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A sudden warmth overcame her, and the pain receded. Tears wet her cheeks, and she knew. This is how I die.
ONE
Amanda had no preconceived notions this week was going to be an easy one. With Christmas around the corner, more people were depressed, suicidal, and homicidal. The latter was what impacted her life the most. The phone call she’d received at five fifteen this morning did nothing to boost her outlook.
It had been Scott Malone, her sergeant with the Prince William County Police Department. There was a shooting at a local gas station, leaving one dead on scene.
“She’s only eighteen.”
It was one hell of a way to start a Monday morning and had her springing from bed with a quick nudge to her boyfriend, Logan, who was lying beside her. She gave him a kiss and let him know she had to leave. She’d also peeked into her eight-year-old daughter’s room. An ache bloomed in her chest that she wouldn’t be able to greet Zoe when she woke up.
Amanda hated it more when children were victims. An eighteen-year-old, equally tragic. Her life would have just been getting interesting for her and those around her. Where would her path take her? Would she meet somebody nice and get married? Her mother may have anticipated grandbabies in the future.
All of that was eradicated with two bullets.
She was still processing the tragedy as she and her partner, Detective Trent Stenson, were en route to the Fill N Go gas station. After Malone’s call, they had met at Central Station, their home base in Woodbridge, signed out a department car, and hit the road.
Ahead, strobing lights on police cruisers lit the early dawn, a collective beacon to mark the scene of a nightmare from a few streets back.
Trent pulled into the lot.
Aside from law enforcement, there was an older Nissan Versa parked near the back of the lot and a hybrid at the pumps. No sign of anyone from the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner or the crime lab yet. Both were stationed out of Manassas, about a half hour from Woodbridge, and would be on their way. Same applied to Sergeant Malone, who told her he’d meet them on scene.
A scrawny woman wearing an oversized knitted hat in a rainbow of colors and olive-green puffer jacket leaned against the hybrid, arms crossed, as she spoke to Officer Wyatt. She kept adjusting her posture, the positioning of her legs, crossing one ankle over the other, then in reverse. Only her arms hung motionless at her sides. Wyatt seemed to be writing down everything she said.
Amanda and Trent left the car. A damp chill cut the air. It smelled of snow. Amanda burrowed into her jacket, wishing she’d brought her heavier one, but she’d have to make do with what she had for now.
Officer Cochran stood at the door for the store. Traci was a good cop, and an even better human being, from what Amanda knew of her. She had a warm, empathetic heart. That quality would either take her far in her career or tear her life apart.
They exchanged greetings as Amanda and Trent put booties over their shoes, and Traci got the door.
“She’s behind the counter,” she told them.
Amanda dipped her head and thanked the officer. Inside, perfumes and colognes mingled with the metallic smell of blood. The tangible density of death was thick and heady, all consuming, almost suffocating. The unseen accompanied the visible such as the high-velocity blood spatter on the wall and counter.
Her legs were leaden as she walked to the end of the counter. Macabre images layered, one upon the other in her mind, conjured up from previous murder scenes. Her life as a career cop gave her a catalog to pull from. It would be healthier if she could simply ignore them. After all, why put herself through the torture of dwelling on what had been? How one violent act wiped out all dreams and ambitions. But this was where she took over with the sacred duty of finding these souls justice and providing their loved ones with closure.
Sadly, this one was a child, barely a legal adult.
Amanda caught her first glimpse of the girl.
Ginger hair. A few shades lighter than Amanda’s.
Time suspended while the tether between this life and, possibly, the next stretched taut. She debated the existence of an afterlife, but to accept that nothing came after death felt so incredibly empty and meaningless. When her husband and six-year-old daughter died nearly eight and a half years ago, she was given a front-row seat to death that rivaled any she’d encountered while working in Homicide. It was an all-immersive hell that stole her breath and capsized her desire to carry on. Seared and kissed by its flames, broken, and nearly destroyed, she eventually emerged from the deep pit. The darkness gave way to a pinprick of light. She dragged herself toward it, and the journey led her to discover her strength and taught her resilience. While the heartbroken widow would always remain a part of her, she had learned to survive despite this. Even flourishing alongside her.
Amanda took another step.
The young woman was on her back, head angled to the left, her arms at her sides, palms facing up. One was stained red, probably from touching her wound. An instinctual, yet ineffective, response.
Her mouth was gaped open, blood on her chin, and her green eyes were staring blankly.
Amanda followed the girl’s sightline. Across from her, a tabletop Christmas tree lay tipped over, its white lights flashing. Generic and inexpensive baubles and ornaments were scattered on the floor.
Her gaze back on the girl, she took in the reindeer antlers on her head, and the melancholy of the scene hit Amanda. Hard. No one should lose someone this close to Christmas.
“You all right?” Trent put a hand on her shoulder.
She nodded. Next month marked three years for them as partners, and he knew her well, how cases with younger people affected her, touching close to home.
