5. Asher
Chapter five
Asher
T here was a reason why I didn’t conduct interviews without Hunter.
It was the same reason why I had crossed M.D.
, psychologist, and lawyer off my list of potential careers when I was a teenager.
Even at a young age, I lacked even the most remedial bedside manner, and it resulted in things like this.
She hadn’t even been conscious for half an hour before I’d managed to trigger a panic attack so bad she’d needed to be sedated, all because I hadn’t considered the possibility that she wouldn’t know her abductor was still at large.
I was sure I had marks from where she’d clung on to me, pressing so tightly against me I could hardly breathe.
She’d been afraid of Hunter, a man she didn’t recognize, right after she found out Curing was alive and free.
“She never saw Curing’s face,” I blurted out, and Hunter’s scowl morphed into a frown as he tried to process what I said. I realized then that he’d been talking to me about something, and clearly what I just said didn’t fit the context of our one-sided conversation.
“What the fuck do you mean?” he asked, leaning back against the table behind him. We’d commandeered the staff room near Ms. Porter’s room so he could yell at me without disturbing her rest.
“She was afraid of you because you were a stranger with a gun. She thought you were her abductor because she’s never seen his face,” I explained, and his face softened as he absorbed what I said.
“Right... but why didn’t she freak out when she saw you then?
” Hunter asked, raising his eyebrow. I shoved my hands in my pockets, leaning back against the wall.
“She was surprised at first, but then I think she must have recognized me? Maybe from the crime scene,” I mused.
“Plus I’ve been told I’m quite non-threatening. ” Hunter snorted a laugh.
“That’s true,” he smirked, rubbing his hand over his jaw.
His stubble was starting to show, and I knew he was itching to go back to the hotel and shave.
Both of us had been up and on the move for close to forty-eight hours now, and it was starting to show.
Even I was beginning to feel gross, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept in an actual bed.
He caught my eye and sighed, pushing up off the table.
“Go, you need a shower and some fresh clothes. I’ll stay here until you get back.
” I grimaced at him, smoothing my hair back away from my face.
“I’m fine. You go first, you’ve been awake longer,” I replied. “I got at least an hour in the chair earlier, so I’ll be good for a while.”
Hunter rolled his eyes. “If you plan on playing the white knight for our witness again, you need to freshen up. Plus, you’ve got pen all over your face.” He laughed, and clapped me on the shoulder as he walked back.
Fuck, of course I do.
I rubbed at my chin and grabbed my bag, nodding to the officer standing guard as I walked past Ms. Porter’s room and headed toward the exit.
Hunter had checked us into a hotel nearby and already dumped our bags there, so I didn’t need to track down the car at least. It was a short enough walk over, and I appreciated the chance to stretch my legs a bit after sitting in that tiny hospital chair for so long.
The first thing I did when I got to the room was head straight for the shower, using the complimentary shampoo and conditioner they provided to scrub the last two days of travel off my skin, and I felt moderately refreshed once I was done.
There were still dark circles under my eyes, but that was nothing new; at least the pen had washed off.
I grabbed a clean muscle shirt out of my bag and threw it on, before I dropped down on the bed, debating if I should go over the case one more time or try to get a few hours of sleep.
Grabbing a file out of my bag, I spread the documents over the bed, sitting down to review them again.
We had techs combing through Curing’s bank statements and purchase habits, trying to pinpoint where he might’ve gone to hide out.
We’d located his living family members, but they all checked out, leaving us with more questions than answers.
There was something we were missing, and I was sure it had to be here, it was just hiding in the details somewhere.
This was what I excelled at, the puzzle aspect of it.
Give me five hundred pages of obscure notes and random bits of information, and I could build a profile out of it.
With the collected files from all of the different abductions, I’d been able to piece together a rough description of who our killer was, what drove him, and enough personal details that we’d been able to get this far.
All that was missing was the final piece that would tell us where to find him now. I had to find that missing piece.
Hunter hadn’t wanted to take this case at first. I’d just recently gotten back from a forced leave—our bosses said they’d needed someone to come and do a few lectures on behavioral psych at the academy, but really it was thinly disguised stress leave.
Our last case had been… difficult, and even I could admit that I hadn’t handled the outcome as well as I should have.
I’d been living with that hanging over my head for the last six months, so I had fought for us to get put on this case when it came across our desks.
I wanted to prove to them, but mostly to myself, that I wasn’t just some nerd who couldn’t handle getting his hands dirty.
I would catch this asshole, and they wouldn’t dare to bench me again.
I got through the remaining files I’d brought with me, spreading them out around me as I scribbled thoughts down on my notepad.
I didn’t know how long I’d been working when I heard my phone buzz, and I dug frantically through the piles of papers to find it.
“Cross here,” I answered, not bothering to check who it was, since the only person who ever called me was Hunter.
“Find anything?” he asked, and I looked up to make sure he wasn’t somehow watching me.
“Nothing we didn’t already know,” I replied, feeling frustrated. “How’s it going on your end?” I could hear several voices in the background, so he must’ve stepped out into the hall to take the call.
“Ms. Porter woke up and is spitting mad,” he informed me, and that made me pause.
“She kicked me out of the room and said she’d only speak to ‘the tall one’,” he sounded thoroughly amused, but I wasn’t.
We weren’t going to get anywhere if she didn’t talk to us, and Hunter was the far more personable one; if she wouldn’t talk to him, what the hell was I supposed to do?
“Damn, okay, I’ll be right there.” I sighed, and hung up, hastily gathering up the papers I’d spread out all over the room and throwing on a clean shirt and tie. I was almost regretting not using this time to sleep, but I figured there would be some form of coffee back at the hospital.
When I got back to the hospital, I found Hunter standing outside the door to Ms. Porter’s room, chatting with the officer standing guard.
As I approached I could hear raised voices from inside the room, and I cocked my eyebrow as I looked at Hunter.
“Dahlia’s got a lot of fire in her,” he told me, a smile playing on his lips.
“She woke up and tore strips off me, then kicked me out. I tried to stop the plastic surgeon from going in there until you got here, but he wouldn’t listen.
A nurse is in there trying to mediate, but it’s not going well,” he explained, and I frowned.
There were many types of reactions to the kind of trauma she’d experienced, but this one was a first for me.
“I’ll go in and try to… help I guess?” I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and knocked on the door before walking in.
Everyone turned to look at me, as I sized up the situation quickly.
The plastic surgeon was standing beside Dahlia’s bed, hands on his hips and looking thoroughly antagonistic, while the nurse Hunter had mentioned was on the other side of the bed, holding a syringe full of what I assumed was more sedatives.
Dahlia looked furious, her eyes red and her cheeks flushed from yelling.
I noticed that she was holding her arm at a strange angle, her hand clutched to her chest. I realized that blood was dripping down her arm from a fresh injury somewhere on her hand and surprised myself when a sharp burst of rage flared in my chest.
“What is the problem here?” I demanded, raising my voice to an authoritative level that I’d heard Hunter use when he was trying to command a room.
“Like I was trying to tell Ms. Porter here, I need to check on her wounds to make sure the stitches are healing correctly,” the surgeon told me, sounding irate.
“She got hysterical, so I suggested we give her something to calm her down, and then she ripped the IV out of her hand,” he snapped.
I watched Dahlia’s face as he spoke, and she held her chin up defiantly as if she was daring me to tell her off.
Instead, I did what I always did when I was uncomfortable in a situation, I made things worse.
“Did you know that out of any profession, surgery attracts the highest amount of individuals with sociopathic traits?” I offered, and I was met with stunned silence. The plastic surgeon was gaping at me and managed to recover first.
“Excuse me? Are you calling me a sociopath?” he snapped, and I glanced at Dahlia’s face to gauge her reaction. She had a bewildered look on her face, but I thought I saw a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.