Chapter 1 #2
The only thing that truly stood out about Linda Fell’s death was the brutality of it.
There hadn’t been a single defensive wound on the victim, no signs of struggle or restraint marks, nothing to suggest she’d fought back, except for one glaring detail that dominated the entire case.
Her hands had been severed clean at the wrists, removed with something extremely sharp, the edges of the wounds almost perfectly smooth.
The killer couldn’t help but show off, so it seemed. Personally, I never understood the appeal. There was a quiet elegance to being efficient and discreet, as far as I was concerned. Violence for the sake of violence held little to no interest for me.
Of course, I’d be lying if I said the urge never resurfaced. Every so often, I’d come across something vile and monstrous enough to stir it, but I never let it take the reins.
Linda Fell’s murderer seemed to be of a different ilk—not that I expected our principles to overlap. Most of the killers I’d come across were monsters themselves, preying on the defenseless and weak. Cowardice dressed up as dominance.
Detective Sawyer remained silent at the news, seemingly lost in thought.
I couldn’t help but notice, with the clinical detachment that came from years of studying corpses, that the shadows under her eyes looked darker than usual today, making her already sharp features seem even more drawn.
Her white button-up shirt was slightly wrinkled at the collar, like she hadn’t bothered ironing it this morning.
Her cuticles were raw, compulsively picked at until they bled in places.
But despite all of this, her eyes remained bright and alert, gleaming with a single-minded focus.
At last, Detective Sawyer gave a small, decisive nod, seemingly satisfied with whatever conclusion she’d reached.
“I want the completed autopsy report on my desk first thing tomorrow morning,” she told me, one foot halfway out of the door, before she paused.
“Oh, and by the way, the word you’re looking for is duplicitous. ”
By the time I processed what she’d said, the door was already swinging shut behind her.
Detective Sawyer never failed to leave me feeling off-balance.
It wasn’t her intelligence that made her unsettling.
Plenty of other detectives had that in spades, but she was something else entirely.
It was the way her mind worked, like a well-oiled machine engineered for this exact purpose.
It was easy to admire, like lightning threading across a dark sky—fascinating to look at until it struck too close.
Should she ever turn that focus on me, who was to say what she might find?
It also didn’t help matters that she clearly didn’t like me.
It showed in the way her gaze sharpened the moment it landed on me. In the faint, subconscious stiffening of her shoulders whenever I entered the room. In the quiet tension that hummed beneath our every interaction.
It put me off more than I’d care to admit.
I’d spent years sculpting the perfect persona. As a forensic pathologist, I had a reputation for being competent and meticulous in my work. To my coworkers, I was friendly and polite, though not overly social. Known, but never noteworthy. Easily overlooked.
And it worked. Everyone bought it.
Everyone except Detective Sawyer.
Despite my best efforts, she remained distant and cold, almost antagonistic at times.
Her instincts were too sharp, too finely honed by years of hunting killers who hid in plain sight.
She must have sensed something off about me, even if she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, like a prey animal sensing a predator nearby.
Actually, no.
She wasn’t prey.
She was another predator.
And that was what made her so dangerous. There were times I swore she could see through me, every carefully buried thought and secret laid bare under the weight of her stare.
But I knew that was an irrational fear to have.
My kills always masqueraded as something else: suicides that fit the profile, run-of-the-mill accidents, natural deaths attributed to underlying health conditions.
Most people were more than willing to accept the easiest explanations.
As far as Detective Sawyer was concerned, my crimes didn’t even exist.
Still, it didn’t hurt to be cautious.
When I looked back, I found Naomi watching me with open amusement.
I cleared my throat.
As it turned out, my carefully crafted attempts to seem more likable to Detective Sawyer had an unfortunate side effect: most of my coworkers were now convinced I was hopelessly pining after her—not that I’d done much to correct that assumption.
If anyone wondered why I kept trying to win the detective over, despite her obvious disinterest, the romantic angle suited me just fine.
But logic and rationality offered no defense against the small, infuriating sting of rejection.
“Don’t say a word,” I warned Naomi before she could open her mouth.
She pressed her lips together and mimed zipping them shut.
I exhaled slowly through my nose and grabbed the crossword puzzle off my desk, filling in the blanks.
D-U-P-L-I-C-I-T-O-U-S
Annoyingly, the word was the perfect fit.