Shoupe leaned forward, his elbows on the desk as he pieced it together. The Cameron's weren't just victims—they were execution targets.

     Revenge.

     The word hung heavy in his mind.

     The first domino had fallen nearly three years ago when Sarah Cameron and John B Routledge died. Shoupe had been on the force long enough to see the truth hidden in plain sight: the Cameron's had been at the center of everything that led to those kids' deaths.

     Ward Cameron had masterminded it. Rafe had been his enforcer, his unhinged, coke-fueled accomplice. Rose? She might not have pulled any triggers, but she'd kept the family secrets, stood by, and let it all happen.

     Shoupe thought back to the chaos of that night. The radio call from John B was still etched in his memory, the statement he'd made against Ward in regards of his father's presumed death. The kid's voice, desperate and raw, had carried a weight of truth that no amount of courtroom evidence could replicate.

     At the time, nobody believed it—or at least, nobody was willing to act on it. Shoupe had believed John B., though. He'd believed it from the moment he heard it.

     Big John's disappearance had been the talk of the island for months, but it had faded into background noise, a story that people whispered about but never solved. Shoupe had his suspicions from day one, and John B's radio accusation had only solidified them.

     But suspicions weren't enough.

     Ward Cameron had walked free, and John B had died in the storm that night, his body never recovered.

     Then there was Sheriff Peterkin. The one person in power who had always believed in John B. The one person who might've been able to stop Ward and Rafe. She'd been gunned down, her blood soaking the sand as the eldest Cameron child pointed the blame anywhere but at himself.

     The case against the Cameron's was a house of cards—built on whispers and accusations, easily toppled by the family's wealth and influence.

     But now the Cameron's were dead.

     One by one, someone had taken them out.

     Shoupe stared at the files, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. This wasn't a coincidence. This wasn't the work of a random psychopath or a bored thrill-seeker.

     This was retribution.

     Someone out there hadn't forgotten what the Cameron's had done.

     The question was, who?

     Shoupe leaned back in his chair, his mind sifting through the possibilities. The Pogues were the first to come to mind—John B's closest friends. Kiara Carrera, Pope Heyward, JJ Maybank. They had motive, sure, but none of them seemed like killers. They were kids, for God's sake, not the kind of people who could plan and execute something this precise.

     But what if it wasn't the Pogues themselves? What if it was someone connected to them, someone who had lost just as much?

     Jordyn Routledge.

     Her name slipped into his thoughts like a whisper, unbidden and yet impossible to ignore. She and her brother were close, living life with no family outside of each other and their friends. She had no love for the Cameron's, that much was clear. And if anyone could coax one of the Pogues into something this dangerous, it was her.

     But was she capable of this?

     Shoupe's gut told him he was onto something, but he needed proof. Something concrete to tie it all together. Until then, all he could do was watch and wait, knowing that somewhere out there, the person responsible was likely plotting their next move.

...

     The golden light of the setting sun seeped through the cracks in the curtains, painting the room in hues of orange and gold. JJ Maybank lay sprawled on the plush bed, his hands tucked lazily behind his head as he watched Jordyn move around the room. She was brushing her hair, the long strands catching the light like molten obsidian, and the sight of her—calm, content—made something in his chest tighten.

     The room was theirs, part of the sprawling Genrette estate that JJ had inherited weeks ago in a twist of fortune that he'd brought forth. He never thought he'd live in a place like this—opulent and quiet, surrounded by acres of land where the world felt far away. But more than the estate, it was the company that mattered. Sure, it was a nice house, but Jordyn made it a home.

     She tossed the brush onto the dresser and turned to him, her lips curving into a playful smirk. "You're staring again," she teased, crossing her arms over her chest.

     "Can you blame me?" He shot back, his grin lazy and unapologetic. "I mean, look at you."

     Jordyn rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed, and she sauntered over to the bed, plopping down beside him. Her fingers found their way to his hair, twisting a golden strand around her finger.

     "You're ridiculous," she murmured, though there was no real heat behind her words.

     "And you're perfect," he said softly, catching her hand in his and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

     They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that came easily after years together. Days had passed since their last "outing," as they called it, and the adrenaline had finally faded into a strange sort of peace. JJ couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this settled.

     "You remember that party at the Boneyard?" Jordyn asked suddenly, her tone light and teasing.

     The blond groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Oh, God, don't remind me."

     Jordyn laughed, the sound melodic and genuine, and she tugged his hands away. "C'mon, it wasn't that bad."

     "Are you kidding? Our first kiss was a disaster," he said, though his grin betrayed the fondness he felt for the memory.

     "You were drunk," she pointed out, nudging him with her shoulder.

     "So were you!"

     Jordyn tilted her head, pretending to think. "True. But I wasn't the one who missed and kissed someone's shoulder the first time I tried."

     JJ groaned again, this time louder, and she burst into laughter, falling back against the pillows. He turned to look at her, his heart swelling at the sight of her so carefree, so alive.

     "Hey, I made up for it, didn't I?" He asked, leaning over her.

     She quirked an eyebrow, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "Debatable."

     JJ rolled his eyes, then dipped his head to kiss her, slow and lingering. When he pulled back, her eyes were soft, and the teasing edge had melted away.

     "You're not still mad I ruined our first kiss, are you?" He asked, his tone mock-serious.

     Jordyn shook her head, her hand reaching up to trace his jawline as she laughed softly. "I've never been mad about it, babe. It was perfect, just like you."

     Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and JJ suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe. He sat up, running a hand through his hair, and she frowned, sitting up beside him.

     "What's up?" She asked, concern lacing her voice.

     "Nothing," he said quickly, though his heart was pounding, he wondered if she could hear it. He turned to face her, his blue eyes meeting her dark ones.

     He reached into his pocket, his hand closing around the small velvet box he'd been carrying for days. The weight of it felt both terrifying and right, and he knew there was no turning back.

     "Jordyn," he began, his voice uncharacteristically shaky.

     Her eyes widened as he pulled out the box and opened it, revealing a simple yet elegant ring—a band of silver, with a small, blood-red stone set in the center.

     "I've never been good with this lovey-dovey shit," he said, a breathy chuckle escaping as he spoke. "But I know I don't want to do this life without you. I don't care what we've gone through, or what we'll end up going through. You and me—we're it. So, will you marry me?"

     Jordyn's breath hitched, her hand flying to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. For a moment, she couldn't speak, and JJ's heart raced as he waited for her answer.

     Finally, she nodded, her smile radiant. "Yes. Yes, of course, I'll marry you."

     JJ exhaled a laugh of relief, slipping the ring onto her finger before pulling her into a kiss that was equal parts passion and promise.

     When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his, her voice a whisper. "Our souls were bound long before this, you know."

     "I know," JJ said, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he reminisced the first time she'd ever mentioned the concept of 'soul ties.' They were fourteen, drunk for the first time in the hammock of the Chateau. "Bound by pain, by everything we've done. And I wouldn't change a damn thing."

     The intensity of his words sent a shiver down her spine, and before she could respond, he kissed her again, his hands tangling in her hair.

     The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, more heated, until words no longer mattered. Their laughter faded into soft gasps and murmurs as they lost themselves in each other.

     The rest of the world slipped away, leaving only them, bound together by love, by darkness, and by a shared understanding that no one else could ever know.

     It was the beginning of a night that would be etched into their memories forever—a night of passion, connection, and a love that thrived in the darkness.