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Detective Quinn—the uptight asshat I’ve been assigned to assist twice now—has shut down the profile. He really doesn’t like working with a behaviorist—with me. We’ve butted heads the whole time I’ve been in Roanoke. I swear he’s from some ancient time before behavioral science. Like my skills are about as useful to him as a crystal ball. And he treats me like a green r
ookie who never clocked one single hour in the field. Like a delicate but irritating pain that cramps his hard-boiled detective style.
I’m not breakable. I’m not delicate.
And if he’d just apply the profile to the case, he’d see what I do: the man sitting adjacent from me. Mid-thirties. Attractive. Charismatic. With an inside knowledge of forensics, and a hatred for strong women that makes him impotent in real life situations.
But Quinn is stubborn. Too damn stubborn to put the heat on Lyle Connelly, because Connelly has an alibi for the most recent murder, and because the forensic tech works within the local department. The fact that this recent murder happened within a month of the last denotes the offender is escalating. He’s been astonishingly patient in the past, waiting almost a year between attacks to claim his victims. The sudden detour in MO is what brought us here.
While Quinn and his task force focus on the recent vic, tracking leads in Roanoke, I’ve been examining the pattern. Putting together the profile. The biggest aspect of which points to someone in law enforcement—someone with knowledge of forensics; who avoids praise but demands promotions and recognition from higher-ups. A classic narcissist.
But that’s not what sealed Connelly as the Roanoke Roper for me; it’s the trail of brutally murdered women he’s left throughout Virginia. He was present in each city when a murder was reported. But here’s the kicker: his method changes from place to place, as if he creates a new MO each time. Honestly, it’s a brilliant tactic. One that takes extreme discipline for a ritualistic offender.
Over the past three years, I’ve worked many of the cases, all unsolved—until now. It all keeps coming back to Connelly.
I finally found him.
Quinn, however, refuses to dig further to unearth the truth. Like Quinn, I don’t want to ruin a reputation. I don’t want to embarrass either of our departments. But isn’t that the price we have to pay, the sacrifices we have to make, to bring in these offenders?
By the book, Bonds. We work within the law. We’re not vigilantes.
Maybe Quinn is right; I am green, with a youthful idealism of the law to boot. I’ve been witness to the dark underbelly of the world. I’ve seen these creatures up close, smelled their breath, tasted their thrill, gazed into the blackness of their soulless eyes. I’ve been seared and branded by their cruelty. My body and mind violated by their evil.
Quinn believes he’s sheltering me from this dark realm. By dismissing my theories and trying to get me thrown off his case, he’s offering me some kind of backhanded protection. But if he had a bit more training in my field, he might see that I’m way past that point—the moment to shelter me died in a dungeon. And in this dark world of ghouls and demons, I’m the monster to be feared.
All his old-school chivalry aside, Quinn strikes a cord in me—a deep one. Despite his anal, by-the-book shit, I do respect him. That’s why I’m out here now, gathering intel on Connelly. I don’t feel the need to prove myself or my theories, or to justify myself—but I’ll be damned if this predator kills another woman right under my watch.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts as the waitress returns with my champagne. “Don’t get a lot of requests for this,” she says as she sets the flute before me. “Had to order it in special just for you.”
“Thanks.” I take a sip, my lips puckering at the tartness of the cheap champagne. “What’s his drink?” I nod toward Connelly.
“Him? Mr. Lonely Hearts. SoCo on the rocks.”
“I’ll have one also,” I say, receiving a raised eyebrow from the waitress.
“It’s your liver, darlin’.”
As she sets off, I push back in the chair and uncross my legs slowly, piquing the interest of several men around the nearest pool table. Connelly remains unaffected. His head bowed over his tumbler, as if he’s studying the grains in the wood table.
When the waitress places the tumbler of SoCo in front of me, I note his slight shift in posture. His shoulders twitch upward, his neck straightens, jaw tense. I want to make sure I have his attention, let him know he has mine, but I hope my move isn’t too bold.
Connelly likes to be the pursuer. He makes the move, not the other way around. He’s the dominant man over the more dominant woman. I might’ve just angered him. Though, that anger could work to my advantage, too.
For the first time, his eyes meet mine. Dark pools of liquid black, they stare into me, a challenge. Keeping my facade in place, my guard up, I lick my lips deliberately. Watch his gaze fall lower to take in my subtle taunt. A hungry glint flashes in his eyes as he rests his hand, just a finger, over his mouth to hide a smile.
Coy. Charming. Oh, how the girls must eat up his act.
But this is good. I’ve pushed him just the right amount, letting him know I’m approachable, but I’ve left the ball in his court. He’s still the one in charge, the shot caller. He’s employing his tactics on me, which means I’m in his crosshairs.
He won’t make a move on me in here, in front of others. The chance to be publically rejected is still too intimidating. He knows better from past experiences, and has learned to corner his prey, isolate them. He hates being humiliated. Even, or especially, by a filthy whore.
As his gaze continues to rake over me, now that I’ve invited his assessment, I can feel the chilly fingers of apprehension clutching at my boundaries. I should be more than wary. I should be afraid. If Quinn knew where I was right now, if he was aware of the dangerous game I’m playing, he would be furious. And disappointed. Maybe even a little insulted. Despite his stern act with me, he does hold me in high regard as a young woman of the law, and the fact that I’m debasing myself to get on the same level as a deviant offender says more than he’ll ever know about the person I really am.
Some truths are better kept in the dark.
But I’ve tumbled in the filth with Connelly’s likeness before. I discovered a long time ago just how deviant my nature can be. I no longer know where my boundaries are—where my hard limits lie. All I know for sure is that I will do what it takes to stop him from torturing one more girl.
Toying with a lock of my hair, I give him a smile of my own, encouraging him to finally make his move. He shifts in his seat, but doesn’t stand. I follow his cues, waiting for him to stand so I can follow him out. Right when I think he’s about to rise, his face hardens and my view is blocked. Someone steps in my line of vision.
