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Once I forwarded the sketch to Quinn, I sent the interns home. Needing this space to myself to conduct my experiment. I could go home, but I feel safer in the same building as Quinn—even if this lab is now tainted.
I groan and close my laptop, angry with myself for letting Quinn effect me. Doesn’t he realize this is all I have? That if he shuts me out, I’ll go crazy just sitting at home, watching reruns. There’re only so many episodes of Grey’s Anatomy a pathologist can watch before you start questioning your sanity.
And I can’t do that again. I can’t sit back and wait, wondering what the next step is. This time, I’m calling the shots. I’m not sure what happens now, but I know my part: getting to the bottom of the altered cocktail. That’s one area where I know exactly what I’m doing.
I hurriedly change clothes; trading out my field pants for the black maxi skirt I wore in to work, then slip on my lab coat, ready to move ahead with the comparison testing.
As I distribute samples of the ambrein compound into two dishes, I can’t stop thinking about how Quinn pulled the same shit with Sadie. It’s like he’s on some misogynistic kick with the women in his department. Hell, I’m not even in his department, and yet he feels he has control over my career. Control freak.
I push away from my desk, frustrated. And immediately, remorse seizes my mood. Quinn is a lot of things—a stubborn control freak being at the top of the list—but he’s not sexist, and he’s not on my case because he thinks I can’t handle the job. I get it. If I were in his position, I’d have sent any lab tech home instantly.
Especially if that tech started coming on to me…
Mortified, I bury my face in my hands. What the hell is wrong with me?
He must think I’ve lost it. That I’ve officially lost my freaking mind. If he didn’t have a good reason to have me removed from this case before, I just gave him one.
A bang sounds from the main lab, and I flinch.
The body. Right.
Completely lost in thought, I forgot Carson sent notice that they were wrapping up at the crime scene and vic number two was on her way here. I stand and smooth my palms down my lab coat before exiting my office. As soon as I see the two transfer crewmembers wheeling the stretcher through the double doors, I stop short.
“Where’s Derik?” I ask.
Neither answers as they continue to push the stretcher toward the middle of the lab. I take a step back. Their gaze is aimed at the floor, their faces hidden behind the bill of their baseball hats, and something just isn’t…right.
I’ve been overly paranoid since returning to work. Which I assumed was normal. I was bound and gagged and tortured in this very room…before I was stolen away by the monster. I had to rationalize my fears before I could even step foot back inside the lab. But after the discovery of the ambrein, that paranoia feels amplified.
Why did I think I could ever be here alone?
I slip a hand inside my coat pocket and wrap sweaty fingers around the Mace clipped to my key ring. The one Quinn gave me—a first day back on the job present. At the time, I didn’t appreciate the reminder. But now, I’m thankful. Paranoid or not, I’m prepared.
One of the crewmembers looks up and smiles. “Derik called in sick today. We’re filling in.” He unhooks a clipboard from the stretcher and holds it out to me.
With a shaky exhale, I release the Mace. I can’t live in fear.
Accepting the clipboard, I sign my name on the paperwork. When I glance up to hand it back, the guy’s smile morphs into a sneer. There’s only a second for panic to set in before something covers my face.
Fight-or-flight adrenaline surges, and it’s fight that kicks in first. Pen still gripped in my fist, I thrust downward and connect with the man’s thigh behind me. An angry growl roars in the shell of my ear, my eardrum crackling with the force of it.
“The bitch stabbed me!”
The black bag covering my head cinches tight around my neck. My hands go to my throat. I try to pry my fingers between the bag and my neck before fear grips my senses. Arms surround me, and I’m lifted in the air.
I hit the floor hard, releasing a strangled cry as pain bites into my back.
Pressure bears down on me as one of the men straddles my chest. My air supply is pinched off, my hands pulled over my head. The Mace long forgotten.
“Someone wants a word with you, bitch,” the guy on top of me says.
The material molds to my open mouth as I gulp in hot breaths. I blink rapidly, struggling to get a visual of my attackers through the cloth, but the pitch black only terrifies me more every time I open my eyes.
I squeeze them closed, focus on the sounds.
The swing of the double doors, then heavy footfalls. Slow, deliberate. Somehow that measured patience—as if this person has all the time in the world—scares me the most.
My muscles tense as I thrash against his hold on my arms. It’s useless—but I’m not giving up. Not this time.
