With Visions of Red: Broken Bonds, Boxed Set Books 1 - 3

by Trisha Wolfe

  Quinn rakes a hand through his mussed hair, and a few recently sprouted silver strands feather back into place. The unshaved scruff along his jaw reveals just how little sleep he’s had over the past week, but even in his haggard state, he still looks every bit the tidy and handsome detective.

  Detective Alec Carson, a transfer from downstate, presses the felt-tip marker to the glass and drags it upward, creating a single, black dash to represent Piper McKenna’s death. She gets one thin streak to signify her demise. That’s all. One mark to represent the taking of her life, which will be forever tainted by the disgraceful state in which the UNSUB left her.

  These morbid thoughts cloud my head, splinter my judgments, making the small conference room feel stuffy and clinical, like a hospital room. It’s possible that’s why I’m so focused on my own, personal timeline. Contemplating how I got here.

  “Bonds, get your head out of your ass and read back that press statement.”

  Snapped out of my daze, my attention shifts to Quinn. Gaze narrowed, he eyes me carefully, waiting for my response. Ever since I disclosed the text messages I received from the UNSUB, he’s adopted an overprotective disposition. He’s become a constant, hovering big brother presence in my life. There’s also a bit of suspicion behind his concern. Which I don’t blame him; why did the UNSUB contact me?

  That topic has become a point of focus for not only Quinn, but the whole task force. Analyzing each sentence, deciphering the cryptic meaning behind every word, syllable, letter, punctuation mark. Probing me relentlessly on what I know; people of interest from my past and my present. Tirelessly examining the evidence until the proof of the matter became apparent: I do not know the UNSUB.

  I even gave my own psychoanalysis on the texts, stating—in short—that the UNSUB has formed an obsession. Whether or not I have ever come into contact with the killer I can’t know for sure, but this much is true. Obsession grips him, and he’s found something in me to feed his need to control, orchestrate, and possess.

  The evening the first and last message was received, the technical analyst tried unsuccessfully to trace the signal, then ultimately installed surveillance software on my cell. Not only are all my calls being recorded, my texts being monitored, but so are my movements. Quinn and the task force know my whereabouts at all times.

  This, along with the tension choking the department awaiting the UNSUB’s next move, has me more than on edge.

  I need an escape.

  Breaking away from my internal conflict, I shuffle through my files until I find the current press release. Quinn insisted we go over it again, make sure the captain hit on all the key points of the profile that we want revealed to the public, before it airs live this morning.

  I roll my shoulders and bring the page before me. “The offender targets women in their mid- to late twenties. So far, victims have been of Caucasian ethnicity, but all women should be cautious. Victims were unmarried, lived alone, and had recently moved to Arlington. They also had no close family ties in the area—”

  “Scratch that part,” Quinn interrupts, and I look up from the page.

  “Why?” Irritation laces my voice. “It’s the truth. New to the area, single women with no family or close friends to depend on should be put on alert.”

  Rubbing the scruff along his chin, Quinn holds my stare. “Those are touchy key words that can create a panic for lonely women.”

  I glance over to the new, young detective eying me with raised eyebrows, then back at Quinn. “I think that ship has sailed. The moment the news went live with the report of the fourth victim, panic hit. For everyone.”

  He exhales audibly, dropping his hand to grab a pen off the table. He walks over to me and plucks the page from my hand, then proceeds to mark through the sentence I just read.

  “If you want to talk truth,” he says, tone low and guarded as he scrawls something on the page, “then why not just have Wexler recite off your stats.” He looks up and locks with my gaze. “Warn all women that if they have more than a few things in common with Agent Sadie Bonds, they should bolt their doors up tight.”

  Anger heats my face. “That’s bullshit.” He straightens to his full, towering height at my riled tone; I rarely let Quinn affect me, but this is going too far. I know he’s stressed, as we all are, but lately he’s been a bigger dick than usual.

  “Is it?” he asks, handing me back the press release. “The UNSUB has targeted you, Bonds. Whether it’s to do with inserting himself into the investigation, I guess that can be argued. But we both know this particular fixation goes much deeper. You profiled it yourself. Erotomania, wasn’t it?”

  I push my bangs away from my eyes. “First of all, his fixation is with Bathory, not me. Unless his delusion involves me being the reincarnated Countess…which there’s been no evidence to suggest…he’s still invested in his delusional relationship with her. I just happen to meet some inane criteria in his delusion.”

  “He believes you share a common obsession,” Quinn says, spitting my own words from the last meeting back at me.

  “Yes.”

  “An obsession with the Blood Countess.”

  I shrug. “My college dissertation was on Elizabeth Bathory. It’s not hard to uncover for someone with the right skills, especially someone looking specifically for Bathory research.” An area I have nearly exhausted with no leads. “My paper was intense. Some might even say passionate. An easy jump from there to obsession.”

  Quinn’s hazel eyes drill into me, making my skin itch and my heart rate spike.

  All these puzzle pieces fit together seamlessly to complete a very neat and convenient explanation. One I need the hard-ass detective to go with. At least for now, until I’ve positively eliminated a certain Shibari bondage rigger as a person of interest.

  “Second,” I say, driving unwelcome thoughts of Colton away, “the victims and I do not share the same physical traits. I’m not a part of his selection process.”

  “Well, you’re a part of something for him.” He steps closer, his chest bowed out, forcing me to tilt my head back in order to meet his eyes.

  Anchoring my hands to my hips, I stand my ground. “It’s common for serial killers to fixate on one law enforcement member, Quinn. Honestly, you know this.”

  The corners of his eyes crease as he searches my face. “It’s common for them to develop an infatuation during an investigation,” he stresses. “Not before. He had you in his sights prior to the first victim.”

  My breathing goes shallow. I focus on calming my heart rate, keeping my facial muscles lax but controlled. Quinn may not have the behavioral training I do to read people, but he’s old-school. He has years of experience in the field, breaking people down to discover their tells.

  Freeing a tense breath through my nose, I lick my lips. His gaze flicks lower, watching my tongue glide across to moisten my bottom lip. His mouth parts, and I glimpse the raging battle beneath his trained composure as he clamps his back teeth together. A muscle ticks along his jaw.

  I doubt a little sexual diversion is enough to throw Quinn off, but at this point, I use what’s in my arsenal. And like that, his focus is hard on me again. He doesn’t sway easily.

  “Again,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I help support his delusion—whatever that may be—after the fact. The UNSUB planned his kills, fantasized about them long before the first victim. This is how it works, Quinn. Not the other way around.”

  He hears the wobble in my voice. He sees the furrow of my brow. I’m not getting out of this grilling so easily this time.

  And truthfully, I’m not at all certain about anything I’ve stated—it’s uncharted territory. What I say is true, for the most part, but it’s highly unlikely the UNSUB selected a poem that just happens to resonate so deeply with me on a whim. Like the one he planted at the first crime scene.

  She Walks in Beauty.

  Little messages left just for me, evidence that he stalked me before he ever put his blade to a vict
im’s neck. Only I don’t understand what it means, and I can’t investigate on my own without calling attention to those facts.

  My nerves are so frayed, my annoyance mounting so high, that I haven’t even had time to be afraid. How much does the UNSUB really know about me? What are his intentions—what will he do with that information?

  There’s so much unknown to fear that my mind can’t process the correlating emotions.

  Quinn leans down to get in my face, and I can feel the tension pressing against me like a physical force. “What are you hiding, Bonds?”

  The air grows thicker between us, charging. I blink. Dammit. “Nothing.”

  His eyes squint. “Everyone hides something.”

  I release a clipped breath. “Then what are you hiding?”

  Carson’s sudden burst of laughter draws Quinn’s anger with a dark glare, and Carson’s attention quickly returns to the whiteboard.

  I relax my shoulders, exhale heavily. “Look. It’s not what you think…”

  “What I think is that I have a profiler on my team who’s in danger, and she’s doing her damndest to get herself killed because she’s too stubborn to trust others to do their job.” His mouth sets in a hard line. It’s the first time he’s said those words aloud, and they cut right through me.

  Filling my lungs, I suck in a quick dose of courage. “Quinn, I’m a big girl who’s more than capable—”

  “I’m not saying you’re not,” he interrupts again. “But it’s like you’re doing your best to keep me out of the loop. I gotta say, that doesn’t look good.”

  My eyes slit. “What? Am I a suspect?” When he just stares at me, I shake my head.

  “Everyone in the department is suspect at this point.” He laces his arms over his broad chest.

  It clicks into place. “Forensic countermeasures. All the methodical scrubbing of evidence on the UNSUB’s part.”

  He nods. “The task force will soon be looking into backgrounds and digging around in our own backyard unless we get a new lead soon.”

  A sickness coats my stomach, and I swallow down the burn of bile.

  He cocks his head. “Are you really upset on the victims’ behalf? I don’t think leaving information out of the press release is enough to get you riled. Not really.” He scans my face, seeking a weakness in my defense to launch a new attack. “It’s the mention of family, isn’t it?”

  The tightness in my chest squeezes my heart.

  “I’ve read your file; it’s my job. I know you’re worried…” At my alarmed expression, Quinn trails off and sighs. “Let me in, Bonds. I can help. Just tell me—”

  A loud cough shuts Quinn’s interrogation down, and I remember we’re not alone. Face flushed, I turn my attention to Carson. Quinn follows my gaze, a hard expression pulling at his features.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Carson says, motioning to his phone. “But the press conference starts in about ten minutes.”

  Quinn curses under his breath, then backs up a few paces to look at me. “All right. Let’s go with what we have. It’s not like the department hasn’t taken heat before when someone’s fucked up.”

  Ignoring the jibe, I say, “I’ll print a new copy for Wexler.” I grab my files and head toward the door.

  “Bonds, stick close. I’m putting you with Carson to work the victimology angle.” He glances between the other detective and me. “The techs have new information we need investigated. And since nothing came of the weaponry shops, I have to navigate the task force on the murder weapon angle. So I need both of you fully focused on the victims.”

  I grip the doorknob, anxious to be out of the room. “I can do that, but I don’t need a bodyguard.” Or a babysitter.

  “If the UNSUB made contact once, he’ll do it again.” A trace of fear flashes across Quinn’s face. “It’s more than for your protection, Sadie. You’re the closest link we have to the killer right now.”

  That’s what I’m counting on.

  Turning toward Carson, I raise an eyebrow. “You have a problem working with a profiler?”

  The newest detective smiles, his straight white teeth contrasting attractively against his tanned complexion. “Not at all, ma’am. I think I’ll rather enjoy it.”

  I give him a smug smile in return. I can almost feel Quinn’s smirk burning into my backside as I leave the conference room. If I didn’t have more important things to do, I might challenge Quinn’s latest order—but he hit too close to the mark back there. He always does.

  While the captain warns the single women of Arlington to be on their guard against a serial killer still on the prowl, I’ll be paying a special visit to a woman I’ve thoughtlessly neglected over the past two weeks—one who might be in danger should the wrong person start prying into my background. Right now, she’s my first priority.

  After I hand off the press release to Captain Wexler, I make quick work of gathering my private notes I keep buried in my desk, and swap out my department-issued phone for the burner phone I bought right after they tapped mine.

  Quinn can bitch all he wants later, but no one is tracking my movements today.

  I lock up my office and then slip past the gathering officers and agents crowding the front of the ACPD building as they gear up for the press conference.

  The UNSUB may have gone dormant for now, but I’m not giving him time to regroup. I have to keep the people I care about protected. Even if that means protecting them from me.

  2

  Pang

  Colton

  Most people don’t know how to handle real fear when they experience it for the first time.

  There are all types of fear, but I’m talking about bone-rattling, heart-gripping fear that catches you off-guard. Not the flutter of your heart when you realize you’ve missed a payment and your electricity is about to be cut off. Or the sharp pain that constricts your chest in a near, head-on collision. Not even the late-night worry that suffocates you when a loved one doesn’t return.

  Those are all palpable, but there’s a deep, dark fear that levels them all.

  Fear of loss.

  The climbing panic that clutches you whole and won’t let you drag in a breath the higher it escalates. That all-consuming fear.

  They say fear won’t kill you all by itself. But if ever it could, that’s the one to do it. It blocks out all logic and leaves no room for anything else. It devours love, and trust. It hollows out your soul.

  I’ve felt this fear before. I’ve been decimated by it. It ate away at everything in my life until I was its bitch. It sucked me dry, stripped me raw, entrails shredded. It’s the worst kind of fear because there’s nothing you can do to make it stop. Just have to wait until the moment you’ve been dreading finally happens.

  Then…the blackout.

  The final abyss of grief.

  Julian likes to play through these emotions, try them on, display them for the world like a brand new suit. I’ve watched my brother make the appropriate facial expressions when offered condolences. I’ve heard the hitch in his voice when he says her name. He’s practiced. And he’s good.

  That’s why when the news of his engagement hits, and I find myself standing in a crowded living room pulling at the collar of an annoying, starchy dress shirt, I have the very urgent desire to ditch the engagement party. To flee the city. Get as far away from his artificial life as I can before it infects me.

  Only Sadie is keeping my feet grounded.

  Someone who’s suffered—really suffered—should get a second chance. But the truth of it is, if you’ve truly, irrevocably suffered at loss’s sadistic hands…you don’t.

  There are no second chances for those lost souls.

  You breathe. You eat, drink, fuck. Then you sleep only to wake up and do it all over again. But you do not get a second chance.

  I believed in this truth for a long damn time, until the moment I saw Sadie. She was my gift from the abyss; an offering of truce. I had paid my dues, and somehow I had earned that rare second
chance. Hard fought and won. My beautiful prize, Sadie.

  That’s why I refuse to let her push me away.

  Someone claps me on the shoulder and I tense. Spurred out of my dark thoughts, I turn to face Jefferson, relieved it’s my roommate and not the fucker I call my brother—the second chance stealer.

  “Dude, I can’t wait for the bachelor party,” Jefferson says, his brown eyes scanning the crowd gathered in Julian’s opulent home. “That’s the only reason why I’m dealing with this lame shit, because I know you will have something wickedly fucked up planned.”

  Offering a smirk, I let my friend believe what he wants. Since the day he found out that I work at a BDSM club, he’s imagined my life to be something of a really bad porno. With half-naked, leather-clad Dominatrixes whipping me before breakfast, and sultry little sex kittens dressed in schoolgirl uniforms sucking me off to bed.

  Hey, I’m a guy, so I don’t correct him. Some things are just too ingrained in the male DNA. But given that we’ve lived together for the past five months, and the only woman I’ve ever had over is Sadie, you’d think he’d eventually catch on that I’m not living the high life deep in tits and ass.

  “Yeah, we’ll plan something for him all right,” I say, then take a swig of my bourbon. It burns good going down. Hits me right in the gut.

  Jefferson nods toward the petite blonde entering the room, her arm hooked to my brother’s elbow. “Can’t believe he’s giving up the club life for her.” His eyes go wide as he looks at me. “Not that Bethany’s not hot…she’s—”

  I hold up a hand. “I get it.”

  He continues, “But giving up that lifestyle for one woman?” Jefferson blows out a heavy breath. “What a waste. Your brother still looking for someone to take over the club? Because I’d be willing to sacrifice my nine-to-five for the greater good.”

  I down another healthy swallow to avoid responding. I should stop discussing personal shit around Jefferson. Although Julian made that almost impossible with his impromptu visit to my apartment late last night, demanding that I show face at his party. Not that I have anything to worry about with my roommate, but he’s somewhat…tactless. Loud. Crass. And doesn’t know when to drop a topic that’s grating on me.