Such a Pretty Girl

by Tess Diamond

  “They would? And you’d do that?” Dorothy asked, mistrust in her dark eyes. It was clear it’d been a long time since someone had offered her anything, no strings attached.

  “As I said, I want as many smart, capable women working in law enforcement as possible,” Grace said. “That helps all of us. You fit that bill to a T.”

  The girl looked at her warily. “I believe in your potential,” Grace added. “We just need to get you to a place where you believe in yourself.”

  “That sounds like a Hallmark card,” Dorothy scoffed, but there was a smile on her face.

  Grace laughed. “It still applies,” she said.

  The timer signaling the end of their session beeped. Dorothy sighed, rising from the chair, her apathetic mask back on her face. She couldn’t bear to get her hopes up too high, so she had to drag herself back down first, before someone else did. “Thanks for talking to me about this stuff. It sounds cool, I guess.”

  “I meant everything I said,” Grace told her. “We’ll talk more about it next session, okay?”

  “Whatever,” Dorothy said with a shrug. “Bye.”

  She shuffled out the door, and for a moment, Grace looked at her empty chair. This could be Dorothy’s turning point. She just needed to build up the self-esteem that the abusive cycle that dominated her life had stolen from her. Coming to the center was the first step, and showing interest in the future was the second. The third step was the hardest, though: realizing that she could have that future, wading through the harmful rhetoric of her childhood, and breaking free.

  So many people didn’t make it to the third step, but Grace was determined Dorothy would get there. Even if that asshole abuser boyfriend of her mother’s returned to wreak more havoc on her life.

  “Good session?” Sheila asked as Grace headed toward the center’s front doors.

  “Yes,” Grace said. “I think we had a little breakthrough.”

  Sheila’s freckled face lit up. “That’s fantastic! She’s been interacting more with the other kids too. She doesn’t spend as much time with the teens her age, but she’s really good with the little ones. They love her.”

  “I think we might have another success story in the works,” Grace said. Her phone buzzed in her purse, and she dug through her bag to grab it. “God, I can never find anything in this bag,” she muttered, finally fishing it out from under her wallet. She saw it was Paul calling her. “Sheila, this is my boss. I’ve got to head out. I’ll see you?”

  “Bye, Grace. Thank you.”

  Grace waved, taking the call as she pushed her way through the double doors out into the sunlight. The day was warming up already, and she pulled her jacket off and tossed it over her arm. “Hey, Paul, I’m headed over now.”

  “Change of plans,” he said. “I assume you’re at the counseling center?”

  Grace frowned. “Yes,” she said.

  “Agent Walker will be by in five minutes to get you. You’re needed at a crime scene.”

  “Another one? But I haven’t even started going through the Janice Wacomb case—” Grace started to say.

  “We’re going to have to juggle cases,” Paul said. “I’m at the scene of a home invasion in Maryland. Grace, I need you to come.”

  The tight tone in his voice worried her. “Are you okay, Paul?” she asked. Just a few months before, he had been taken hostage by a man bent on revenge for his brother’s death. Although Paul had been cleared by FBI psychologists for active duty, she still worried about him. One night when a group of them had gone out drinking, he’d admitted to her in confidence that he still had nightmares about the bomb vest he’d been forced to wear.

  “I’m fine,” Paul reassured her. “But this is a bad one. Fair warning.”

  “I understand,” Grace said. A black SUV—the same one from last night—pulled up to the curb. “Agent Walker is here,” she said into the phone. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Chapter 7

  Gavin rolled down the passenger window, smiling when he saw Grace. “Need a ride?” he asked.

  “You didn’t have to come pick me up, you know,” she said, striding toward the SUV. Her hair was twisted up in a bun today. Long hair at a crime scene was a forensic liability, of course. She must always wear it up on the job. For some reason, that made the memories he had of her with it long and loose, falling down her shoulders, all the way to her naked hips, even more erotic. A part of her that not everyone saw.

  “I was a cop for a long time,” he said. “I’m used to having a partner.”

  “You’d think you’d be used to lone-wolfing it,” she said casually, hopping up into the SUV and closing the door.

  A flowery but crisp scent wafted through the cab. Her perfume. It fit her, feminine with just a hint of bite.

  Gavin sighed as he pulled onto the street. “Are you going to bring up the spy thing every time we talk now? ’Cause Harrison’s technically the only one with enough clearance to know my military background.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Are you going to stop being sneaky?”

  “I wasn’t being sneaky,” he protested.

  “You lied to my face last night,” she said. “And to the rest of our team.”

  There was a seriousness to her voice that made the hairs on his neck rise. Honesty was important to Grace. She was too straightforward for anything else.

  “Did I lie about something that would’ve affected our investigation?” Gavin asked.

  Her delicate eyebrows drew together. “No,” she said.

  “Did I give any information regarding snipers that was incorrect?”

  She twisted her mouth, cottoning on to his line of thinking. “No,” she said between gritted teeth.

  “Exactly. I told one fib about what I did in the military a million years ago. Because our team doesn’t have the clearance to know the real story. Because I know where the line is, Grace,” he said. “Promise.”

  She let out a little huff of breath. “See?” she demanded. “Sneaky.”

  It would take at least an hour in morning traffic to get to the address Harrison had texted him—an exclusive gated community outside of DC. “Did you have a good morning?” he asked, hoping she’d go with his change of subject.

  “Yes, actually,” she said, and the smile that flitted across her face was triumphant.

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, you’ll think it’s silly,” she said, waving him off.

  “Try me,” he said, glancing over at her. He wanted to know. If he was being honest—which he knew she liked—he wanted to know everything about her. She’d haunted him for two years. Not just in his dreams, not just in the memory of her body pressed against his. It was her, the woman, everything about her. That was what tugged at him and he’d fought it, but now he wasn’t sure he could resist the pull anymore. It was that unconventional, incisive mind of hers . . . Sure, it helped that such a fascinating woman was beautiful too. But her mind, her heart, her soul—that was what made him burn with curiosity.

  “I do counseling at the center,” Grace explained. “And I had a little bit of a breakthrough with one of my kids today.”

  “That’s great,” he said.

  “She’s so smart,” Grace said. “And tough. I can’t bullshit her, you know? I can’t tell her that everything’s going to be okay, because it’s not. She’s been beaten down by life and circumstances since she was born, and none of it’s her fault, but it’s her reality.”

  He could hear the emotion in her voice, see how much she cared in the way her hands fisted on her purse, like she was ready to pummel anyone who dared hurt one of her kids.

  Mama bear, he thought, suppressing a smile.

  “But you’re part of her reality now too,” Gavin pointed out as they hit the clogged highway out of the city and traffic slowed to a crawl. “And that could mean everything. You could change her entire life.”

  “I hope so,” Grace said. “I’ve had kids at the center go
on to do great things. Maria got a full ride to NYU. And Samuel opened his own barbershop and he does free haircuts for all the kids at the center. But others . . .” She trailed off. “You know how it is. You know this city. Abuse. Drugs. Poverty. Prostitution. Prison. Some of these kids are just eaten up by the system even before they age out.”

  “It’s not fair,” he agreed. He’d seen it too, as a beat cop once upon a time and as a detective. The destruction that addiction and poverty wrought on families. The desperation that drove women to stay with abusers. The fear in a child’s eyes when gunshots went off in the neighborhood. “But that’s why we do this, right? So we can repair what’s broken from the inside, make the world a safer place for everyone.”

  She didn’t answer, and he glanced from the windshield to her, curious. “What?” he asked, because she was looking at him like she’d never quite seen him.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I just . . . You really care about this, don’t you?”

  “You’re the one getting up at 6:00 a.m. so you can counsel at-risk kids before work. You could give me a run for my money.”

  She smiled. “Maybe,” she said. The snarl of traffic they’d been caught in finally cleared, and Gavin kept focused on the road, while Grace picked up her phone and scrolled through her emails.

  “Did Paul give you any information about the scene?” she asked as she paged through her messages. “I have about a million sad-face emojis from Zooey.”

  “That girl is a character,” Gavin said.

  “But she’s not easily shaken,” Grace pointed out. “I mean, she’s a forensic expert. And she’s the best. She started MIT when she was fifteen. Paul had to get a special dispensation from the director to hire her, because she’s not officially old enough to work at the Bureau yet.”

  Gavin frowned. Zooey looked young, but he hadn’t realized she was some sort of FBI version of Doogie Howser. “How old is she?”

  “She just turned twenty-one,” Grace said. “We had a party. We indulged in more than a few fruity cocktails, and I had to nurse her through her first hangover. It would’ve been adorable if there hadn’t been so much puking.”

  “The sugary drinks will get you every time,” Gavin said, changing lanes as they approached their exit.

  “Harrison didn’t give me the details,” Gavin said. “Is that his MO? Wait until we get to the scene to break it down? I’m not criticizing,” he added hastily. “I just want to get a feel for how things go here. I know working with a team is different.”

  “Sometimes,” Grace said. “Usually he texts me the immediate details so I can start on victimology. But Paul’s . . . He’s been through a lot, the last few months.”

  “I’d heard he’d taken some leave,” Gavin said tactfully. He’d heard more than that. Harrison’s last case had landed him at the mercy of a kidnapper who had strapped a bomb to the man’s chest. That would mess up anyone for a good while. Hell, he still had the occasional nightmare from his years spent in the bomb squad. There’d been a few close calls during that time, where he was just one breath away from becoming pink mist.

  You didn’t forget the close ones. But you got better at dealing with them.

  Gavin exited the highway and after a few miles, took a right onto a street lined with tall maple trees. Everything around them screamed wealth, privilege, and security. As they pulled up to the wide iron gates, a security officer leaned out of his station. The lines around the man’s mouth were tight, and Gavin felt a flash of sympathy for him. He and the rest of the security company must be sweating bullets, wondering if this was their fault.

  “FBI,” Gavin said, handing over his credentials.

  The man glanced down at them and then handed them back. “It’s the first right,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “Thanks,” Gavin said.

  The gate rolled open, and they drove through.

  “We’re going to need schematics of the entire neighborhood,” Gavin remarked as he took the first right. “All the entrances, guard schedules, patrols. Background checks on all security.”

  “Plus canvassing the neighbors,” Grace said, dread in her voice.

  “They’re going to love that,” Gavin said. Rich people bought into communities like this for privacy as much as security. They wouldn’t like the FBI nosing in on them—and some of these folks worked for important people. Hell, some of these folks were important people. And important people didn’t like following the rules.

  Gavin pulled up to the house, an imposing Greek-style mansion with Corinthian columns, surrounded by an expansive lawn. Agency SUVs were parked all along the curb, and the forensic van had pulled into the driveway.

  Gavin watched as an intern bolted out of the house, down the driveway, a gloved hand clutched over his mouth. He collapsed onto the lawn, vomiting into the grass.

  Grace raised an eyebrow, looking over at him. “You ready?” she asked Gavin.

  It was a clear challenge. Whatever it was that was waiting for them inside was sure to be horrific.

  But he wasn’t afraid of blood or death. He’d seen more murder than most people could ever dream of. Put more killers behind bars than almost anyone his age on the force.

  It was time to show Grace Sinclair what he was made of.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  Chapter 8

  Grace snapped blue sterile booties over her heels with the practice of a woman who’d done it hundreds of times. After handing Gavin a pair of gloves, she smoothed her hair back a few times to make sure nothing was loose before putting on her own pair.

  The neighborhood was full of neat, manicured lawns, tastefully painted mansions—and nosy neighbors who were currently gathered outside the cordons, looking worried and nervous.

  “You feeling better, Josh?” she asked the intern who’d thrown up all over the lawn.

  He shook his head, looking miserable.

  “First few crime scenes are always bad,” she reassured him.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Gavin added.

  He was right, of course. Grace was used to it—desensitized more than most, able to detach in a way that others admired—but when she walked up to the mansion, she felt apprehension coiling in her stomach, ready to strike.

  Then Gavin stepped behind her, and warmth washed over her back—the man ran as hot as he looked—and she didn’t want to admit it, but it soothed her.

  She opened the door carefully and entered the house.

  The smell hit her first—a coppery stench she knew well. Blood. A lot of it.

  “Do you want a mask?” Zooey asked to her right. “The smell . . .”

  “I’ll be okay,” Grace said.

  “Gavin?” Zooey asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Okay, just warning you,” Zooey said. “Let’s go.”

  They walked into the foyer and stepped around a large pool of blood.

  “From the drag stains and how the bodies are positioned,” Zooey began, “my working theory is that the killer rang the bell or knocked on the door. Mr. Anderson, the husband, answered it. Killer forced his way in—see the chunk of plaster missing right here, on the wall.”

  Zooey pointed to the wall behind the door, where it was dented from the doorknob swinging too hard into it. Gavin moved forward, examining it.

  “You retrieve the bullet yet?” he asked.

  “.38 caliber,” Zooey said. “It happened fast once our unsub was inside. He shot Mr. Anderson immediately, like, as soon as he got the door closed,” she explained, pointing to the sheet-covered body to their right. “Do you want to see?”

  Grace nodded. Zooey bent down, pulling the sheet back. Grace swallowed hard, suppressing the horror that jolted through her.

  Mr. Anderson had been shot in the face.

  “Close range, so it was a mess,” Zooey explained bluntly.

  “So I see,” Grace said, breathing through her mouth. “Poor man.”

  “Pull it back a little more, Zooey,” Gavin dire
cted. The forensic tech did as he ordered.

  “No defensive wounds on his hands,” Gavin murmured. “Okay, thanks.”

  Zooey put the sheet back in its place. “I don’t think he even had time to react or fight back. But that means it was quick, at least.”

  “Small mercy,” Grace said soberly. It didn’t matter how many times she was faced with the gore of a crime scene; it always hit her hard. But she couldn’t let emotion take over. She had to set her feelings aside so she could focus on the science. On the psychology of the scene, of the space, of the kill. “Where was Mrs. Anderson?”

  “Upstairs,” Zooey said, leading them to the staircase.

  “So he was downstairs already,” Gavin said, turning to face the door for a second, pointing to it. “Doorbell rings. He answers. Our guy shoots him, and she comes running when she hears the gunshot.”

  “Easiest way to draw her out. It’s shocking. Confusing. Either she comes running or she freezes and hides.”

  “She’s either running right toward him or a sitting duck,” Gavin said, looking back up the stairs. “She didn’t have a chance,” he said softly, almost to himself.

  “She was brave,” Grace said. “She went to face him.”

  “She was smart too,” Zooey added. “She grabbed a phone.” She pointed to the phone, lying halfway up the stairs. “I figure he got her midstairs. See?” She gestured to the blood spatter on the framed portraits lining the staircase wall. “She wasn’t able to get away fast enough.”

  They hardly ever did. Not when it came to this kind of killer. Grace hated that. Hated standing in the center of a crime scene and knowing that no matter what the victims might have done, the end result would have been the same.

  Gavin frowned, and Grace couldn’t help but let her eyes linger on the way his brow furrowed. “Where is her body, if she was shot on the stairs?” he asked.