Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Elyria,” Burgess announces. I can imagine him now, smug at being the one who dug up this dirt on me and holding the attention of the whole room.
“Right,” Bonds says. “Elyria.”
My stomach lurches at the name.
“And he’s the one—” That’s Cuccinelli.
“Yeah. Years ago. Her entire family was just. . . slaughtered.” Even Burgess, proud to share this juicy bit of gossip about his hated new colleague, softens his voice when speaking of the dead family.
My dead family.
“But not her.” Bonds states his question.
“No. Rumor has it they found her covered in blood but not wounded.”
“They caught him, right? A few years later?” Bonds is only pretending to ask questions. He probably read up on the case, too.
“He’s dead. After the fifth killing, they traced him to a warehouse he used as a home base. Pinned him down. Before they could storm the place, it caught fire, and he burned to death.”
“They never found the bones,” someone else mutters, but he’s ignored.
“Horrible way to go,” Bonds remarks. “But better than he deserved.”
There’s a long pause where they’re probably all imagining being on that manhunt, trying to track down a serial killer by studying his heinous crimes. The thick tension that settled over a whole town, the fear in people’s eyes as they rushed to and fro with their heads down.
Or are they imagining what it was like to be a child, ten years old, woken up by a scary sound and crying out for her parents, only to find out those parents would never answer her again?
They can’t imagine what it’s really like. No one can. I’m the one who lives with the knowledge that I didn’t save them. I’m the one who pays the price for it every day.
Down the hall, someone’s brought in a perp who’s screaming about the world’s end. Then slamming doors and laughter from the bullpen.
And I’ve lurked outside the door, staring at a square of dirty linoleum long enough.
Someone starts to ask in a hushed tone, “Did they—” and I sail into the room, not willing to hear what people are wondering about the most horrific night of my life. Or how Burgess will botch the answer.
“Hey, guys. Did I miss anything?” I keep my voice light. Burgess has his back to the door. Both he and Cuccinelli jump. The grunts busy themselves, pretending to shuffle papers or stare at the photos on the wall.
We’ll all just pretend they weren’t gossiping about me.
Burgess recovers quickly. “Ramos,” he says with fake enthusiasm. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”
“Chief wants this case solved. Where else would I be?”
Some of the guys murmur their approval, but more than a few of them study me closely. Looking for signs of my past. Scars.
I don’t bear any scars they can see. But it doesn’t matter. The murders will be the first thing they think about when they look at me now, not my work or who I really am.
“Where we at?” I head to the desk to see what fresh evidence the night has turned up.
I pretend to look over the autopsy file of Gregory Martin. There’s lividity on his arms. A pattern that somehow looks familiar.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it. It’s probably Collins again. Or another colleague from L.A. calling to check on me.
I can’t allow myself to connect with them.
It hurts, but it has to be this way. I can’t get close to anyone. I’ve learned that lesson over and over again.
A shadow falls over the photographs I’m studying.
“How you holding up?” Bonds murmurs.
There it is. The pity.
“Fine. It’s just a freak coincidence.” I barely trip over the word freak. “I’m fine. Ready to work.”
Bonds narrows his eyes, inspecting me like I’m a suspect in one of his cases. Or worse, the victim.
“I was thinking I’d start door-knocking around the Martin Building.”
“I don’t think you should be on the streets.”
I can feel my jaw spasming. At this rate, I’m going to need to see a dentist sooner than later. “I’ll be fine.”
“You were assaulted last night, and then your assailant was found dead on your doorstep less than twelve hours later.” At least he doesn’t bother beating around the bush. “Maybe you should take the rest of the day.”
I press my lips together and pretend to capitulate. “Fine, sure. See you tomorrow.”
“See ya,” Cuccinelli calls.
I duck out of the station and brace myself against the chill. The air bites my cheeks, and the wind sweeps up the sidewalks, sending crumpled take-out cups and newspapers tumbling into the gutter.
Across the street, a black town car is idling at the curb. I’ve been seeing them everywhere, but now the man behind the wheel looks familiar.
I stride down to the crosswalk and hustle to beat the light. A speeding yellow taxi swerves to avoid me and honks.