"How do you know it's the same guy?"
My partner glances at me and I know what she's thinking.
Reporter.
Amelia is a reporter and we have to be careful what we say to her.
"What?" Amelia presses, catching on to our hesitation.
I'm the one to answer.
"The circumstances have been very similar and the attacks have all occurred within a five-mile radius."
Amelia's gaze connects with mine and holds still for the first time, like she's surprised to hear me speak. A ringing cuts into the brief interlude and O'Brien pulls her cell phone out of her pocket. She raises her index finger to wordlessly excuse herself and ducks out of the room to take the call. The sounds of my partner's conversation trickle in from the hall, though her words are indecipherable.
I remain at the foot of the bed. Amelia's eyes fix squarely on mine, but with effort, as if she's willing herself not to look away.
"Can you tell me more?" she asks.
"More?"
"About the attacks. When was the last one?"
"Two weeks ago."
"Do you...have any suspects?"
"Not at the moment."
"What are you doing to find this guy?"
On and on she goes.
The questions are tentative at first, with the air of someone just trying to fill the silence. Questions which seem simple and unassuming on their own, but strung together they reveal more than I can share.
"I can't say anymore, Ms. Woods. It's an ongoing investigation."
"Of course."
A crease forms between her brows as though she's weighing her next statement. I take advantage of the moment to regard her features. Strong, dark brows frame her keen brown eyes. Eyes that survey me as though trying to find cracks in my armor. And for a moment, the hospital room and the gown she wears all seem like a mirage. A weak mirage which fails to cloak who she is. She's sharp. Beautiful, but by no means to be underestimated.
The turbulence I picked up when I first laid eyes on her now resembles more of a flame. Her full lips are unexpected razors of seduction in an otherwise soft landscape. My gaze lingers on them for longer than it should, but when I look down to her neck, I'm jarred by the sobering sight. Anger swirls over me at the thought of some coward seeing her as easy prey. And at these traces of anger, I know I've stood here too long.
"Looks like you've told us everything you can. We'll leave you to rest."
"Wait."
The word ropes around me, causing me to halt mid-step and turn to her again. Her previously calm demeanor seems ruffled at the suggestion of me leaving.
"What do we have in common?" she asks. "The attack victims, I mean, because these guys--they have a type, right? There's something they look for in their victims. So, what is it? Why did I look like his next victim?"
My lips remain pressed together. It seems this has been the question burning inside of her all this time.
Her question is really, why me?
A question I'm not equipped to answer. Comforting victims isn't my strong suit. Words are not my strong suit. I glance over my shoulder, but the sounds of O'Brien speaking into the phone tell me she's not coming back in anytime soon.
"What if he comes back for me?" Amelia blurts out.
Traces of embarrassment reflect on her face, as though the question seeped out of a raw and vulnerable place. She wraps her arms over herself and I slip my hands into my pockets, resisting the wild impulse to set one on her shoulder.
"Ms. Woods--"
"Amelia. My name's Amelia."
"Amelia. There's nothing to suggest you are still in danger, but I understand why you wouldn't feel safe. Do you live alone?" O'Brien walks back into the room, and I hear my own voice grow a shade more detached. "Maybe there's someone you can stay with until you feel safe."
"I don't need to feel safe," she snaps. "I felt perfectly safe before this happened. What good did it do me? I want to feel prepared." She falls silent and no one speaks as she shuts her eyes in regret and sets a hand at the base of her throat. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"
"No need to apologize," I cut in. "We understand. You've been through a lot tonight."
She holds my gaze, a silent thanks whispered between us.
"I'm truly sorry this happened to you, Ms. Woods," O'Brien says. Anyone who didn't know her wouldn't be able to catch the way her expression thaws with sympathy for a second before she pulls out a business card and is professionally distant once again. "We're doing everything we can to find this guy. You can call us if you remember anything else. If you ever feel in danger, don't hesitate to call the police."
Amelia reaches out for the card. She is calm again, a perfect show of control, but the fear is blatant in all the ways she tries to hide it.
I take the card from my partner's outstretched hand, pull out a pen, and scribble on the back.
"This might bring you peace of mind," I say, handing the card to Amelia.
She takes it, turns it to read my note, and her dark eyes narrow with confusion.
"Goodnight, Ms. Woods," I say, and follow my partner out of the room.
CHAPTER 5
Reed
O'BRIEN DOESN'T SAY A WORD the whole walk through the hospital and to the parking lot. She waits until we are inside of the car before speaking.
"He has to be choosing them at random."
"You think he's just wandering the streets after dark, looking for a woman getting into her car?" I back out of the parking space as I talk. "Three attacks outside store parking lots at night. And now one outside of an office building? Why the sudden change?"
"Targeting a late worker makes more sense. Office parking lots are mostly deserted at night. There aren't many surveillance cameras, not the way there are in commercial areas." O'Brien sits up as though hit by a realization.
I say what's already in her mind.
"The gas station footage we released." Four seconds of grainy film, a man wearing dark clothes scurrying past the edge of the frame minutes after one of the attacks. "He must've seen it and decided to keep away from the cameras."
The footage has been our only lead. For the first two attacks, he somehow managed to avoid being captured by the cameras of the supermarket parking lot by targeting cars on the outskirts of the lot.
"He's tried to drug the last two victims. He's getting more aggressive. The attack on Woods? Did you see that girl? Jesus, he really messed her up."
The memory of Amelia Woods in her hospital bed flashes through my mind.
"Woods is smaller than the other victims," I say.
"You think that's why he targeted her? The other victims got away, and he wanted to make sure this one didn't? If he needs his victims to be so small, he can't be a big guy. What do we know about him?" she asks. I don't answer, allowing her the space to turn over her own thoughts and verbalize them. It's part of her process. Sure enough, she goes on, "We know he's someone who doesn't attract much attention because he manages to sneak up on them. And we know he's someone who just disappears after the attack, which means he doesn't stand out from any of the average passersby."
"He's familiar enough with the location of security cameras to avoid them. His victims might be random, but the locations are not. He's scoping them out ahead of time."
O'Brien pulls out her phone and scrolls through her messages.
"The call I got in the hospital room? It was from the owners of the Union Tribune. They are sending over surveillance footage first thing in the morning. They want to keep the paper's name out of the press for at least twelve hours."
"Of course. They want the exclusive." I bite out a laugh. "Pathetic."
I keep my eyes forward, wishing I'd resisted her bait. There's no question she's watching me, trying to read my mind.
"Are you going to be able to work on this case? You hate reporters."
"So do you," I say, bringing the car to a stop at a red light. Even then, I don't look at her. I should've seen
it coming. O'Brien is a master in the art of steering conversations into the territory she wants them in. Here she is again, worming her way into a discussion I'd rather not have.
"I saw what you wrote on the back of the card. I mean, seriously. What the fuck was that, Reed?"
I steer the car down the road, well aware of her eyes burning a hole in the side of my skull.
Trident Mixed Martial Arts Studio.
Self-defense classes.
"She's scared," I say. "She wants to feel safe. Can you blame her?"
"Why send her to Trident of all places? You seriously can't think that's a good idea, you're already in deep shit and it looks like you haven't learned your lesson."
My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I make a right turn. When I pull to a stop at another red light, I look her in the eye. She's staring at me, eyes narrowed and full of unspoken accusations.
"My guys are the best instructors in town. Also, yes, I want the business. I know what you're thinking, but it's not like I'll have any interaction with her. This is completely different."
"Is it?"
I don't answer her. I allow the silence to creep between us and fill the whole car. O'Brien's not wrong for questioning me. I know that. But I don't need to explain myself to her. We're as different as night and day, she and I.
Gemma O'Brien. Ms. Cautious. Ms. Perfect.
Ms. Never Fucked Up a Day in Her Life.
I'm sure she thinks she would've handled things differently than I did that night, but she wasn't tested the way I was. She has no idea how easily she could be in my shoes. Close to being stripped of what matters most to her, all because of one wrong call.
I pull into the station's parking lot and neither one of us speaks as we exit the car and head to the front of the building. When I go to open the front door, O'Brien closes a hand over my arm to stop me. The judgment is gone from her eyes and concern has replaced it. Motherly concern, like she wishes she could take my problems and make them more her own than she already has.
"I saw that look in your eye, Reed. I know you want to help her because...shit, you just think it's your responsibility to save everyone, all the time. But you need to think about yourself right now. Lay low until everything is settled. You know the chief--" she lowers her voice "--he doesn't have your back."
I turned my hands over, open and facing upward.
"I've got nothing to lose."
Except we both know that's a lie. If this all goes sideways, will the chief go after my badge? You'd think the man would be busy planning his grand retirement. And yet, he's made it his personal mission to add roadblocks to this already fucked up situation.
One day, I'll find out why.
The answer may prove to be simple. At the end of the day, when the weak get power, they force consequences over everything they can as a desperate attempt to wield it.
"Let's go," she says, letting out a small sigh of regret.
She knows she's bringing up old shit like it isn't still new shit. Like that night isn't hovering over me, an anvil on a fraying thread. Ready to crush my career.
CHAPTER 6
Amelia
HAS MY LIVING ROOM ALWAYS been this dark? There's an unfamiliarity to it this afternoon. The place seems riddled with nooks and crevices where things can hide. I stand at my front door, unable to shake the feeling that I'm about to enter a dungeon.
After what seems like an endless minute, I push myself inside and don't pause to take off my shoes or even set down my purse. I head straight to the opposite end of my living room, grab a handful of thick curtains, and fling them aside.
Daylight floods the room in a sudden burst, bringing with it a rush of air to my lungs. As I look out of the window over the street and parked cars, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. I send it to voicemail without a second thought. Just like I did with every call I received from my coworkers the whole time I was in the hospital. Gossip mongering masquerading as concern. I'm not interested in being their entertainment.
I wait for the voicemail notification to pop up. Instead, the phone lights up with texts from Emily. The messages flood my screen, one after the other:
[Owen told me a woman was attacked at your job last night and you aren't picking up your phone...]
[Are you all right?]
[Cough twice if you're currently in someone's trunk.]
Lips turning up, I type out my response to Emily.
[Quit your hovering. Everything's fine.]
[Send me a picture of your version of 'fine.']
She's on to me. I guess I deserve it. I've always been overprotective toward her, what should I expect in return? I would be seriously pissed if something happened to her and she kept it from me. With Sabrina gone, Emily's basically the only friend I have.
[Okay. There was an incident at work last night, but I'm home now, I'm not hurt, and the police are close to catching the guy.]
I hope the last part of my lie is convincing, but I picture her green eyes narrowing with suspicion. When her response comes in, it's clear she sees through my bullshit.
[I'm coming over.]
My first instinct is to argue my desire to be alone. But I'm not even sure if that's what I want. The whole half hour I wait for her arrival, I silently dread the awkwardness of how she'll receive me.
"You better be all right or I'm going to kill you, because why the hell didn't you call me?" Emily says the moment I open the door, then she gives a small start at the sight of me, her mouth falling open as she takes in my appearance.
"You should see the other guy," I joke, waving her inside.
She doesn't move, standing at the entryway, a plastic bag in each hand.
"Hope you fucked him up," she says, her voice uncharacteristically low and serious.
"Not as much as I'd have liked. Come in."
I give her a feeble smile and something about it must make her put her own shock aside for my benefit. She crosses into my apartment and the scents of savory sauces drift from the containers of takeout she's carrying. I didn't realize until this moment that I'm starving.
Emily moves past my kitchen and toward my small dining room table with familiarity.
"How'd you know I haven't eaten?"
"Because you think you're a robot. As much as you try to act like one, you're not a robot. Anyway, I wasn't sure what to get." She pulls the containers out of the bags and arranges them on the table. "There wasn't a guide for comfort food post-assault, so I played it safe and went with everything breaded, fried, and soaked in sauces."
"Perfect. It's already like I wasn't even assaulted."
She snorts and I smile, officially grateful for her presence. For the way she crowds my fears into the corners of the room. The same way she crowds everything dark and gloomy into corners, packing them away to deal with later.
I pretend I don't notice the way she eyes me as we eat. She pretends not to wait for me to bring up the subject. The giant elephant in the room.
"I spoke to the police last night," I say, reaching for another spoonful of rice. "They say there's been a string of attacks. You should be careful getting into your car at night."
"I know. It's been on the news."
She says the last word pointedly.
The news. My job. My life. Yet, I rarely pay attention to accounts of assault around the city. These things happen every single day. A woman narrowly missing an attack is a blip on the radar for news stations. Not nearly horrific enough for the entertainment industry that is news reporting. There is little incentive for reporters to devote much page time to an assault unless there is something that sets it apart. An angle to sell. A series of assaults, on the other hand--an attacker still out on the loose? That might be of more interest to the media.
To me.
The faintest trickle of shame comes over me, sobering me right up. Here I am, in the aftermath of my own attack, and all I can think about is a story angle.
"What's this?" Emily asks, picking up Detective
O'Brien's business card from the table, where I'd tossed it along with my purse this morning. "Gemma O'Brien...is this the detective on your case?"
"That's the woman. There's a man, too."
I won't soon forget what he looked like, standing in front of my hospital bed, assessing me carefully with his calculating light brown eyes. Before he spoke a word, he'd sucked all of the air out of the room with his quiet, but commanding energy. When I'd confessed my fears, traces of compassion flickered across his otherwise stoic features. He seemed unable to stop himself from snatching the card from his partner's hand to scribble down the note.
Emily turns it over and reads the back of it.
"Trident Mixed Martial Arts. Are you taking self-defense classes?"
"I want to, but their classes are full."
"You called?"
"I went by earlier, had the cab make a stop there on my way home."
"On your way home from the hospital? Wait, where's your car?"
"The police still have it. Anyway, it was a waste of my time. Their self-defense classes are full until summer."
I walked into the studio this morning wearing the same clothes I wore last night. They felt like an awkward and unfamiliar skin, hanging off of me and weighing me down.
Kind of the way the silence falling between Emily and I feels. I go on eating as though unaware of the way she watches me. I know what she's thinking before she says another word.
"I wish you had called me. I hate that you took a cab home. I was watching a fucking movie last night. A movie, Amelia. And you were sitting in a hospital all..." She trails off, shaking her head.
"I didn't want to worry you."
"You know what? There's being independent and there's just plain shutting people out."
These words settle between us.
"Are you going to tell me what happened?" she prompts, having finally lost her patience.
I shut my eyes and let out a breath, then launch into the story as quickly as I can manage. The details spill out of me as though for the first time. Emily is transfixed, her plate untouched from the moment I begin. I've never seen her this serious, biting the side of her thumbnail. When I finish, she sits back and curses under her breath.
What She Did Page 3
