He follows, curious. "Dangerous how?"
"Personal investment," I explain, navigating through the crowd with practiced ease. "It makes you effective, but it also makes you reckless. You start taking cases personally, and suddenly you're not just pursuing justice. You're pursuing satisfaction."
Graham stops walking, studying my face with those intense eyes. "And what's wrong with a little satisfaction?"
The question hangs between us like a challenge. I turn to face him fully, noting the way his pupils dilate slightly, the subtle shift in his posture that suggests he's more interested in my answer than he should be.
"Satisfying is one word for it," I say, holding his gaze a second too long before stepping toward the exit. He really is a beautiful man.
I leave him standing there in the lobby, confusion flickering across his sharp features. I’ve no doubt that he'll replay that moment later tonight, wondering what he missed, what subtext he failed to catch. The uncertainty will eat at him—ambitious men hate unsolved puzzles. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t elicit a true grin from me.
As I push through the courthouse doors into the afternoon sun, I can feel his eyes on my back. Porter is ambitious, idealistic, and just dangerous enough to be useful. He's also exactly the type of man who thinks he can handle complicated women.
I suppose they all do. Until they can't.
***
The parking garage swallows sound like a concrete tomb. My heels echo against the low ceiling as I weave between cars toward my BMW, keys already in hand. The afternoon's courtroom performance still hums under my skin.
I'm sliding my key into the lock when my phone buzzes against my hip. The FaceTime ringtone cuts through the garage's silence like a bell, and I already know who it is before I check the screen. Casey Holbrook's name glows back at me, accompanied by a candid photo of her making an exaggerated shocked face,the kind of expression that perfectly captures her approach to life.
I answer with a resigned sigh, angling the phone so the parking garage's fluorescent lighting doesn't cast unflattering shadows. Casey's face fills the screen immediately, all wild auburn curls escaping from a messy top-knot and dramatic brown eyes bright with barely contained excitement. Behind her, I catch glimpses of the crime lab. All steel tables, equipment that costs more than most people's cars, the sterile white walls that serve as a backdrop to their daily dance with death.
"Lila!" Casey's voice carries that particular brand of caffeine-fueled enthusiasm that means she’s been at the lab too long. "Please tell me you're somewhere I can live vicariously through your glamorous courthouse adventures, because I'm currently elbow-deep in someone's blood spatter patterns and I need a mental break."
"Parking garage," I say dryly, settling against my car door. "Very glamorous. What's this really about, Casey?"
She laughs, the sound echoing strangely through the phone's speaker. "Can't a girl call her favorite forensic psychologist just to chat? Maybe gossip about how you absolutely destroyed Morrison in cross-examination today?"
"You weren't there." I keep my voice neutral, but there's amusement threading through it. Casey has this gift for making even the most mundane conversations feel like conspiracies.
"No, but half the courthouse was texting about it before you even left the building." Casey shifts, and I catch the familiar glimpse of her workspace; files are scattered across metal surfaces, and there are many coffee cups in various stages of abandonment. It’s a good depiction of the organized chaos that follows her everywhere. "God, you should've seen the text chainin the DA's office. Graham Porter was practically waxing poetic about your testimony."
Something flickers in my chest at the mention of Graham's name, but I keep my expression carefully neutral. "Mm. Flattering."
"Right? Though honestly, watching you work is like watching a masterclass in psychological warfare. You don't just answer questions—you plant ideas. It's kind of terrifying." Casey pauses, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. "Speaking of terrifying...."
And there it is. The real reason for the call.
"What's this really about, Casey?" I repeat, tilting my head slightly. The parking garage's harsh lighting throws half my face into shadow, and I catch Casey's eyes tracking the movement on her screen.
She shifts again, glancing around the lab like she’s checking for eavesdroppers. "Okay, so you know how I'm not supposed to talk about active cases, right? Like, super not supposed to?"
"I'm aware of the ethics involved in your job, yes." I let a hint of dry humor color my voice. Casey thrives on being the bearer of forbidden knowledge. She just needs the right encouragement to spill.
"Well, hypothetically speaking…and this is totally hypothetical, obviously…what would you think about blood spatter patterns that don't match any of the standard classification systems?" The words tumble out in a rush, like Casey's been holding them back for hours. "Like, I've been doing this for four years, and I've never seen anything quite like what came through today."
My pulse quickens, but I keep my breathing steady. "Hypothetically,” I say, striving for controlled diplomacy. “I'd think you should probably talk to your supervisor about unusual findings."
"I did! That's the thing—Dr. Martinez looked at everything, ran it through the database, and even called in Dr. Chen from the university." Casey's eyes are wide now, excitement overriding professional caution. "No matches. Whatever happened to this victim, it's not in any of our textbooks."
I adjust my grip on the phone, angling it so the camera catches the subtle tilt of my head; the universal signal for 'tell me more' without actually having to ask.
Casey takes the bait.
"The cuts are wrong," she continues, voice dropping to something approaching a whisper. "Precise, but not surgical. Deliberate, but not torture. And the positioning—" She pauses, running a hand through her escaping curls. "It's like whoever did this was trying to say something. Leave a message."
Message.
