Page 24 of Fatal Pattern

She walked to her Range Rover, the dismissal stinging more than it should have. She slid behind the wheel and started the engine, watching Blade in her rearview mirror as he approached the crime scene techs. She pulled away from the curb and headed toward Kingdom MMA, but her mind stayed stuck on that weird moment.

Like he couldn’t wait to get away from her.

Maybe she was imagining things. Blade had always been protective of his personal life, keeping work and relationships in separate boxes. But they’d been friends for years. She’d saved his life, he’d saved hers. They had history that went deeper than professional courtesy.

So why did it feel like he was building walls?

The traffic light ahead turned red, and she braked. He’d been with Kiara for five months, and Tori had only met her once. A brief introduction at a coffee shop where Kiara had been polite but distant, like she was sizing up the competition.

Which was ridiculous. Tori and Blade were friends. Colleagues even. Nothing more.

But as she accelerated through the green light, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between them. Maybe Kiara didn’t want her around. Maybe Blade was choosing sides.

The gym’s neon sign came into view, and she pushed the thoughts away. She had teenagers to train, kids who needed to learn that strength came from more than just size. That was something she could control.

Unlike whatever was happening with Blade.

Two hours of sweat and grit did the trick. Class had been brutal, and the Kingdom MMA throbbed with leftover energy. Bodies moved through cooldown drills while laughter and glove slaps bounced off the black steel beams. Strands of Tori’s hair stuck damp against her neck, and her arms felt heavy from rounds of demonstrating holds and escapes. The teens had emptied their frustration onto the mats. Andre driving double-legs with grit. Jordan grinning as he sprawled and countered.

She drained the last of her water and cut toward the women’s locker room. Time to change out, shut the night down. Rot at home on the couch with spicy Thai food and a mindless TV show to scrub away the day.

Tori dragged the duffel free from the metal locker and yanked the zipper. Her body locked.

Her clothes weren’t sitting right. She always placed them in the same order out of a habit born of a childhood where she owned very little. Bra laid smooth at the top, shirt sharp-folded beneath, shorts squared on the bottom. Now the stack looked off.

She dug through, retracing the order, and halted. Down against the canvas, something waited. A clear plastic baggie.

She pinched it out. A square of gauze was pressed inside. A quarter-sized maroon stain in the center. Blood.

Flat beneath that, folded paper.

Her fingers worked at the crease, bracing for the words.

The first cut wasn’t deep enough. Let’s try again.

The bag slipped from her hands and smacked the tile. Plastic skidded, the square of gauze glaring through clear wrap. He’d stood here. In her gym. In this room where the walls should have meant safety.

She crouched, pinched the bag shut again, and locked the seal with more force than needed. Her training shouted, Don’t smudge, don’t contaminate. Evidence. That’s what this was.

Not that she could tell anyone. Not yet. Blade was already watching her six every second, and if he caught a whiff of this, he’d chain her to his squad car. He needed her steady, not spooked.

She shoved the baggie inside, yanked on clean clothes, and zipped the gym bag closed. The stalker case was already open at Millie Beach. She’d drop it to the detective on record tomorrow, quiet, no Blade involved. Let the evidence work through proper channels while she kept moving.

Her phone lit up. Blade’s name. The vibration rumbled against her palm as her thumb hit accept.

“Hey.”

“I was thinking about taking a run at interviews at Florek’s law firm tomorrow morning. You up for a drive?”

She pressed her back against the locker, the plastic baggie in her gym bag feeling like it weighed ten pounds. “Yeah, sure. What time?”

“Eight. I want to catch the partners before they disappear into depositions and billable hours.”

“You haven’t interviewed Florek’s coworkers?”

“Patrol deputies handled initial witness interviews. This is follow-up. Standard procedure.”

“Oh yeah. Right.” She wasn’t thinking.