Page 43 of Fatal Pattern

But then . . . a smell.

Sharp. Metallic.

Blood.

The scent hit his consciousness, cutting through the fog.

Not just any blood. His blood.

The copper tang that had filled his nostrils during countless fights, countless crime scenes, countless moments when violence had painted the world red.

The smell was a key turning in a lock.

The gray void shattered.

The beeping monitor faded to silence.

Twenty-six years collapsed in an instant.

The smell of blood hovered in the air. Fresh. Warm. Still spreading across hardwood floors in dark, arterial pools.

Stryker’s radio crackled against his shoulder. “Unit 47, what’s your status?”

Damien keyed his mic. “We need paramedics. Now.” The code for homicide rolled off his tongue. Numbers that meant another family destroyed, another crime scene to process. “And bring child services.”

The last part hit harder than it should have. Stryker crouched at the closet entrance, studying the little girl. Her purple princess nightgown was pulled over her knees, and she rocked. Back and forth. Back and forth. The fabric showed cartoon crowns and sparkly wands, innocent images that belonged in bedtime stories, not crime scenes.

Her forehead pressed against her knees, long dark hair falling like a curtain around her face. She hadn’t acknowledged his presence. Hadn’t even flinched when he spoke.

What did you say to a little girl who may have just witnessed her parents’ murder?

He’d arrested child abusers, responded to domestic violence calls where kids cowered in corners. But this felt different. This child had retreated so far inside herself that the outside world might not exist.

“Hey, sweetie,” he said. “Can you tell me your name?”

Nothing. The rocking continued.

Behind him, the man’s breathing grew more labored. Wet. Rattling. Time was running out for everyone in this house.

Stryker reached toward the little girl, fingers extended. Maybe physical contact would break through whatever wall she’d built around herself.

The moment his hand touched her shoulder, she erupted.

A scream tore from her throat. High-pitched. Primal. Pure terror given voice. She thrashed against the closet wall, small fists beating at the air, eyes wide but unseeing.

“Hey, hey.” He pulled his hand back, palms raised. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

The screaming stopped as suddenly as it started. She collapsed back into her rocking position, forehead to knees, as if the outburst had never happened.

His radio crackled. Paramedics were still five minutes out, but it was already too late for the man and woman behind him. And this little girl was trapped in a nightmare that wouldn’t end.

He lowered himself to the closet floor, settling beside her with his back against the wall. Close enough to help if needed. Far enough away that she wouldn’t feel cornered.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to touch her again. Just sat in the darkness, matching her rhythm. When she rocked forward, he leaned slightly forward. When she rocked back, he followed.

Sometimes presence was enough. Sometimes sitting with someone in their worst moment was the only thing you could offer.

The little girl’s breathing gradually slowed. The mechanical rocking softened into something more natural. Still there, but less frantic.