Page 46 of Fatal Pattern

“She’s covered,” Blade said, pushing off the counter.

Paul’s smile faded. “Right. Of course.” He tossed a roll of tape into his medical kit with more force than necessary.

“Detective,” Tori said, twisting around to laser him with a stare. “Could you grab me a jacket from my bedroom?”

She was getting rid of him. Fine. He didn’t want to stand around and watch anyway. He stomped to Tori’s bedroom closet, stepping around a photographer documenting blood spatter on the hardwood. Her clothes hung in neat rows, organized by color and season. He grabbed a lightweight jacket from the end of the rack. Navy blue, practical, the kind she wore to crime scenes.

When he returned to the living room, Paul was gone. Tori sat exactly where he’d left her, hands folded in her lap.

“Here.” Blade held out the jacket.

She slipped her arms through the sleeves, careful not to disturb the fresh bandage. “Thanks.”

He checked his watch. “You ready?” He kept his voice low, meant only for her. “CSU can handle the rest.”

Tori’s gaze swept the room one more time. A tech was dusting her coffee table for prints. Another officer photographed the broken lamp near the hallway entrance. Her private space had become a public spectacle, every corner exposed and cataloged.

“Yeah.” She stood, testing her balance. “Let’s go.”

Her steps carried a drag now, measured, like every joint protested movement. The crash from the fight had bled out of her, leaving the kind of weariness that worked its way into the bones.

It was just after midnight. He shouldn’t have asked her to ride along, not after the beating her night had already given her. But when she’d locked those eyes on him in the closet, he saw it plain. She’d crawl through glass if that’s what it took to chase down what happened to her family. No way he was cutting her out of that.

He nodded toward the door. “Time to get that file.”

The warehouse sat at the far end of the lot, nothing but gray slabs and barbed wire, cameras fixed like unblinking eyes. Blade slowed at the gate, badge lifted. The guard studied it, swiped a card, and the barrier ratcheted up. The Charger rolled through.

Tori stayed angled against the seat, arms folded, lashes pressed shut like she’d welded herself away from him and the world outside the glass. He’d kept the silence on the ride over, letting her choose when to talk about what happened before he’d found her in the closet.

He parked and cut the engine. The rumble died, leaving a silence that settled in his ears like cotton. His hand tapped the gearshift on autopilot. Tap, tap, tap. Index, middle, ring.

In ten minutes, they’d walk into that building with Kiara, her career on the line. Not just her job but her reputation. Her clean, safe world where the worst thing that happened was a misfiled court document or a cranky judge. Or a boyfriend who constantly stood her up.

He had no idea why she put up with him. Kiara represented everything that had been missing from those years growing up in the Everglades. She made him picture Sunday mornings that didn’t begin with checking over his shoulder. Maybe a house with an actual foundation instead of cinderblocks and rust. Kids who’d never know what it meant to go hungry while their father disappeared for days, chasing the next score that would fix everything and never did.

With Kiara, normal wasn’t just some fantasy he’d glimpsed through other people’s windows. She was the hope of a future he’d only imagined.

The passenger seat creaked as Tori shifted. She’d been miles away from how she’d brushed off the first attack. No wisecracks. No professional detachment. The second assault had cracked something in her armor, and he could see the fracture lines spreading.

He angled to face her. “You sure about this? After everything that’s happened, maybe we should wait. Give you time to process.”

She locked onto the building through the windshield, unblinking. Her bandaged arm lay in her lap, jacket sleeve hiding the square of gauze beneath.

“I’m sure.”

“Because once we see what’s in that file, there’s no going back. Crime scene photos, autopsy reports . . . It’s not going to be easy.”

Tori lifted her eyes to his. No spark this time, no teasing edge, no sharp read on him. She’d dropped every defense, and underneath, where he’d always suspected steel, he found something softer. Something that had been waiting a very long time to stop fighting.

“I couldn’t remember.”

“What?”

“My entire life, I’ve had zero memory of that night. I don’t remember what my house looked like. Can’t picture my parents’ faces except from the one photograph I was given in foster care. The same photo that’s online. The only one online.”

Blade’s knee stopped bouncing. The crime scene photos would be brutal. He’d seen enough murder books to know. Parents stabbed to death in their own bedroom while their four-year-old daughter hid in a closet. She probably didn’t want to see those photos, much less have them burned into her memory forever.

“Do you remember after? The foster homes?”