Page 25 of Fatal Pattern

Blade paused. “You sound weird. Everything okay?”

Her throat tightened. The concern in his voice almost broke her resolve to handle this alone.

She forced a laugh. “Weird? That’s my natural state, remember? I’m a behavioral analyst who talks to criminals with mental disorders for a living.”

“Fair point. Though I was thinking more like you sound tired weird, not your usual crazy-smart weird.”

Despite everything, a genuine smile tugged at her lips. “Such a charmer. No wonder you’re finally taken.”

“Heh, yeah. Guess I finally found someone who appreciates my sparkling personality and devastating good looks.”

“Good luck with that. Hope you remembered to brush your teeth before that picnic.”

Blade chuckled. “Ouch. Remind me why I keep you around?”

“Because I make you look smarter by comparison.” The banter steadied her, pushed the fear back into manageable territory. This was normal. This was safe.

“Hardly.” He laughed. “Eight tomorrow morning. I’ll bring coffee.”

“Make mine a double. And none of that gas station swill you call coffee.”

“Cuban coffee from that place you like. I’m not completely hopeless.”

She ended the call and stood at the locker room sink, eyes locked on the mirror. The face staring back gave nothing away. Skin a shade paler, maybe, but anyone passing would see normal. Fine. Steady.

Her gaze slid lower. The strip of flesh-colored tape clung to her throat, almost invisible against her skin. Almost. It covered the cut where his blade had kissed her. Covered the message he wanted etched into her head.

The corner of her gym bag caught her eye. The plastic bag hidden there. His little trophy drop. Proof he thought he was circling tighter, pressing her into a corner. Creeping into her places, breathing her air. He believed that meant leverage.

It didn’t.

She pressed a fingertip against the bandage and winced at the bruised sting beneath. He wanted her hearing him whisper through every cut: I can reach you. Anywhere. Anytime.

Her jaw locked. No. Not this girl.

She wouldn’t fold. Wouldn’t run.

Let him step closer.

She was already waiting.

7

The high-rise main-floor lobby, with its security desk, turnstiles, and elevator banks, stretched before them like a marble cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and calculated intimidation. Blade followed Tori toward the reception desk, their footsteps echoing off polished floors that probably cost more than his annual salary.

The receptionist glanced up from her computer screen with the kind of smile that never reached the eyes. Polite, professional, and completely disinterested in their existence. Her nameplate read “Madison Vigliotti” in sleek silver letters.

“Good morning. How may I help you?”

Blade pulled out his badge. “Detective St. James, Broward Sheriff’s Office. This is Dr. Crew with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. We’d like to speak with someone about Donald Florek.”

Madison frowned. “Oh. Yes, of course. Such a terrible tragedy.” She picked up her phone. “I was told to call HR for any interviews.”

Blade stepped back and looked around while Madison spoke in hushed tones. Behind her desk, a massive canvas dominated the wall. Layers of paint splattered and dripped in random patterns, yet somehow forming a cohesive whole. The colors bled into each other, creating smaller swirls within larger ones, repeating endlessly inward. His eyes traced the swirling blues that morphed into greens, then yellows, each layer revealing new details the closer he looked.

“Interesting artwork,” Tori murmured beside him.

“Yeah.” Blade tilted his head. The painting pulled at his attention, those repetitive spirals drawing his focus deeper into their mathematical precision.