Chapter 18 #2
She keeps playing the tape. Morrow never raises his voice.
Never shows emotion. I’ve seen this kind of detachment on the face of Stanley Daniels when he stared at crime scene photos.
He was completely impassive, as if it didn’t register to him that what he did was wrong. Or if it did, he didn’t care.
“Do you guys have interviews with other killers?” I ask.
DJ gives me an understanding smile. “Killers like Stanley Daniels?”
“Yeah.”
“We don’t have anything on him. From what I know, he refused to speak after his arrest and maintained complete silence through his trial and time in prison.”
I nod, trying to hide my disappointment. Hearing his voice would change nothing. It wouldn’t answer the question that’s haunted me for seven years: Why my family?
I flatten the pencil skirt DJ loaned me, trying to tug it down another impossible inch.
The navy blouse she gave me offers no protection from the cold, and there’s so much makeup caked on my face that I’m pretty sure I could scrape it off with a butter knife.
DJ twisted my hair into some kind of professional knot that she managed to create with just three bobby pins and what might have been actual magic.
The wind in the hospital parking lot tries its best to destroy DJ’s handiwork, and I press both hands to my head. “The wind is going to ruin my hair.”
“Your hair’s not going anywhere.” DJ comes up in front of me and flattens the flyaways on top of my head. “I used enough hairspray to shellac a boat.”
My reflection in the van window doesn’t look like me. I look older. Resemble someone with a job I’d need at least a high school degree to do. I wonder what that would be like.
These clothes drain the life out of me—although it’s not unlike how I dress nowadays.
Mom used to love dressing in bright colors.
She wore scrubs to work, but on her days off, you’d find her in fluorescent yellow sundresses, baggy patterned overalls, and orange sweaters so bright no hunter would shoot her during deer season.
Rosie owned hot pink everything. I wore tie-dye T-shirts almost every day.
Dad used to joke that he needed sunglasses to look at us.
After they died, I couldn’t bring myself to wear anything but Dad’s old practical clothes.
Cargo pants. Plain gray hoodies. All things that looked good on Dad, but on me, they’re a constant visual reminder of how empty I feel.
Griffin motions between the three of us, pulling me out of the memory. Nico wanted someone with combat experience to drive us and run comms, much to DJ’s annoyance.
“I got a feeling we’re looking at the new dream team,” Griffin says.
“There’ll only ever be one dream team.” DJ turns to me. “Griff, Nico, and I used to go into the field together all the time—we were Donny’s go-to group for field work—so Griff called us the dream team.”
“Only because Nico loved the name so much,” Griffin adds with a grin that suggests Nico most definitely did not love anything about that name.
It’s hard to imagine Nico going into the field if he won’t even go to crime scenes now. What changed?
Griffin holds up what looks like a tiny flesh-colored cochlear implant, dangling it in front of me.
“This beauty hooks around your ear,” he says. “You plug it into the cone DJ has, and you can listen to the echoes.”
I eye the device. “I thought DJ was doing the listening.”
“She is.” Griffin passes one of the earpieces to her, and she jams it in her ear. “But if she manages to catch something good, you should take a listen, too. Get a front-row seat to the ghost concert instead of the recap.”
I twist my mouth to the side. “Is that what we’re calling autopsies now?”
“I call them all kinds of things,” Griffin says. “Dead people listening parties. Morgue karaoke.”
“Stop talking,” DJ says, though she’s smiling.
Griffin steps closer to me, holding up the earpiece. “May I?”
Uh… I glance at DJ, who rolls her eyes. I nod.
Griffin steps closer. Closer than is probably necessary for inserting a small piece of technology into someone’s ear.
“How’s that feel?” he asks, his fingers brushing the shell of my ear as he loops the earpiece into place and inserts the tiny speaker into my ear canal.
“Good.”
He smells of citrus and something clean—laundry detergent, or maybe soap. I can feel the warmth radiating off him, his breath stirring the little wisps of hair at my neck that escaped the industrial-strength hairspray.
I step backward to put some much-needed space between us, straightening my blouse with hands that are definitely not trembling. “Thanks for the hearing aid.”
I adjust the earpiece until it sits snugly in my ear, blocking out all sound. It’s disorienting.
“Sure thing.” His eyes do an obvious sweep from my face down to my bare legs, which are way too cold in this wind. “Skirt looks good on you, by the way.”
I’m hyperaware of how close he still is, how gentle his fingers were against my skin. “As opposed to my usual clothes?”
“I’m not picky,” he says.
“Oh my God.” DJ slams the van doors. “Griffin, go sit in the van and leave us alone before I tell Nico you’re being a creep.”
Griffin raises both hands. “Good luck in there, ladies. Try not to get arrested.”
He saunters back to the driver’s seat and pulls down the same tablet DJ used at the crime scene. I shake my head, trying to clear it as DJ grabs my hand and practically drags me toward the hospital entrance. Only when we’re out of earshot does she drop my hand and burst out laughing.
“Your face,” she says between giggles. “You looked like you forgot how to breathe for a second.”
“I was breathing just fine.” But my cheeks are burning, which probably isn’t helping my case. “He was just… really close.”
“If he ever bothers you, like actually bothers you, just let me know, and I’ll throttle him,” she says. “I mean it.”
There’s real steel in her voice, and a gooey feeling spreads through me. When’s the last time someone offered to defend me like that?
“He’s not bothering me,” I say.
“Okay. But just so you know…” DJ leans in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He is halfway decent in bed.”
I scrunch my brows, my brain taking a second to catch up. “Did you two—?”
“Once,” she says quickly, holding up a finger. “One time, a couple months ago. We both agreed it was weird and never spoke of it again—it was a dark period for both of us—but objectively speaking, if you’re looking to blow off some steam, the man knows what he’s doing. Solid five stars on Yelp.”
You know, I believe it, but I’m not interested.
Except that’s not exactly true, is it? I would absolutely like to blow off some steam. I could use a distraction from everything happening in my life right now, but Griffin isn’t the one who turns my thoughts into static the moment he walks into a room.
That honor belongs to a certain team leader.
Which is not a thought I should be having. At all. Especially when Nico made it clear this morning that he’d rather send me back to my car than spend five minutes teaching me anything.
But I’m starting to think that we might be working out some kind of truce. He made a joke, after all, and he can’t hate spending time with me that much if he’s making jokes.
I shove the thought down deep where it belongs.
Just because Nico made a couple of jokes doesn’t mean that he wants to blow off steam with me.
Griffin might, but this is still a job, no matter how unconventional it is, or how casual it seems. And I just started.
The last thing I need is to complicate things by hooking up with anyone.
I’m just starved for attention. I’m not actually interested.
“I appreciate the recommendation,” I say, shaking my arms out at my sides to stay warm. “But I’m good.”
DJ shrugs. “Just wanted you to have all the information.”