With Visions of Red

by Trisha Wolfe

More proof of how planned out this attack was. “That’s my theory, too.”

  She nods. “All right, then. So I know you’re dying to ask about what was used under the nails.”

  Straightening my back, I give her a faint smile. “Surprised it wasn’t my first question?”

  “Absolutely. Your patience with this one is remarkable.” Using an instrument to hold the victim’s arm aloft, Avery angles the above light over the hand. “Unlike the murder weapon, this torture method was a little more straight forward. A needle.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I stare at her, waiting for more. “Just any needle? Like a syringe? But why? I thought the tox showed there was nothing in her system?” The look she gives me states she knows I’m fishing. When I first saw the marks, my initial suspicion wasn’t a syringe. But I’m trying to keep my mind open to other possibilities.

  “Not a syringe. A needle like a sewing needle.” She raises her eyebrows.

  Tilting my head, I say, “So where’s the thread?”

  Her smile reveals her youth. “I like the way your brain works. Cause and effect.” She reaches under the table and pulls out a tub. “I already sent a sample off to forensics, but thought you’d like to get a look for yourself.”

  “You know me too well.”

  She laughs lightly. “It’s more I know Detective Quinn, and how territorial he is over his crime scenes.” She smirks knowingly at me. And this is true. I wanted to study the rope closer yesterday, but Quinn wasn’t having it until everything was processed.

  “Woven cotton. Twisted design, and about six millimeters thick,” Avery declares as she stretches out the rope that was used to bind the victim’s ankles. “Not many offenders’ first choice in restraints.”

  My brow creases. “No, it’s not. There are much better, stronger choices. And you’d think he’d want to restrain his victim with the strongest material possible.”

  “Is that part of the profile?” Avery cocks her head.

  “More like common sense.” As I reach for the rope, she lays it across my hand. “It looks…soft.” I rub my latex-covered thumb over the natural white fibers. “The profile is building toward the UNSUB being a sadist, so this doesn’t really line up.”

  Avery sighs as she looks down at the victim. “I’m inclined to agree with your theory there.” She leans back against the opposite table and looks at me. “Maybe the assailant’s rope choice was a matter of convenience, because he sure wasn’t concerned about her level of comfort.”

  I shake my head. “Everything at the crime scene implied meticulously planned. Staged. This rope is based on his personal preference. The question is, why? What’s so significant about this particular rope?”

  “Maybe forensics will help with that,” she says. “I had it sent out for more than just trace evidence. Look closely, Sadie,” she encourages. “Note how the threads of the rope are subtly different. Some tighter, some looser. Not exactly perfect.”

  As I turn the rope over in my hand, I see what she means. “And the ivory color is stained with dark pigments.”

  “It’s only a guess, but I’d say it’s hand-woven. Not manufactured.”

  My insides bubble up with excitement, and I look at her with widening eyes. “If that’s true, we may be able to track down where the rope came from.” She gives me a bright smile. “Avery, you’re a genius.”

  She lifts a shoulder on a half shrug. “I do what I can, but I’ll take it. But,” she adds, tone serious again. “Don’t get your hopes up for trace like skin cells. I found powdered residue on the rope.”

  The UNSUB used gloves. “A forensic counter measure,” I say, and her lips thin into a tight frown. “If he’s that careful, then it’s unlikely he’d forget to wear gloves while handling the rope at any other point.”

  “Exactly.” She pulls the sheet over the victim. “But sometimes origin can be more helpful than DNA.”

  Running the cord through my hand, I gaze down at the intricate design of the rope. The perpetrator’s methodology is starting to reveal itself, one link at a time.

  * * *

  “Knocking on doors is the unis’ job, Bonds.” Quinn groans as he drives his fingers through his graying, disheveled hair. It’s almost always in a perpetual state of disarray. The gray suits him, though; it’s distinguished versus dated.

  “Their report says that two neighbors weren’t home when they canvassed the area yesterday,” I say, flipping my notebook closed. I raise my hand to knock again, and hear footsteps from within the apartment. I lower my hand. “Besides, it’s a good idea for us to get our own profile of the vic to build on.”

  “Because Old Lady Time was so helpful there,” he mutters under his breath.

  I cough to disguise my laugh. Misses Lewis—the first neighbor we spoke to—was an irritable older woman who spent the whole twenty minutes telling Quinn all about how lazy the department is, and how in her day, murders like this never would’ve happened. It’s all because of that violent cable TV, she swore.

  “You have something better to do?” I ask Quinn, knowing the answer. We’re both at a standstill in our investigation until we hear back from forensics.

  “Apparently not.” His hazel eyes slit to a glare before the door swings open. “Hello, I’m Detective Quinn with the ACPD,” he says, flashing the man his badge. “Can we have a moment of your time?”

  I smirk, but school my expression as I turn to face the victim’s neighbor filling the doorway. I know Quinn would rather be anywhere else than here with me, working on the victim’s profile.

  “Uh…sure,” the guy says, taking a glance over his shoulder. “Come on in.”

  As he opens the door wide, I follow Quinn into the entryway, which is identical in design to the victim’s apartment. Taking a quick look around, I note it’s the same floor plan.

  “My roommate’s resting in his room. Works the night shift.” The guy, who’s around six-foot tall with light blond hair and a lean build, crosses his arms over his chest. Obviously not letting us fully enter into his home. “This about what happened to Piper?”

  “Exactly,” Quinn says. “Did you know her well?” He breaks out his little flip notepad, going old-school detective mode. When the guy—Jefferson—shakes his head and claims they were just friendly neighbors, Quinn presses on. “Were you home Friday night?”

  As Quinn runs through his base line of questioning, I take in the living room around Jefferson’s tall frame. Extravagant artwork with dark splashes of color—reds, purples, shades of black—line the walls. Black leather furniture crowds the small living space. It’s clean, tidy. And though it states manly decor, it also says a lot more about the men who live here.

  “Is it at all possible for us to speak with your roommate?” I ask when there’s a lull in the questioning.

  As if he was awaiting our invitation, a back bedroom door creaks open. “I guess you can,” Jefferson says, turning his attention to the tall figure emerging from the hallway. “Colt, these detectives want to ask you about the other night. It’s about what happened to Piper.”

  His words trail off, becoming a distant noise as a loud whoosh fills my ears. My breath catches in my throat, my heartbeat pulses in my veins, blood careening painfully against my arteries. The room feels as if it’s folding in around me. The moment our eyes connect, I’m caught. My immediate reaction is to leave, run. Get out right now.

  But his stone-blue gaze ensnares me. No escape.

  My skin flushes with heat, and I lick my lips, my voice lost. The bartender from The Lair. The one who’s been watching me in the voyeur room. Who pours my pink champagne, who knows my secret. The one who thinks he’s spying on me…while I’ve been slyly surveying him from the corner of my vision.

  In the light of day, he should look wrong. Not nearly as sexy and tantalizing as he appears shrouded by the dim lighting of the club. With sex and leather as a backdrop, it’s easy to be attracted to someone—simple to foster a fantasy. Only he’s every bit as tempting no
w. With his fitted gray thermal outlining the leanly chiseled definition of his body…and a shock of straight black hair falling haphazardly over one of his eyes, tempting me to brush it aside, so there’s no obstruction as I gaze into his pale blue irises.

  God, but I haven’t been tempted in a long damn time.

  A slow smile twists his lips. And in that split second where he could out me in front of Quinn, as his eyes subtly shift to acknowledge the detective beside me, I watch a decision being made. Then he fixes me with another purposeful, intent stare-off.

  “Detectives,” the bartender says, nodding his head once in greeting. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, since I was at work that night. But my time is yours.” He says this last part directly to me, and I note the hint of a double meaning.

  Letting my breath vacate my tight lungs in a relieved exhale, I glance down at my notebook. My hand trembles as I poise my pen over a line on the page.

  “Why don’t you question the roommate while I finish up here,” Quinn says, drawing my divided attention to him. I don’t miss the slight questioning tone in his voice; he’s a good detective. He’s picked up on my unease. “We’ll wrap up quicker that way.”

  “All right,” I say, and suck in a deep, steadying breath. I widen my eyes at the guy from the club, silently asking how he’d like this to proceed. He might be on my turf now, but I need to give him the lead so I can figure out his angle.

  My two lives do not intersect into one another. Ever. Mentally, I’m very efficient at keeping them separated, and one does not affect the other. I remind myself of this as he gestures to the kitchen area and I follow him toward a marble-top island.

  “Your name.” He demands this as though I’ve kept this piece of information from him on purpose. Maybe I have. Had he asked me Saturday night, or any other night I’ve seen him at the club, I would’ve lied. Given him a fake.

  But now that my two worlds have collided at a blinding speed, I don’t have that opportunity. “Bonds.” He arches one dark eyebrow, and I add, “Sadie.”

  He licks his lips, like he’s preparing to taste my name, then, “Sadie.” It rolls off his tongue like a whispered prayer. The desire to close my eyes and be lost in that sound alarms me, and I press my palms to the counter to ground myself.

  It’s the same reaction I had as his words caressed me at the club, the same draw to his deep timbre—inviting, arousing, tempting. But I can’t… I’m not that person right now.

  “You’re a detective,” he says, surprise edging into his tone. “I never would’ve guessed that. Though I did take a stab at your real hair color—and that, I’m pleased to say, I got right.” He winks, sending a jolt to my chest. “I like your natural color more.”

  “Behavioral analyst, actually.” I match his cocky smile with one of my own, choosing to ignore his remark about my hair. “But it’s along the same field of work. Sort of.”

  His eyebrows draw together, like he’s working something out. “A profiler?”

  Damn television. “Yes. But don’t worry,” I say, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Long as you tell the truth, you’re safe.”

  “I have no reason to lie. Nothing to hide.” There’s a hint of accusation there.

  I note that, then try to push us both past this awkward encounter. “Your full name?” I ask, forcing my gaze to my notebook. I reach for my pen.

  His hand snakes the pen off the counter first. “Colton Reed.” He studies the object for a second before he holds the pen out between us. I grasp it hesitantly, anticipating the touch of his fingers on mine. I hold my breath, waiting for their feel…but he releases the pen without making a connection. “I gave you my word, Sadie. I won’t touch you until you ask.”

  My eyes stay locked on his disarming gaze while I lower the pen to the page. My stomach clenches, and I’m not sure if its nerves or what, but an ache thrums through me. Hot and vicious. Igniting my skin with awareness.

  Breaking eye contact, I look down at the clean page and write his name. “You said you were at work the night of your neighbor’s attack. Can you confirm where that is?”

  I can feel his smile charging the air between us. “You know where. And yes, that’s a confirmation.”

  Right. “On that night you were bartending?”

  “No.”

  I look up to catch the serious pull at his features. “Can you elaborate?”

  He pushes his sleeves up, exposing one well-defined forearm at a time, then rests his elbows on the counter. Lowering himself right before me, so close I could lean in and feel his breath on my skin, he says, “I’d rather show you.”

  I force a smile. “I’m sorry, Colton. I don’t have time for games. This is a very serious investigation—”

  “And I’m taking it seriously. I’m trying to tell you that bartending is only something I do as a favor to the owner until he finds a proper replacement. That if you ever explored a bit beyond your comfort zone, you’d already know the answer to your question.”

  This, right here, is why I don’t mix business with pleasure. The line blurs, and I can’t focus on my job when that happens. I sigh and push away from the counter. “As long as this checks out, I think I have everything I need from you.”

  Colton tilts his head. “As far as this is concerned, you do. I wasn’t home to hear any noises. I only spoke to Piper in greeting while checking the mail or in passing. I have nothing to offer you that will help with your case. For that, I’m sorry. But”—he reaches across the island and pulls my notebook toward him. And I’m so stunned by his willing admission, his knowledge of my job, that I don’t stop him—“as for having everything you need from me? You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  I can only watch—frozen—as he plucks the pen from my hand without touching me and scrawls something along the side of the page. “You know absolutely nothing about me,” I say, hearing the tremble in my voice and hating it. “Just because I frequent a less than socially acceptable establishment doesn’t mean you can play games with me.”

  He slides the notebook toward me and looks up. Straightening to his full height, he walks around the island, coming to stand before me. His flinty eyes slowly drag down my body, taking me in, mentally peeling away the layers of my clothing to leave me bare and vulnerable.

  “I wonder which is closer to the real you, Sadie? The little, tight dresses you wear so sexy, or this baggy outfit meant to hide behind. Two very different looks, two very different intentions…but both offer some form of control and power for you.”

  What the hell. Is this guy really trying to profile me? I’m the master of mind games—but if he wants to play, I can give him the room to hang himself. “Very insightful. You don’t want me to analyze you, do you?”

  His knowing smile tilts his lips into a crooked grin. “Well, first you have to gather the facts.” He glances back at the notebook on the counter. “And if you’re up for that, then I’m all over giving you what you need.”

  Head games. I might be damn good at them, but that doesn’t mean I like them. And I sure don’t like losing my footing in a case. I watch him slip out of the kitchen and back into the living area, where Quinn and Colton’s roommate appear to have completed their interview.

  I pick up my notebook, but before I close it, curiosity demands I first glance down: Meet me tonight. The rope room. Wear red. Then below the note, his number.

  Shit. My stomach knots, a deep need tightening my muscles. Shaking the feeling off, I pull out my packet of gum and stuff a piece into my mouth, my teeth grinding the mint flavor out before I’ve even left the apartment.

  4

  Flame

  UNSUB

  Obsession.

  It starts with a spark. A flicker. At the strike of a match. Lying dormant in most of us, obsession feasts on the fumes, breathes in the smoky scent, curling around and in on itself. Building.

  We pet it, nurse it into existence. It is ours. All ours. A coveted perfection.

  And when it refuses t
o be ignored, it rages. It roars to life. A blazing inferno. Consuming.

  We are but pawns to its deceptive power. Though we attempt to guide it, caress it tenderly into a loving beauty, it cannot be controlled. It’s a haunted, vengeful lover. Like a wildfire devouring life in its path, we can only follow its carnal trail.

  Slaves.

  Obsession rules us. Our master.

  And we submit.

  Obsession can be our paramount joy; sweet, sweet love. It can also be our utter hatred. An ecstasy of sorrow.

  Our pain becomes like a festering scab, and though it hurts to continuously scrape it open, the compulsion to do so is overwhelming. One second of pleasure when we tear the wound wide and then our guilt eats us alive.

  But, oh—for that brief moment the relief is divine.

  “No! No! Please—” Her bare feet kick out at me as she writhes, twisting and struggling against the rope binds.

  Building…building…like the peak of a volcano, the pressure cooks. With her every scream, a gratifying shiver slithers up my back. It’s so close to that seductive pull you feel right before you climax. When your gut tightens. Your jaw clenches.

  The wider her eyes become the closer I get, the more fear shines in the whites. Glossy like glass, shimmery with tears. I tilt the candle, and wax drizzles over her thigh, eliciting an orgasmic cry. It barrels through my senses until I’m helpless, and I drive the fire into her flesh.

  Her back arches off the table. Her muscles lock tight. A piercing scream hangs in the air around her, suspended by the agony of unbearable pain.

  Suffering.

  It’s an aphrodisiac. My eyes roll into the back of my head as I reach out and touch her trembling body.

  I am but a slave to obsession. Owning that is freedom, and soon my love will know that freedom, too.

  But first… I slide my zipper down. Her whimpers and pleas for mercy only heighten my desire. In order to gain control over the beast, I must possess her. Overpower her. Control demands it of me.