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“Because I know with what I’m about to give you, you will do everything within your power to see to Alexis’s safety.”
Jefferson moves in front of the camera. I hear the click of the keys, then a garbled voice emits over the speakers.
I recognize the distorted voice. “That’s the transmitted feed we recorded from the night of the auction bust.”
“Very good, detective,” Larkin says. Patronizing prick. I prompt them both to hurry the hell up with their point.
“I’ve been working on filtering the voice,” Jefferson says. “I ran a closed loop through an adaptive filter, then created my own sample to further separate the variables, narrowing the cost function—”
“Jesus.” My brain actually melts. “Aren’t you a driver? Can you speed this along?”
Jefferson doesn’t look affronted. Actually, he looks a bit smug, having spewed jargon at an old-school cop. “This is the final reproduction after my latest filter.” He taps a key.
The distorted voice of the Alpha morphs into a slowed-down version, sounding like a record spun in reverse, and then it speeds up.
“I added that effect for posterity’s sake,” he says, but I hold up my hand for him to quiet as I focus.
A shiver slinks up my back as the tinkling voice coats my skin.
I know that voice—I know it fucking well.
15
Alpha
Alpha
My bones ache with anticipation. My skin tingles, buzzed.
The Arlington County Police Department is lit with the hazy, late-night glow of insomnia. It never sleeps. We have that in common.
The morgue welcomes me with a swipe of my ID badge. A beep grants me access, the click of the front door unlocking a gratifying sound, the last puzzle piece snapping into place. I wait for the countdown.
Three.
Two.
One.
Security cameras disabled.
A blast of antiseptic- and vinegar-laced air greets me as I enter the main corridor. My footfalls echo against the bare white walls.
Cleanliness is next to godliness. And as far as I’m concerned, inside these walls, I am god.
Detective Carson wears a slack, sleep-deprived expression. Slumped against his chair, he recognizes me, and takes his time standing to attention. “Good morning,” he says. “Or not. Depending on if you’re a morning person.”
I force a smile, disgust knotting my neck. If Avery belonged to me, I would have never placed an imbecile like Alec Carson in charge of her detail. I suppose, though, it works in my favor. And I suppose, she soon will belong to me.
I curl my finger, beckoning the detective to lean in close. The corners of his eyes crinkle in confusion until his dick catches on, then he’s all too willing. Placing my lips near his ear, I whisper, “Your fly is down, detective.”
When he looks down to inspect the front of his pants, I dig my fingers into his hair and smash his head against the wall. I feel the satisfying crack against my palm.
“Don’t worry,” I say as I let the syringe drop to my hand from my sleeve, “no one will blame you.” I plunge the needle into his jugular. Push the stopper to the hilt. “Much.”
His panicked gaze latches on to mine, his mouth gaping, voice unable to escape. I shove him in the alcove where he disappears in the shadows. A double dose of Trifecta, I discovered, puts my girls into a slumber, until the clawing need awakens them with an urgent craving.
It’s downright torture.
