11. Maverick
MAVERICK
SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN
I follow Cruz down the hall to the waiting room, but I don’t sit. I lean against the door jamb, keeping the door to Clara’s room in my line of sight.
I’m unsteady—untethered—after hearing Clara describe the details of her captivity.
That sick son of a bitch.
“What the fuck was that, Rhodes?”
“I don’t even fucking know. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant what the fuck was with you calling her sunshine ? You’re getting attached.”
“Fuck off, Cruz.” I have no answer for him.
Hell, I don’t even know what possessed me to call her sunshine in the first place.
The endearment just slipped out of my mouth, but it’s here to stay.
It fits her. I see glimpses of the light she exudes before she falls into dark memories.
She may be caught in the shadow of an eclipse, but there’s no doubt in my mind that she’ll come out stronger.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Rhodes.” His stare is sharp enough to cut, but he simply shakes his head. “I’m going to run this fucker’s name through the database. I can send it off to my contact at the Minneapolis PD, see if he can get a hit on the N-DEx. Unless you want Arlo to run it.”
I already have my phone out and the text app open before Cruz finishes speaking. “I’ll have Arlo run his name through our databases.” Rochester isn’t exactly a small city, but its PD doesn’t have access to the National Data Exchange the way Minneapolis does.
Maverick
Got a name. Samson Smith. Let me know if you get a hit ASAP.
Arlo
On it.
“Ask Clara if she’d be okay talking to a sketch artist tomorrow? No one’s been able to get a clear picture of this guy except her.” Cruz shifts gears seamlessly, knowing Arlo will find any and everything he can on this piece of shit.
“Yeah, I’ll ask her.” As much as I hate to put this on her—to ask her to describe him again—we need this.
“The make and model of the car she described matches what Spencer found on the surveillance video from outside her apartment. Toyota Camry. He has a partial plate. Should be getting a text sometime soon with a report. I’ll forward that on to you. ”
“Good. We’ll need to look into any warehouses or unfinished construction buildings. Fucking needle in a haystack, man. The entire warehouse district is under construction. That’s a lot of fucking ground to sweep.”
“Let’s send some teams out. We’re looking for a building that has an interior room with a small window. Didn’t sound like she was able to see outside, just into the main space.”
“I’ll get some guys out there. One more thing, Rhodes.” He scrubs a hand down his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s going to need protective detail. We don’t know what this guy will do when he finds out she’s alive. Think she’ll go into WITSEC?”
Fucking hell. Between the FBI and local PDs, we’ve succeeded in keeping the media at bay.
But now, with a body and live victim found in the same city, it’s only a matter of time—a real short fucking time—before the news broadcasts coverage of a serial killer and the victim who survived. It’ll be a fucking media frenzy.
“I’ll ask her. Something tells me she won’t go for it. And hey, you tell Tamara that Clara is here?”
“No, I wanted to talk to her first. I’ll call Tamara when I get back to the station.”
“Do that. She needs someone.”
“Oh my god! I feel like a new person. Will you thank Riley and Evie for me?” Clara walks out of the hospital bathroom, freshly showered.
She runs a hand down the front of her new charcoal gray lounge set before lifting a foot and wiggling it in my direction on the couch.
“Look! They even got me fuzzy slippers! I freaking hate when my feet are cold.”
I can’t deny that she looks like a different woman.
With her dark brown—almost black—hair swept into a bun at the back of her head, her natural beauty is exposed, drawing me in.
Her full cheeks are flushed from the hot water, mirroring the soft pink of her lips.
She looks happy and at ease. I like seeing her like this.
There’s a playful side to her that comes out every now and again, and I’m thankful she hasn’t lost that despite the trauma she’s endured.
“I will.” I shake my head and laugh under my breath. “I’ll text them right now.”
I retrieve my phone from the side table and send a text to Riley and Evie. After they respond, I wave my phone at Clara. “Here. They said you’re welcome. See.”
Maverick
Clara says thank you for the clothes. Especially the fuzzy slippers.
Riley
She’s so welcome! I wish I could have met her.
Evie
Me too! Next time! When I’m not drowning in all this evidence.
I asked Riley and Evie to pick up a couple of items for Clara, including something to wear besides the hospital gown.
They dropped the bags off on their way to the FBI office, but she was still in the shower.
Evie said she’s knee deep in forensic analysis or else she would’ve stayed for a meet and greet.
Evie and Riley have been comparing evidence from the most recent crime scenes to the six others.
Jesse’s been in the lab, processing DNA and trace evidence.
He confirmed receipt of the samples from Clara’s forensic exam and is currently running it against the DNA collected from Catherine Bennett’s body.
“You said we could talk after your shower, sunshine. It’s after your shower, and I have some things I need to go over with you.” I track her as she moves across the room, toward her bed, so I don’t miss the eye roll she gives me.
“Fine, fine,” she huffs. Situating herself against the pillows, she sits criss-cross and uses the blanket to cover her legs. “Talk.”
“When I stepped out with Cruz earlier, he asked about a forensic sketch artist… and if you’d be willing to work with one tomorrow. We didn’t have a description of Samson until now.”
Clara flinches the moment I say his name. She’s a well of emotion, and I watch as the light swirling in her rich, dark chocolate eyes—the one she had moments ago—extinguishes.
“Please don’t say his name.” Her whisper is barely audible and full of anguish. “If I never hear that name again, it’d be too soon.”
“I’m so sorry, Clara.” Guilt for being the reason she’s shut down again weighs heavy on me.
“It’s okay.” Her breaths are measured, as though she’s actively staving off panic .
It’s definitely not okay.
“No, it’s not,” I urge. I’m on the verge of standing up so I can sit next to her—hold her hand, comfort her.
“I promise, Mav. You didn’t know,” she says, her voice stronger than before. “Now you do.”
“It won’t happen again,” I promise. And I’ll make sure no one says that fucker’s name in front of her.
“Thank you. Truly.” She offers me a smile, then sits up straighter. “I’ll do it. I’ll meet with the sketch artist. I just… I just want to move past this.”
“I know you do, sunshine. And you will.” I clear my throat, knowing she won’t be as amenable to what I say next.
“When you’re discharged, Cruz is going to have a protective detail on you.
At home, at work. It’s for your safety until we find him.
” Clara’s eyes widen, the color of her golden skin paling slightly, but I continue.
“The safest place for you would be in witness protection.”
“No, absolutely not, Maverick. You aren’t listening to me. I need to move past this . I need to get back to my life—back to normal. My apartment. My job. I can’t do that in witness protection, pretending to live a life that isn’t mine.” She shakes her head vehemently. “No.”
“Okay, okay.” My hands immediately lift in surrender. “I told Cruz you wouldn’t go for it. But the protective detail won’t be an option, do you hear? We need you safe.”
“Fine.” She relents, though I know she doesn’t want to. But at this point, I’ll take any win I can get.
Arlo
Samson Smith doesn’t exist. No bank accounts, no credit cards, nothing. He’s a ghost.
Spencer
Toyota Camry checked out to be a rental. Paid for with cash and registered to S. Smith. Rented for two days.
Maverick
Send a team to pick it up. Need forensics to comb through it.
Spencer
Already done. Rental company had it cleaned weeks ago, though.
Maverick
Shit. Let’s hope their guys were feeling lazy that day.
Fuck. Samson Smith has got to be an alias. We’re back to square one when it comes to finding this asshole.
I’m reviewing the surveillance videos of The Pour House, zooming in on the man sitting between a wall post and beer dispenser. It’s him. I just can’t see his fucking face. I pause the video on his hands—on any visible skin—searching for noticeable marks: a scar, tattoo, anything.
Nothing.
It’s only 6 p.m., but it feels like it should be a whole lot later than it is.
I close my laptop and stand to check on Clara.
The interview this morning took a toll on her, and she’s been napping fitfully for the last hour.
Hearing her whimpers and not being able to do anything about it has been nothing short of grueling.
Just as I reach her side, I hear a sharp rap on the door. My guard is up instantly. I’m not expecting anyone; the nurse and doctor have already made their rounds, and Cruz or my team would have messaged first.
“Who is it?” Clara whispers from beneath the blankets. I look down at her, sleep-laden eyes now wide and alert.
“I’m not sure.” The rapping comes again, more impatiently this time. I unholster my weapon, keeping it low as I move to open the door.
I barely have it open when I recognize the person’s coily hair and wide, misty eyes. Tamara. She looks right past me and through the small opening, her voice faltering with disbelief. “Is she here?”
Securing my gun in its holster, I respond by opening the door wide and moving aside to let her through. She takes the invitation and steps inside the room.
The moment Tamara’s eyes land on Clara, who is now sitting up in bed, she lets out a loud sob and runs forward.
Clara’s gaze lands on mine, and I give her a nod before closing the door gently behind me.
They need time.