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)
“Ramos.” It’s Bonds. His jaw slackens as he looks me up and down. It’s the first time I’ve seen any expression on his face.
Can he tell I’ve just had a vision? An epiphany? I’m still floating, half drunk with it.
Then I remember: I’m wearing a dress.
He motions to it. “Heading out?”
“Yeah. Got a thing tonight.”
His shock disappears behind his hardened mask. “A thing?”
“The New Rome’s Finest Charity Gala. Chief ordered me to be there.” It sounds like I’m bragging. Out of everyone on the force, I’m one of the few singled out and personally ordered to be there by the chief himself?
“Ah.” He’s cataloging me as “brass brown noser.” Good. I need a chasm between me and him.
I have clues to the killer painted on my body. I fight the urge to hunch, to hide.
“I better get to it,” I say and grab my coat, careful to keep the file hidden as I drape it over my arms. The marks on my body seem to burn. They feel like they’re fluorescent orange, lit up like blood spatter in a black light. LOOK AT ME!
Bonds steps aside, letting me sweep past him. I’m almost to the door when he barks, “Ramos.”
I force myself to stop and turn slowly. What have I revealed? What did he see?
He holds out my bag. “Don’t forget this.”
I take it. “Thanks.” I hold my head up and make my way down the hall and through the bullpen, where the desk sergeant blinks as he takes in my ball gown. A bunch of uniformed officers turn to see me. The whispers start, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Nothing matters. Nothing but the case. Everything in me wants to drop what I’m doing and chase down the lead, but I can’t. I have to go to the ball.
Outside the precinct, the cold autumn wind washes over me, but I feel nothing. I’m already numb.
I flag down a cab and dive into the backseat. My bag flops over, and my sketch pad falls out. Slowly, pages flip, flashing the truth. First the drawing I made of the killer. There he is—huge and hulking in his strange armor.
And on the next page: the drawings I made of my mystery dom. Tall and broad-shouldered, just the right size to shrug on some stealth gear and head out to murder someone.
I flip it back and forth. It’s the same man.
My subconscious knew.
I close my sketchbook, feeling sick. But shutting the images away doesn’t keep them from rising like ghosts to haunt me.
In my mind’s eye, I see the murderer jumping down from the roof of the Martin Building on his way to subdue his victim. And then I hear the dom’s beautiful voice in my ear rasping This is my favorite type of tie over and over again.
11
Him
The best thing about having an enemy tied up and at your mercy is. . . everything. The muffled screams. The whites of my victim’s eyes flashing as he silently pleads for mercy. The blooming heat in my muscles, my power unleashed.
My last victim was a young, able-bodied man wreaking havoc on the streets of New Rome after dark. Now, he’s a pathetic husk of himself, stinking with fear.
I set my knife to his bare chest and focus on making the cuts deep and even. It’s difficult work with my subject trembling so hard, but I suppose it’s been a long day for him. I’m surprised he has the energy to move.
He pissed himself a while ago. Now he’s too dehydrated to do anything but moan.
My phone vibrates on the metal cart that holds the rest of my tools.
I set the knife down to answer it. “Report.”
“She left the shoe shop in a taxi. Should be arriving in ten.”
“Show me.”
I pace toward the window, not wanting to see a picture of my little bird while standing near one of the men who attacked her. I stand in a band of pale light as the picture comes through in a few seconds. And there she is: my little bird wrapped in her dingy coat, her chin tucked into the collar against the wind.
Poor, sweet swallow, innocent and so alone. The next picture comes through, showing a pedestrian, a man, turning his head to check her out as she passes. I stiffen, but it’s clear from the photo that Inara doesn’t notice her admirer. And Igor would stop anyone from getting close. It would blow his cover—she’ll recognize him as her driver the night she was attacked—but it’d be worth it to keep my little bird safe.
I pocket my phone and head back to my victim. Adam Devida. Twenty-seven, one of the Five Points gang. Believes in white supremacy, the great replacement theory.
And doing meth. Lots and lots of meth.
A total waste of space. No one to miss him but his friend Joey.