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“No beauty pageant for you today,” she told her image before she brushed her teeth and swilled some sharp-tasting antibacterial mouthwash inside her mouth.
She couldn’t afford to be sick.
Not now.
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After pulling on silky long johns, she dressed in a sweater and department-issued slacks. Soberly, she looked at her reflection in the mirror and wondered what had happened to her. As a teenager, she’d been proud of her good looks, flaunted her slim figure, applied more makeup than she needed to her large eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. But that was a lifetime ago.
When life had been filled with laughter and promise.
Frowning, dispelling the image, she found her shoulder holster and snapped it on.
She was no longer all those things that had been important to her in her youth. “Hot.” Or “cool.”
Whichever was in vogue. Even “tight” or “sexy” or
“naughty” didn’t appeal to her. Probably would never again.
Which was fine.
Except that she was alone.
No husband or lover or boyfriend on the horizon.
“No big deal,” she said to herself while warming water for tea in the microwave. After all, she’d been thinking about getting a pet. Why not? Something living to come home to.
A bird would be good . . . maybe a parakeet or macaw or . . . who was she kidding? A bird? In a cage? Spreading seeds and crapping on newspapers lining the cage floor? Or perching on the curtain rod with its wings clipped?
Fine for someone else.
Just not Selena’s style.
She was fine. Alone. Matter of fact, that’s just how she liked things.
She glanced at her desk where more images and 92
Lisa Jackson
notes about the series of murders were strewn over the desk in the tiny apartment where she lived alone. No man had ever slept in her bed. She’d been in Grizzly Falls for over three years, ever since leaving San Bernadino. “A loner,” she’d been called, or an “ice princess.” She’d even heard Pete Watershed, a coworker, suggest to a group of officers that she “probably swings the other way.” Even now, feeling rotten, she smiled at that one. If they only knew.
Not that she gave a damn.
Besides, Watershed was a dolt.
Alvarez figured that the less her coworkers and acquaintances knew about her, the better she could do her job. And she was all about her job. The microwave dinged and she pulled out the cup of near-boiling water, then dunked a bag of tea into it. Her grandmother had insisted that honey and lemon be added to the tea in order for the concoction to “shake the cold loose,” but Alvarez had neither item in the small kitchen of her studio. Orange pekoe would have to do.
“Citrus is citrus,” she told herself, blowing over her cup and gingerly tasting the hot tea. It nearly burned her tongue, but did soothe her throat. Her cell rang and it sounded dull, as her ears were still plugged. She scrounged it out of her pocket and flipped it open. “Alvarez.”
“She’s not our killer.” Sheriff Grayson sounded disgusted. “Nothing adds up. A copycat, it looks like, though how she knew enough about the crimes to try and kill Jillian Rivers in the same manner, we haven’t figured out yet.” He let out a long, angry breath. “I was really hoping she would be the doer
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and we could close the case, but that’s not gonna happen.”
