Page 56 of Fatal Pattern

“That’s what the file shows.”

“Blade, I’ve worked juvenile cases. Getting a psych eval on a traumatized child takes weeks, not days. And early-onset paranoid schizophrenia in a four-year-old? That’s extraordinarily rare. Most psychiatrists won’t even diagnose personality disorders in children that young. Plus,” Corbin continued, “my father may have been a calculated piece of work, but I’m praying that he’s walking a new path these days. Maybe this is about redemption.”

“So you think—”

“My gut says the file may’ve been manufactured. The question is who did it, and why.”

“Okay, so I’m not crazy. I just had to talk it out.”

“That’s what I’m here for, brother.”

Blade thanked Corbin and hung up.

He pulled back the covers, but his feet stayed planted on the cold hardwood. If someone had fabricated the file, then the real killer walked free and a four-year-old boy had been framed for murder.

Blade padded into the kitchen only a few hours later, following the rich aroma of coffee that had pulled him from sleep. Tori sat at the kitchen island with her laptop open and hunched over a well-used legal pad, scribbling notes. She had her lips pinched in concentration. Her hair was twisted into some messy updo, and she wore one of his gray undershirts over leggings.

The sight of her made him hold the stare a bit longer. To really look at her. Something about the way the morning light caught the curve of her neck, the focused intensity in her posture, the casual intimacy of her wearing his clothes—

He shook the thought away and reached for his favorite mug.

“Did you cut my shirt?”

She glanced down at the hem, which now hit her mid-thigh instead of somewhere around her ankles. “You’re a giant. It was either cut it or put a belt around my waist and wear it as a dress.”

“And you chose scissors?”

“I didn’t have my belt.”

“That’s destruction of property.”

“That’s practical problem-solving.” She looked back at her laptop screen. “Besides, you have like twenty identical shirts. You won’t even notice.”

“I’m a detective. I notice everything.” He poured coffee into his mug and took the first sip, savoring the bitter warmth. “What are you working on?”

“It’s too early to call Aletheia, so I’m cross-referencing the timeline from the file against what Damien told us. Something about the psychiatric evaluation bothers me. The deterioration happened too fast, even for trauma-induced psychosis.”

The doorbell rang.

Blade froze, coffee mug halfway to his lips. He’d completely forgotten to text Kiara back. The missed calls. The unanswered messages.

Dread washed over him as he opened the door to find Kiara on his doorstep, looking cheerful and ready for work. The warm, sweet smell of pastries wafted from a white bakery bag in her hands. Her blond hair fell in perfect waves, her green eyes bright with morning energy.

“Good morning, sunshine. I brought you—”

Her gaze flicked past his shoulder and landed on Tori, who had moved to stand by the couch, still wearing his shirt. The warmth in her eyes chilled instantly, replaced by a cool, polite mask.

“Kiara, I can explain—”

“No need.” She stepped inside, her voice maintaining its gentle cadence despite the frost in her expression. She placed the bag of pastries on the counter. “After what Tori learned last night, it’s understandable she’d need a shoulder to cry on.”

“I wasn’t crying,” Tori mumbled.

His eyes snapped a warning look to her. Not now.

“I just wanted to drop by on my way to work,” Kiara said. “Make sure Blade ate something because I know he doesn’t always take care of himself.” She attempted a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Coffee isn’t a meal, you know.”

“Kiara, listen—” He scrambled for words that might fix this.