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Brook searched for any sign that the unsub hadn’t been invited into the victim’s bedroom, but she couldn’t find any evidence to support that theory.
“The unsub had a close relationship with the victim, which allowed him easy access to her personal space. He experienced immediate remorse for the consequences of his anger. You can see it in the way he placed the victim’s hands over her stomach and the gentle gesture of brushing her hair away from her face.” Brook traced the tinted blemishes on the young girl’s neck. It was then that Brook noticed the smudge on the pale pink bedspread. “The unsub is a Caucasian male between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, though I would err on the younger side of that range. He’s impulsive and exhibits a high level of emotional instability. He is familiar with the victim’s daily routine, so family members and friends will likely be acquainted with the unsub. You’ll find that he resides in the area and works a labor job, perhaps at the garage of a local mechanic. An interview with the victim’s family would be able to give you a list of names of someone who fits that description.”
Brook tucked the photograph back into place before closing the manila folder.
“Any one of your profilers at the BAU would have been able to give you the same perspective, so this doesn’t prove anything,” Brook pointed out as she slid the folder across the table. She made no move to bring her plate closer, but she did reach for her pen. Holding it in her fingers gave her a sense of calm that she wouldn’t turn away right now. “Again, I’m wondering why you would make me such an offer.”
“What can you tell me about the male student sitting alone at the table to your left,” Agent Harden asked in a somewhat laidback manner as he polished off the last bite of his grilled cheese sandwich. Brook found it interesting that he had waited until the main course was gone before opening the small bag of potato chips that had accompanied his lunch. “What’s your read on him?”
Brook switched her attention from Agent Harden to one of the university’s students. She didn’t know the male subject personally. He had never taken one of her classes, but she had seen him around campus.
“He sits at the same table every day for fifteen minutes,” Brook admitted, not wanting Agent Harden to think that she had any special insight. She got the sense that he thought her ability to read people was a gift, but it had really been about survival. “The textbook he takes out of his backpack is different each time, which tells me that he doesn’t care what book is in his hands. He wants to come across as if he’s reading, but he’s really hoping that the young blonde woman sitting on the blanket in the grass will take notice of him.”
“Anything else?”
“His right hand gives him trouble, and if you look close enough, you’ll see a surgical scar on his wrist,” Brook pointed out as she took her gaze off the young student. She didn’t want him to notice their interest. “Since I’ve seen him walk around campus, I also know that he favors his right leg. I’m assuming some type of accident, which is one of the reasons he has yet to work up his courage to approach the young woman. His clothes suggest that he comes from money, but he lacks confidence. His parents ignore him, I doubt he has many friends, and he has isolated himself because he feels responsible for whatever happened to cause said accident. Again, I’ve said nothing that any other profiler in your agency wouldn’t have put on paper for you. I’m a teacher. I’m not an officer of the law.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Ms. Sloane. You are the sister of a serial killer who has learned to read the living and the dead.” Agent Harden folded the empty bag of chips and slipped it underneath his plate. He then reached for the bottle of water that he’d purchased with his lunch. “Such a talent can’t be taught to someone who has had a typical childhood. You might not want to take credit for Detective Tunney’s arrest, but your profile is the sole reason that he broadened his suspect list to include the delivery drivers to the campus.”
Agent Harden took a drink of his water before replacing the cap. He then reached into the interior pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a business card. Sliding it across the table, he tapped it with his finger to stress his point.
“You have a talent, Miss Sloane. We can help one another. I won’t question what you do on your own time, as long as it’s legal.” Agent Harden gestured toward his business card. “I’ll be in town for the night. My flight departs a little after nine o’clock tomorrow morning for South Carolina. An active serial killer is targeting young men near Charleston, and two of my agents are assisting the Colombia field office in the investigation.”
Brook ignored the carrot that Agent Harden was dangling on a string. She would stick to the facts of the job offer, and nothing more. A light sheen of perspiration had broken out on her forehead, but she chalked it up to the afternoon sun. She refused to admit that such a drastic change in her life could cause a physical reaction.
“Let me clarify what you are offering, Agent Harden,” Brook said as she kept ahold of her pen. “You want me to work for the FBI as a criminal profiler under a consulting contract. My background and relationship with Jacob Matthew Walsh will remain private, except for a handful of people. In turn, what I do on my own time will not be subject to review. As long as my actions are within the confines of the law, of course.”
Agent Harden tilted his head in acknowledgment before holding out his hand. She realized that he wanted her pen, which she handed over in curiosity. He took back his business card, flipping it over so that he could scribble something on the back. He then clicked the pen so that it retracted in its case before pushing both items until they were directly in front of her.
Brook had seen the salary figure that Agent Harden had written down in ink, but it wasn’t the amount of money that he was offering her that had her chest tightening in anticipation. She had spent years profiling her brother, attempting to determine his behavior while hoping something in her profile would lead her to him.
Agent Harden was offering her everything she had ever wanted on a silver platter.
“I hope to hear from you soon, Miss Sloane.”
Brook remained seated as Agent Harden stood from the table. He picked up his tray, purposefully leaving her plate behind. As he walked away, all she could focus on at the moment was his business card.
The opportunity that Agent Harden had presented her with was far more than a mere career change or an incremental step up from her role as a college teacher. It was a pivotal shift, a transition into a world where her innate talents could be honed, sharpened, and amplified by the Bureau’s training. It was the gateway to something infinitely more profound than just becoming a profiler.
Brook had always carried within her the undeniable fear that the same darkness that had devoured her brother could reside within her, too. This was her chance to prove otherwise, to balance the scales of good and evil…even if it meant confronting the darkest corners of her own soul.
Chapter Two
Brooklyn Sloane
February 2024
Thursday — 6:11 pm
Washington, D.C. had found itself caught in the icy chill of winter’s grasp. The city’s skyline had been transformed into a muted canvas of the season’s frigid beauty, while those who had braved the cold were bundled in layers of warmth for protection. The sidewalks glistened with a thin layer of messy snow as thick flakes continued to descend from the darkened sky above.
Brooklyn Sloane gazed out her office window on the fourteenth floor, grateful that the team had canceled their usual Thursday night get-together at the local pub. The forecast called for temperatures in the teens and at least five inches of snow by morning. Besides, she was expecting a call from an old family friend regarding an event that had taken place back in 1996.
“I brewed you a fresh carafe of coffee, Brook. It’s in the kitchen when you need a refill.”
“Thank you, Arden,” Brook replied as she turned away from the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked downtown. “You didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate the gesture.”
Arden Hinnish was a sixty-seven-year-old retired private investigator. Despite his insistence that he wasn’t ready to leave the industry, everyone knew it was just a way for him to stay busy after the loss of his wife. He still held onto traditional methods of solving cases, providing a refreshing break from the constant influx of new technology.
