by Trisha Wolfe
“Something important?”
Her features shift from the sultry, wanting woman to the cool and in control profiler I met in my apartment. “I have to go.” She turns to leave, but pauses and looks back at me. “Why red, Colton?”
A small smile twitches at my lips. Standing, I bring myself close to her and push her fake hair away from her face, loving how her sudden breath drags over her lips at the almost contact. “Because you’re my vision.”
And she is. I’ve marveled at her, studied her, imagining how I would bind and shape her. What patterns I’d create, how I could fashion this lovely, wounded creature into a masterpiece.
But she leaves without gifting me a response. Maybe I gave away too much. Maybe she saw the truth in my eyes just then. Maybe she now knows.
She will be mine.
7
Becoming
Sadie
The remembered bite of blade carving skin and bone has been a constant ache beneath my breastbone—but it’s a distant ache. Removed. Now, there is a clipped beat to my heart. The staccato pulse chases the hollowness in my chest, cutting anew, parting sharp pain in its wake.
Colton’s words ripped the scab away…and now I’m forced to see the wound that never scarred over.
You’re a lucky girl, Sadie. He missed.
No, my captor didn’t miss. He hit his target dead on. He wasn’t attempting to take my life, but he made sure I died that day. That his torment would ensue long past my physical suffering. That I would never forget.
And I haven’t. I never left that basement.
I even found a way to be ultimately okay with that—until Colton. How did he find me? Was he looking? Am I that transparent?
This is too dangerous.
I should listen to that voice, the one screaming inside my head to keep him away. Whatever he can offer me, whatever freedom, isn’t worth the price both of us will pay. As much as he sees me…I’m not glass. He can’t see everything.
I slam my foot down on the brake and curse. Putting my car in reverse, I back up and then park beside Quinn’s unmarked Crown Vic. I push my car door open and wince as my stilettos crunch gravel beneath their soles. Glancing down at my red dress and cringing at the clashing shoulder holster, I bite my lip. But it’s too late to wish I’d changed now.
Quinn is never going to stop giving me shit about this dress.
Regardless of my discomfort, this is not about me. When I got the message that another murder had been reported a few blocks from The Lair, I had to come right away. So I tug off the burgundy wig and stuff it into my bag as I round the stream of yellow tape toward the front porch of the small house.
Already, I’ve left behind the twisted and confused girl at the club, and am now in full investigative mode. The only setback, my annoyingly slow pace due to the tight skirt of the dress and high heels.
“Jesus—”
My attention snaps up at Quinn’s voice. Damn.
Standing near two uniforms, his black trench coat setting him apart from the blue pressed shirts circling him, a slack-jawed Quinn stares down at me. He blinks hard once, breaking his intense scrutiny, then motions his unis to head inside the house.
Their eyes stay trained on me even as they disappear through the front door.
Checking my scarf and securing it tighter, I release a heavy breath and take the first step. “Don’t even, Quinn,” I say, eyes aimed on the cement porch. “Let’s just get to work. Fill me in on what you know.”
I peek up to see him raise his eyebrows. “You show up to my crime scene dressed like…” His eyes languidly trace my form, then roam up, meeting my gaze searchingly. “You look good, Bonds. Shocking, but good.”
I don’t know how to take him—sincerity coming from Quinn throws me off balance. “Don’t get used to it. It was just one of those nights, all right?”
He holds up his hands. “You don’t owe me an explanation. No judgment here.”
His words stop me from entering the house, and I turn toward him, my face scrunched in question. He’s the second man to point out that I have no reason to be judged. Shaking it off with a jerk of my head, I motion toward the cracked front door.
“Who called it in?” I ask.
Visibly putting himself back in the scene, the hard detective switches on with a roll of his shoulders. “A friend, or rather a co-worker. When the victim didn’t show up for work today, and didn’t reply to texts or calls later, she came by to check on her.” Quinn pushes the door open and guides me inside, his hand at the small of my back. “After banging on the door repeatedly, she found it unlocked and came in to find this.”
Ignoring his alpha-male manners, I step away from his touch, and into a grisly crime scene that steals my breath. Red covers the floor. The walls. The chandelier. Suddenly I’m very aware of just how inappropriate my outfit is. Just how much I stand out against the numbers of blue and black, and the violent blood splatters.
Sensing my unease, Quinn yanks off his coat and offers it to me. I nod, allowing him to drape it over my shoulders. “Has the M.E. determined the TOD yet?” Feeling slightly less on display, I slink over to where a box of shoe covers has been placed along the floor and slip them over my heels.
Quinn does the same. “Avery thinks the vic was killed sometime this morning. But the scene suggests the perpetrator spent a good amount of time with her first.”
Despite my best effort to focus on the facts in their own element, my mind is already linking this case to the previous. Both women apparently lived alone and were attacked in their own homes. Both were tortured throughout the night and killed in the early morning hours.
But there are glaring differences setting this crime apart from the other.
The living room is wrecked. As if the victim put up a fierce struggle, or the assailant was enraged. Probably both. Broken glass litters the hardwood floor, blood coats the gleaming slivers. It’s probably too much to hope that it’s the perpetrator’s blood—most likely he attacked the victim with the glass object.
Which denotes impulse. Very different from the meticulously planned attack on the previous victim, where she was subdued without a fight.
“No forced entry?” I look over at Quinn, already suspecting the answer. There was no damage to the door.
He shakes his head. “No sign of that yet. No broken windows. Everything is all locked up. There’s also no murder weapon or prints…but I’m hoping, with the apparent struggle, we get some of the perpetrator’s DNA.”
When I reach the victim herself, I can only stare. Whether in wonder, awe, or mortification…it’s all the same. Naked and mutilated, she’s been posed on the floor as if she’s sleeping. Hands curled toward her mouth, hair fanning out around her head. Eyes closed. To the untrained eye, the pose looks like a sign of remorse—but he didn’t cover her; he left her nude and degraded. It feels more like mockery than regret.
Her body is covered with burns, stab wounds, and contusions. Ligature marks wrap her wrists, and her ankles are still bound. That’s the only thing similar to the previous vic—everything else screams sadistic rage.
Kneeling down, I pull out a pair of gloves I knew I’d find in Quinn’s coat pocket and slide them on. A hardened, waxy residue covers her thigh. Inspecting closer, I recognize the substance: red candle wax. It’s mixed in with the blood. Her whole body shows evidence of wax and fire burns…deep lacerations…numerous stab wounds. All over her chest, stomach, and thighs. And once the M.E. cleans the body, I’m sure she’ll find the color of bruising consistent with hours of torture.
My curiosity to peek at her hands tears through me, but I decide to wait for Avery’s examination.
“He did a number on her,” Quinn says, his voice raspy. “I know what you’re thinking. That the perp from the other case is looking good for this one, too.”
“And the boyfriend?” I ask, tilting my head back to see Quinn’s face.
He puffs out a heavy breath. “He was released from custody, but I had
a team trailing him. I’ll need a more precise timeline here…but the boyfriend is looking clear of this.”
“Of this,” I repeat, my gaze swimming over the victim’s mutilated body.
“Yeah,” he says, lowering himself down beside me. “Unless he can be in two places at once, he didn’t do this. But you were already convinced he wasn’t our guy before, Bonds. So what are you saying? This is the same offender, no doubt. Look at her. Some sadistic shit is out there, stalking and preying on these women.”
What am I saying? I really don’t know. “I never said that the boyfriend wasn’t guilty. I haven’t even completed the profile. I haven’t had time to piece everything together, and now this.” I shake my head. “I don’t know, but…it’s the deviation in MO that suggests this is a different offender. Massive overkill. Not at all like the first vic.”
“From what I can see, no defensive wounds, either,” he adds. “This one could’ve been drugged. And I’ll wait for the M.E.’s report, but I’m going to assume she was sexually assaulted.”
Quinn and I rarely agree—rarely bounce theories off each other so in sync. It says a lot about these cases that we’re working together instead of against each other.
“The attack denotes sadistic rage and disorganized behavior. But despite all the disarray and blood, the crime scene still states methodical, technique—he took his time torturing the vic. He brought and used his own weapon.” I look up and glance around. “I don’t see any red candles, and the rope on her ankles looks similar to the rope we recovered from the first vic…so he brought his own torture kit.”
Quinn stares at the scene, too. “Looks like a blitz attack to me. Perp knocks on the door, and for whatever reason—she knows him; he looks harmless—she opens it. He pushes his way inside and clubs her over the head with the vase on the entryway table.”
“Maybe. That’s likely,” I say, envisioning his scenario as he walks us through it. “But then we have to wonder, if it is the same offender, why he didn’t blitz the first victim—which style fits his true MO? He plans the attacks ahead of time, but the first time he subdued the vic without a struggle. The apartment was in order; he wasn’t enraged. He was patient and precise. The first vic was also dressed, whereas this one didn’t get his royal treatment.”
“And this vic doesn’t match the victimology so far,” Quinn adds. “First vic had brown hair, she has blond.” He nods down at the body. “Body type is different, too. Petite verses tall and curvy.”
“It’s possible he doesn’t have a type…just needs a surrogate to complete his fantasy.” Standing, I pull Quinn’s coat tighter around my waist. “Where’s the bedroom? Have the unis processed it yet?”
“They’re working their way to it.” Quinn points me in the right direction, and we walk together down a hallway. “That’s another thing: two different locations for the kill. I thought sadists kept to their rituals?”
As we enter the bedroom, the sight knocks the air from my lungs. A red dress is laid out across the foot of the bed.
Quinn stalks toward it and peers down, then over at me. “Damn. Starting to look like the same MO. I’m thinking something upset his plans, and he didn’t get to dress her. Maybe she fought back, was more than he bargained on, and that’s what set him off. Decided to kill her without the dress being part of his ritual.” He looks at me with a grim frown.
“I think you’re right,” I say, and his eyebrows hike toward his hairline. “Something going wrong during his ritual would explain the rage. The heightened level of torture and the overkill. He was angry.”
As I continue to look around the small bedroom, seeking signs of a struggle, I patiently wait for Quinn to comment on the fact that I’m agreeing with his theory. His silence draws my attention.
He studies me for a long second, glances down at the dress, then walks toward me. “Take off the coat.”
My head jerks back. “What?”
Not wasting any time to clarify, Quinn stands before me and grasps the lapels of the coat, then pushes it open. He slides it off my shoulders gently, but still, the feel of his rough palms grazing my skin stirs a delicate ripple of anxiety within me.
I try to step away, but he says, “Just stand still for a minute.” He drops his coat to the floor as he moves behind me. “Take off your holster and place you wrists together in front of you. Like you’re bound. Keep your ankles close together.”
He wants to reenact the scene. My chest tightens painfully, and I shake my head. “We don’t have any facts to go on—”
“Just…trust me,” he says, his body way too close, his heat pressing hard against me. Resigned, I slip off my SIG shoulder holster and set it down. “This is where it must have gone wrong for the UNSUB. The first vic was killed in her bedroom. The dress is spread out here… You’re the profiler. Get inside his head and find out what set him off. Why he couldn’t complete his ritual.”
As much as I hate this idea, he has a point. In order to understand the perpetrator, we have to understand his ritual. “Okay,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Assuming he didn’t drug her, he needed to subdue her early on. We’ll go with your vase theory. He knocks her hard enough to take control, then he ties her up and forces her into the bedroom.”
“He carried her.” Quinn doesn’t wait for an assent from me; he swoops down and scoops me into his arms. He first traces our steps back to the doorway, then reenacts taking me as far as the foot of the bed, where he places me on my feet.
Wrapping his arms around me from behind, he says, “Now struggle. Fight back. This vic obviously wasn’t as easy going as the first. She didn’t buy into his coercion.”
Panic slithers over me, but I clamp my eyes shut, jaw tight, regulating my breathing. Everything inside me wants to wilt, disappear. Quinn’s touch is scalding against my flesh.
“Sadie?” His voice is laced with concern, and that pulls me out of the darkness.
I take in a deep breath. Open my eyes. “He’d have a weapon,” I say. “Something big and scary. I’m still waiting on a sketch from Avery, but if it’s the same guy, I’m thinking his weapon is part of his ritual.”
“Right.” Quinn angles one arm out and brings his hand to my neck. A wave of fear crashes over me, but I keep reminding myself this is the job. I’m not there—I’m not his anymore. And then I’m not acting; I’m wriggling and twisting, trying to break free of his hold.
“There’s no blood in this room,” Quinn grunts out around my struggle. “So the vic somehow knocked the weapon from his hand.”
I take the lead and mimic throwing my head back, connecting my crown to his chin. “But she’s taller than me. And depending on his size, she may have struck his head. Then—” I jam my elbow into his ribs, and Quinn’s hand drops from my throat.
“Good,” he says. “Now I’m furious. What’s my next move?”
A narcissistic sadist being stripped of his power… “He has to gain control over her. Take his power back. Relieved of his weapon, he’d use psychological torture. He needs her to suffer…” My throat thickens, cutting off my words. Dread claws at my reasoning. “He needs to humiliate her…take her off guard.”
I can feel Quinn’s hesitation in his stiff posture, the tension straining his muscles. Then, with too much caution the UNSUB would never possess, Quinn wraps his arm tighter around my neck and flattens his other hand against my stomach.
“He would only sexually degrade her after he felt weak,” Quinn says, his voice low and testing. Sliding his palm slowly downward, his fingers splay over my hip, then begin to inch the tight material of my dress up.
The shock of cold air hitting my skin sends a buzz to my head, the room bleeding away at the corners. As his hand roams lower, inching my thighs apart, my breathing intensifies. I can feel his own labored breaths against my neck, his thick want along the crease of my backside.
And when his skin connects with mine—palm to thigh; flesh to flesh—warmth pools liquid-hot between my legs. His coarse fingertips
skim the seam of my underwear, and a fierce ache blooms deep in my core.
He releases a strangled groan, and with noticeable effort, forces his hand lower to grasp my leg. “She had bruises on her knees.” The sound of his rough voice scrapes over me, the restraint in it tangible. It pulls me out of the swirling haze sucking me under.
My chest rising with my quick intake of air, I nod once. “Buckle my knees,” I order.
He does, pressing his knees into the backs of mine, and guides me to the hardwood floor. His arm leaves my neck and he sinks his fingers into my hair, loosely gripping at my scalp. “Go with my movements,” he instructs. And I can tell he’s trying hard not to hurt me…but I’m so lost in the moment, so torn, all I want is for him to yank my head back and dig his teeth into my flesh.
But I follow him. As he pushes my head down, I understand what he’s envisioning. The first crime scene—the vic’s position. My forehead rests easily on the floor, and I turn my head sideways. That’s when I see it.
“Quinn, don’t move.” I yank my arm free from his grasp and reach under the bed.
My wriggling to reach farther pushes my ass up against Quinn’s crotch, and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Fuck…Bonds, take it easy on a man.”
Only I’m no longer paying attention to him. The shiny, silver object captures my full attention. My gloved hand stops an inch from the needle, and I say, “Get CSU in here to process this.” I pull my hand back, shakily exhaling.
“Wait—what is it?”
“A needle.”
He wouldn’t make a mistake. Even with a vic who enraged him—even after his fantasy and ritual were ruined. He wouldn’t make this kind of mistake.
The UNSUB wanted us to find it.
Bringing myself back up into a knelt position, I press my hand to the floor and shake my head. “I need to work on the profile. We need to get it out there to the uniforms so we can find this guy, Quinn. He’s escalating too quickly.”
