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Fiona's heart clenched. She did want to talk about it. Being with Jake felt right, even when her mind told her it was wrong to share moments like this. It would only make things harder, more complicated.
"I know, Jake," she said. "Thank you. You're a good friend."
They remained in silence for a few more minutes before Fiona spoke up again. "Jake, can I ask you something?"
"Anything," he replied.
"Do you think I'm a liability? Do you think I can't handle this job because of everything with my sister?"
He shot her a frown. "What? No, Red." He laughed slightly. "Hell, I have a past, too, you know. If anything, it motivates me. Sure, I think about it sometimes, but it reminds me why I do what I do. So other people don't have to suffer like my family did."
Fiona's heart sank. She didn't know much about Jake's past, but he had alluded to something happening. She just didn't know what.
"What happened?" she asked.
He looked down at her, brown eyes soft and warm, making her chest tingle. But then he turned away. "It doesn't matter," he said. "All I'm saying is, I think it's amazing that you haven't given up on your sister. You're still here, still focused on the case, so no, I don't think it's a liability."
Fiona listened to Jake's words carefully, feeling a sense of gratitude for having someone like him by her side. She had always been a lone wolf, but lately, she had started to realize that it was okay to rely on others every once in a while. Especially when that person was someone as caring and understanding as Jake.
"Thanks, Jake," she said softly. "It means a lot to me."
He smiled at her, and for a moment, she forgot all about her worries and fears. The only thing that mattered was the two of them standing there under the night sky. Jake was right; Fiona knew she could stay focused and catch this killer. They had done it together before, and they would keep doing it. The killer remained elusive, always just out of their grasp. But they couldn't afford to give up; they had to keep pushing forward, even if it meant chasing shadows long into the night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Roger stood in the middle of his dimly lit living room, his gaze fixated on the floor. A lone ant crawled across the worn carpet, unaware of the impending doom that awaited it. With a swift stomp of his foot, Roger crushed the tiny insect, its life extinguished in an instant.
"Thought I got rid of you pests," he grumbled under his breath, recalling the exterminator's visit not too long ago. They did a damn bad job, apparently. Like unwanted memories, the ants returned, infiltrating his sanctuary once more.
He could do it better himself, like most things. Roger hobbled to the kitchen in search of bug spray. That ought to teach those ants something. And he'd have to call that exterminator too, give him a piece of his mind and get his damn money back.
Cabinets creaked as he rummaged through their contents, frustration mounting with each passing second. His hands ached from arthritis--years of working in a factory had left him with aching joints as an old man, even in his damn fingers. Maybe he hadn't put the bug spray in here because no matter how much he searched, he couldn't find it.
Just then, a noise sounded from somewhere in the house--a banging. Roger jolted, his pulse pounding.
"Who's there?" he barked. The silence that followed only heightened his nerves, but after several moments of it, he realized he was probably just going senile.
"Must be hearing things," he muttered. But the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach refused to bugger off.
Either way, he needed to do something about these ants, so he continued his way through his house in search of the bug spray.
As Roger rounded the corner into his kitchen, he was greeted by an unsettling sight: the back door stood slightly ajar, swaying gently in the evening breeze. The sight of it sent a chill down his spine. Had he left it open? He racked his brain, trying to recall if he had gone outside earlier, but the memory eluded him.
"Damned memory," he muttered under his breath. It was getting harder and harder to trust his own recollections these days. But he couldn't ignore the sense of unease that gnawed at his gut. Resolutely, he approached the door, peering out into the darkening yard.
"Hello? Anyone out there?" he called, his voice wavering more than he'd care to admit. No response came, and the silence seemed to press in around him like a living thing. Shaking his head, he closed the door firmly and locked it. To hell with it, he said to himself. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done something silly like leave a door open, and who would want to break into an old man's house anyway? He was far from rich, and there wasn't much of value here.
Trying to focus, he strode toward the pantry, the next place he could have tossed the bug spray.
But as soon as he swung the door open, a gloved hand shot out from the darkness, gripping his throat tightly. Roger gasped, his heart leaping into his throat as fear coursed through his veins. The killer had been waiting, silently biding his time until the perfect moment to strike.
"Wh-who are you?" Roger stammered, terror choking his words. He stared into the cold, emotionless eyes of the intruder, searching for any hint of mercy.
None to be found.
"Quiet," the man hissed, holding up a long spray want. He began prying open Roger's mouth. Before he could muster a scream, the spray wand was jammed between his teeth, its nozzle grating his throat. Roger's mind raced. This couldn't be happening. He tried to fight back, to punch with his arms, but they did nothing against the intruder's sturdy form.
With an icy smile, the man pressed down on the trigger, releasing a torrent of toxic, pungent liquid into Roger's mouth.
