Page 76 of Fatal Pattern

The lines and spirals seemed to shift, each curve leading to another, smaller version of itself.

Tori stepped beside him. No questions. No commentary. Just the quiet understanding of a partner who knew when to let him work. Her shoulder hovered inches from his, close enough that he felt her breathing rhythm match his own.

This wordless collaboration had become second nature. No need to explain his process or justify the time spent staring at what others saw as decoration. She trusted his instincts the same way he’d learned to trust her analytical mind. The partnership freed him to sink deeper into the visual puzzle, to let his subconscious make connections his rational mind might miss.

“There’s something in this painting. Can’t pinpoint it yet.”

He let his eyes go unfocused. Not looking at the swirls of blue and green paint, but through them. Searching for the pattern within the pattern.

The colors shifted. Depth emerged where none should exist. And then—

Blood rushed faster through his veins.

Hidden within the layers was a face. Hollow eyes. Slack mouth. The unmistakable features of Judge Doreen Kagay from the Tampa file photo.

“What in the world . . .” Was he seeing this for real, or had he imagined it?

“What’s wrong? What do you see?” He felt her rise on her toes beside him.

“I don’t want to influence you. Tell me if you see something weird.”

“Like your face?”

He shot her a look.

“Sorry.” She stepped closer, her expression shifting from playful to focused. Then she gasped. “Not your face, but a face. Tell me I’m not seeing—”

“Shh.” Blade glanced toward the doorway.

Tori clamped her hand over her mouth.

“We have to play it cool,” he said, even though his pulse hammered at his collar.

“What does it mean?” Tori whispered.

“Not sure yet, but follow me.”

He headed toward the lobby, forcing his stride to stay casual. Ryan Petersen passed them in the hallway with a wave. The bruises had shifted to a sickly green-yellow that made Petersen look jaundiced.

In the lobby, Blade approached the reception desk and stopped short. The woman behind the counter wasn’t Madison. This young woman wore clear glasses and a polite smile. He’d been distracted by McCrary when they’d arrived and hadn’t noticed her.

“Excuse me,” Blade said, flashing his badge. “Where’s Madison?”

The woman looked up, blinking. “Madison? I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is. I’m Kristin. I’m just a temp. How can I help you?”

Blade glanced at Tori. Had Madison been fired for talking to them? The timing felt too convenient. “How long have you been here?”

“Couple of days.” Kristin adjusted her glasses. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Actually, yes.” He gestured toward the painting behind the reception desk, forcing enthusiasm. “I’m really drawn to these paintings. Who’s the artist?”

Kristin followed his gaze. “Oh, I’m not sure.”

“Is the information lying around back there?” He peeked over the counter-height desk. “You know, in case a client wants to know.”

“Uh.” She glanced around, more confused than searching. “I don’t think so. But I can look up the delivery record if you’d like.”

“That’d be great.”