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No, my captor didn’t miss. He hit his target dead on. He wasn’t attempting to take my life, but he made sure I died that day. That his torment would ensue long past my physical suffering. That I would never forget.
And I haven’t. I never left that basement.
I even found a way to be ultimately okay with that—until Colton. How did he find me? Was he looking? Am I that transparent?
This is too dangerous.
I should listen to that voice, the one screaming inside my head to keep him away. Whatever he can offer me, whatever freedom, isn’t worth the price both of us will pay. As much as he sees me…I’m not glass. He can’t see everything.
I slam my foot down on the brake and curse. Putting my car in reverse, I back up and then park beside Quinn’s unmarked Crown Vic. I push my car door open and wince as my stilettos crunch gravel beneath their soles. Glancing down at my red dress and cringing at the clashing shoulder holster, I bite my lip. But it’s too late to wish I’d changed now.
Quinn is never going to stop giving me shit about this dress.
Regardless of my discomfort, this is not about me. When I got the message that another murder had been reported a few blocks from The Lair, I had to come right away. So I tug off the burgundy wig and stuff it into my bag as I round the stream of yellow tape toward the front porch of the small house.
Already, I’ve left behind the twisted and confused girl at the club, and am now in full investigative mode. The only setback, my annoyingly slow pace due to the tight skirt of the dress and high heels.
“Jesus—”
My attention snaps up at Quinn’s voice. Damn.
Standing near two uniforms, his black trench coat setting him apart from the blue pressed shirts circling him, a slack-jawed Quinn stares down at me. He blinks hard once, breaking his intense scrutiny, then motions his unis to head inside the house.
Their eyes stay trained on me even as they disappear through the front door.
Checking my scarf and securing it tighter, I release a heavy breath and take the first step. “Don’t even, Quinn,” I say, eyes aimed on the cement porch. “Let’s just get to work. Fill me in on what you know.”
I peek up to see him raise his eyebrows. “You show up to my crime scene dressed like…” His eyes languidly trace my form, then roam up, meeting my gaze searchingly. “You look good, Bonds. Shocking, but good.”
I don’t know how to take him—sincerity coming from Quinn throws me off balance. “Don’t get used to it. It was just one of those nights, all right?”
He holds up his hands. “You don’t owe me an explanation. No judgment here.”
His words stop me from entering the house, and I turn toward him, my face scrunched in question. He’s the second man to point out that I have no reason to be judged. Shaking it off with a jerk of my head, I motion toward the cracked front door.
“Who called it in?” I ask.
Visibly putting himself back in the scene, the hard detective switches on with a roll of his shoulders. “A friend, or rather a co-worker. When the victim didn’t show up for work today, and didn’t reply to texts or calls later, she came by to check on her.” Quinn pushes the door open and guides me inside, his hand at the small of my back. “After banging on the door repeatedly, she found it unlocked and came in to find this.”
Ignoring his alpha-male manners, I step away from his touch, and into a grisly crime scene that steals my breath. Red covers the floor. The walls. The chandelier. Suddenly I’m very aware of just how inappropriate my outfit is. Just how much I stand out against the numbers of blue and black, and the violent blood splatters.
Sensing my unease, Quinn yanks off his coat and offers it to me. I nod, allowing him to drape it over my shoulders. “Has the M.E. determined the TOD yet?” Feeling slightly less on display, I slink over to where a box of shoe covers has been placed along the floor and slip them over my heels.
Quinn does the same. “Avery thinks the vic was killed sometime this morning. But the scene suggests the perpetrator spent a good amount of time with her first.”
Despite my best effort to focus on the facts in their own element, my mind is already linking this case to the previous. Both women apparently lived alone and were attacked in their own homes. Both were tortured throughout the night and killed in the early morning hours.
But there are glaring differences setting this crime apart from the other.
The living room is wrecked. As if the victim put up a fierce struggle, or the assailant was enraged. Probably both. Broken glass litters the hardwood floor, blood coats the gleaming slivers. It’s probably too much to hope that it’s the perpetrator’s blood—most likely he attacked the victim with the glass object.
Which denotes impulse. Very different from the meticulously planned attack on the previous victim, where she was subdued without a fight.
“No forced entry?” I look over at Quinn, already suspecting the answer. There was no damage to the door.
He shakes his head. “No sign of that yet. No broken windows. Everything is all locked up. There’s also no murder weapon or prints…but I’m hoping, with the apparent struggle, we get some of the perpetrator’s DNA.”
When I reach the victim herself, I can only stare. Whether in wonder, awe, or mortification…it’s all the same. Naked and mutilated, she’s been posed on the floor as if she’s sleeping. Hands curled toward her mouth, hair fanning out around her head. Eyes closed. To the untrained eye, the pose looks like a sign of remorse—but he didn’t cover her; he left her nude and degraded. It feels more like mockery than regret.
