by Misty Evans
A storm is moving in and the clouds hang low and ominous over the crime scene as we park and walk to the dig. The air is heavy with the coming rain, and thanks to the boiling clouds, it's dark enough the CSIs need floodlights to work. People are gathered behind the yellow crime scene tape to watch the macabre show and we have to push through the crowd. JJ flashes his credentials to the police officer on guard who waves us through without even looking at them. JJ's face is well known to the locals.
The medical examiner stands over what's left of the decomposed body with her arms crossed. She's already placed it in a black bag for transport and appears annoyed she's been told to wait for the U.S. Attorney to clear removing it from the scene.
But then her gaze lands on Meg and softens. She rattles off details as we get close, unzipping the bag to show us what's left of this poor woman's body. "Body is badly decomposed as you can see. Initial evaluation: adult Caucasian female between eighteen and thirty."
The material of her tank top and yoga pants withstood being buried better than she did.
"Cause of death?" JJ asks.
Gentry gives him a look that says he knows better. "No clue until I get her on the table."
"How long has she been dead?"
He gets the same look, this time with a little more fire. "I need to do testing to determine that. Which I could be doing right now if I wasn't waiting on you."
JJ doesn't back down. "Give me an estimate."
The ME sighs. "Is it going to help solve this case any faster if you know here and now?"
She's a spitfire, this one. Meg covers her chuckle with a fake cough. "Don't let him get to you, Dr. Gentry. He's always like this."
JJ gives the good doctor a self-deprecating smile. One that has charmed many into doing what he wants. He leans in closer like he's going to share a secret and lowers his voice. "Sorry, doctor. It's been a long week, and we potentially have a serial on our hands. An estimate is better than nothing for my timeline if I'm going to figure out who the killer is. This woman could’ve been killed by a man already in prison, or someone who is still running around."
Could be this smile, or the gravity of his voice. Gentry relents. "My best guess is around two years, but don't hold me to that."
Meg is looking over her right shoulder toward the crowd ten feet behind us. In the distance, thunder rumbles. I feel my sister's tension and follow her gaze. The bystanders are three rows deep. Some look up to the sky just as the first fat drops began to fall.
"What is it?" I ask Meg.
Now Matt is looking at the crowd as well.
"Someone is watching us," Meg murmurs.
Everyone is. Matt and I exchange a glance. JJ's words to the doctor ring in my head...someone who is still running around. We know there’s a killer on the loose. He visited our office yesterday. Did he murder this woman? If so, is he in the crowd watching us?
"Stay here with JJ," I tell Meg. To Matt, "I'll make my way to the left and sweep toward the middle. You take the right and meet me there."
Matt nods and we take off in opposite directions. No one appears to be paying attention as I walk past two crime scene techs and duck under the tape. I lose myself in the crowd, covertly pulling out my phone and videoing those around me. Most are starting to file off due to the rain, but a few are diehards.
As I'm passing two older women, I see a light blue baseball cap. A man has it pulled low over his face, but I see a quick flash of teeth before he whirls away from me and my camera. Smirking.
My instincts roar to life and I gently push past them, starting to run. My heels sink into the soft dirt. Why didn't I change into my hiking shoes?
At the same moment, the sky opens up and rain pours down.
People jostle me and I lose Mr. Ball Cap for a moment. My pulse is pounding as hard as the rain.
He’s fast—disappearing into a slew of parked emergency vehicles. I catch sight of Matt and, the moment he sees me, he knows I'm on the hunt. I point toward the cars and he takes off, meeting me near a cruiser.
Through the pouring rain, I huff out, "Male, five-eight or so, wearing a light blue ball cap. Took off running when he saw me filming the crowd."
Together we search the area, my shoes miring in mud and I curse them. The man is nowhere to be seen. After a few minutes, we circle back and find JJ and Meg waiting for us. The coroner's van is pulling out, the CSIs collecting their tools and calling it a day.
JJ's face is as ominous as the storm clouds. "What the hell, Charlie? Why'd you take off?"
"Why do you think?" I'm out of breath and my shoes are ruined. I play back my video, but Ball Cap isn't on it. Damn, damn, damn. Why didn't I think to film the crowd upon arrival? "Killers often revisit the scene."
"I was right," Meg says, her eyes wide.
I nod, a bitter taste in my mouth. "Our killer was here."
13
Meg
Crime scenes, particularly murders, are never easy. This one? I'm not sure what to think.
Or feel.
All I know is I'm sitting in Matt's car, a vintage Mustang he restored himself, while pounding rain batters the hood like missiles from the sky. They soaked us while we stood over a decomposed body and I'm now shivering as I wait for the heat to kick in.
In my gut, I know the unearthed woman is another victim of our serial killer. I feel it with every icy stab to my system. Infuriating. All of it. I curl my fingers and as short as my nails are, they dig into my palm, pinching my skin. The pressure refocuses me, forces me to get control of my emotions. Anger won't help now. Calm, rational thought will.
From the corner of my eye, I see Matt glance at me. "What are you thinking, Meg?"
I'm too quiet. He knows that's never a good thing. "She's one of his," I say. "And I'm pissed. We have to stop him."
"I know. But who is he?"
That's the problem. I need to know, and I don't. Not yet, anyway.
"It has to be the same guy who killed Avery. And maybe Emily."
"I'd like to agree, but we don't have enough to go on yet. Don't get ahead of yourself."
Matt's an investigator. He needs all his pieces, his physical evidence, to fit in a nice convenient sequence that tells a story. A book unfolding in front of him. Me? I'm an artist. I rely on cognitive instincts.
Like the ones telling me college-aged blondes in D.C. shouldn't walk alone at night.
Or maybe I'm tired.
Quiet fills the car as Matt battles traffic on the way to the office. As much as I'd like to discuss this case, about what we have—and don't—I can't. The emotional onslaught has drained my energy bucket. I'm smart enough to know I shouldn't battle it. I should allow myself to go home, to crawl into my bed with a mug of herbal tea and watch Full House reruns.
Yet, here I am, refusing to give in to the exhaustion that holds me hostage.
Rather than drive around the building, Matt pulls to the curb in front and I yank the door lever. The low rumble of the Mustang's engine goes silent and I turn back to him.
"I'm coming in with you."
"Why?"
"Because it's dark and a psycho creeped around here yesterday."
My protector. Good for him. As much as it pains me, I smile. "You're a good man."
"I like to think so."
Even still, I need to be alone right now and let my emotions come unglued. "Go home. Taylor is waiting for you and I have a lot of work to do. You can't stay with me all night."
"I won't stay all night. Neither will you."
He's stubborn. I know this about him. In turn, he knows me well enough to figure out we'll get inside, I'll feel guilty from him sitting with me and after an hour we'll both go home.
No one will ever accuse Matt of stupidity.
"I know what you're doing," I inform him.
"Good. Then maybe we won't be here all fucking night."
At that I laugh. "An hour," I say. "Then we'll both go home and sleep."
Thankfully, the rain has slowed to a dr
izzle as we head to the door. Our jackets are drenched and I'm more than ready to wrap myself in one of the cozy sweatshirts I keep in my office. Matt's phone dings an incoming text and he pauses to check the screen. "I gotta respond to this. Be right in."
Security lights illuminate the front, but I'm more interested in the glow of our interior lamps seeping through the blinds of the window. Haley must still be here. Working late. Even our admin has too much to do.
For her sake, I hope she’s locked up. I check the handle and it doesn't budge. Good. As I insert my key, cold wind whips my hair against my face. I tip my head back and inhale fresh air, thankful for each breath. Unlike Emily, Avery, and the woman discovered hours earlier, I'm alive, doing what I love—no matter how emotionally draining—and I'm grateful.
Even if it wrecks me, drives me to a debilitating madness that'll never fully leave me, I'm making a difference. I know I am.
I lift my head, stare at the solid walnut door Charlie insisted on and exhaustion presses down on me like a baby elephant.
Damn, I'm tired. But...Avery. We need to identify her and send her home. Wherever that might be.
I turn the key and the clunk echoes in my head, its energy shooting straight down my spine. I don't want to be here. My mind keeps telling me that, but my heart can't let go. It wants to work on Avery, so I push open the door.
The desk is empty. More than likely, she's in the powder room or maybe the kitchen area.
"Haley?"
The heels on Matt's worn biker boots clop-clop against the pavement as he strides behind me. "What's up?"
After yesterday's incident a fresh batch of paranoia shreds my already taxed nerves. "She's not answering."
Then I'm in motion, my mind pounding at me to stay put, but my body needs to move. Matt is hot on my heels as I charge the hallway, checking each office.
"Haley?"
"Haley!"
Matt's louder voice echoes mine, but still no answer. I scan my office, frustration mounting. When I step back into the hall, Matt appears in the conference room doorway shaking his head.
"Nothing."
I peer at the back door and...hold on.
Half an inch of the interior edge is visible. It’s been pulled closed, but not completely.
"Crap," Matt says, obviously noting the same.
He angles around me and in a few long strides is ripping it open.
No.
That's my first thought. How twisted am I that my only reaction is he's touched the door and obliterated fresh prints?
Morbid. I know.
Outside, he hooks a sharp left half-jogging toward Haley's compact. I go the other way. Why, I'm not sure, but something pulls me, yanks me to the side where a narrow path separates us from the neighboring building.
On my third step I spot the broken streetlight. The one that's supposed to illuminate the corner of the lot and my chest locks up, reminding me to breathe or I'll wind up in a face plant.
Shit.
"Matt!"
A muffled sound bursts from the alley and I halt. Fifteen feet in front of me, shadows move. Two bodies, apparently in a struggle.
"Matt!"
Panic roars at me, filling my ears with a whoosh that doubles my vision. I should stop. I know I should, but something is wrong.
Really wrong.
"Haley!"
I charge toward them, the garbled sounds coming at me again. Closer this time. Something white flashes followed by the clickety-clack of high heels against pavement. Then a scream. A loud piercing one that wreaks of desperation.
My eyes adjust to the blackness and the white—a shirt—comes closer. Suddenly, Haley is there, bearing down on me, her mouth wide as her screams continue to shatter the cool night air.
Before I can say anything, I'm blown sideways, shoved so hard by Matt I'm off my feet and tumbling. I land hard on my hip—ooff—and pain rockets down my leg.
Haley is still screaming, her feet barely touching ground as she cuts the corner of the building too close and bumps it. She trips and lands hard on all fours. I jump up and plant myself in front of her, squatting to make eye contact. So she can see it's me.
So she can see she's safe.
The light above the back door reveals wild, unfocused eyes bouncing all over while her wails damn near split my skull. "Haley! It's me. Meg."
Long seconds pass. Five maybe ten. I'm not sure. All I know is her mouth abruptly slams shut and she peers at me with an intensity that drills right through me.
My God. What happened to her?
As if reading my mind, she sits back on her haunches and lifts her head, exposing her neck to me. Blood oozes from a jagged gash that mars her creamy white skin.
"Oh, my God." I drop to my knees and reach for her, bringing her into my arms and squeezing. "You're safe now. I promise. Ssshhh. I'll take care of you."
We stay there, the two of us breathing hard as I look over her shoulder, watching that damn alley where Matt took off running, obviously chasing Haley's assailant.
My mind races with questions. Who was he? Our killer? Did she see him? Why was she in the alley?
All of it will be answered soon enough.
I hope.
Right now, all I hear are Haley's harsh breaths and I pray the shock hasn't blocked her from remembering what happened.
"You're all right," I reassure her, but even I only half believe it. She may never be all right after this. "We should go inside. Lock ourselves in. I'll look at your neck, but we should get you to a hospital."
And call the police.
And Charlie.
And JJ.
So many things to do and I begin to shiver. The shelter of a juicy adrenaline burst is subsiding, replaced with that same consuming rage from earlier.
Inside. We need to get to safety. If her attacker managed to elude Matt, he could come back to finish what he started.
And I'll be goddamned if I'll let him. I have an entire arsenal of weapons on my work table that’ll assist me in carving this guy up.
"Cccc...ops," she says.
The police. She wants the police. I let go of her and dig my cell out of my back pocket. "I'll call them. Right now."
I dial 911 and give the operator what information I have.
I pocket my phone again, help Haley to her feet, and walk her inside, my gaze constantly skimming the area. In the distance, a siren sounds. Not too far. Good.
I lock us in and lead Haley to one of the chairs in the kitchen area. Blood runs down her chest, drenching the collar of her blouse. I should be sickened. Part of me is, but it's more about our assistant being attacked than anything else.
The blood? It's almost invisible to me, reminding me violence has become mundane to my sister and me.
Haley tilts her chin up to give me a better view of her wound. It's a two inch gash starting under her left earlobe.
Whatever happened to her, Matt and I got there just in time.
14
Charlie
I hate the reek of hospitals even worse than the smell of prison. Can't tell you exactly why, except it has something to do with being at someone else's mercy, not feeling in control.
Internally, I'm shaking from head to toe with anger—at least that's what I tell myself. I have no room for fear, not now, even though the bitter burn of it underneath is what's charging me up.
Haley didn't want to come, but I made her. She was so freaked out, we could barely get her through the interview with the cops. Meg was mothering her, trying to coax her into having a doctor check her, and my nerves were burning with the need to do something. I put my foot down and dragged the poor girl here.
The doctor confirms Haley needs stitches. I hate to be petty, but there's a part of me that feels a bit self-righteous that I made her come. Even if I do loathe hospitals and would’ve rejected the idea if it had been me in her place.
It's a good thing she's bleeding, in all honesty, because otherwise my fear and anger would rise up to blast he
r for going into the alley alone. Did I not just spend an hour-plus the other day grilling her about safety and security procedures?
Yeah, sometimes I'm a bitch, but when you're trying to protect people, and they don't follow the rules you've given them, well, if you're me, you get a little bitchy. It's only because I feel the need to protect everyone who works for us. Haley's safety is just as important to me as Meg or Matt's.
"I can take her home," Matt offers. "If you want to get back to the office."
Meg is downstairs looking for vending machines, even though none of us are hungry. I'm pacing the hallway, the stink of alcohol and the sharp tinge of guilt filling my nostrils. We're all dealing with concern in our own ways, and Meg already yelled at me for being a bitch. She probably figured it was better to take her anger and fear to another floor temporarily before we get into a row. "Not necessary. I'll drive her home."
Thank God Matt was there. I can only imagine what might’ve happened if it had been only Meg. My sister is beyond tough; I have no doubt she can handle herself in a fight. She's taken multiple self-defense courses that I make her review with me on an annual basis. But if the bastard was holding a knife to Haley and threatening her, it wouldn't matter how tough or well-versed in self-defense Meg might be. She would’ve blamed herself for anything that happened, and she doesn't need that kind of guilt.
JJ strides around the corner just as Matt says, "Goddamn, I should have nailed the asshole. I tried. He's playing with us, and I, for one, am sick of it."
I share his frustration, but I'm relieved Matt didn't end up needing stitches too. Or worse.
After Haley gave her report, JJ left to speak to the chief of police. Even now, there are unmarked cars in strategic places near our office, the duplex I share with my sister, and Haley's apartment, just in case the bastard shows up there, because of JJ's insistence. When she went out the back to grab files from her car she'd taken home and forgotten to bring in earlier, she interrupted the bastard going through her glovebox. I have no doubt he now knows who she is and where she lives. When she's done receiving stitches, she'll be staying for a few days with a friend across town.