4. Scarlett
FOUR
SCARLETT
Iforce myself to return to my desk, and search through the endless reports of the previous murders for anything I might have missed, even though I know it's a futile attempt.
I've been over them so many times that I have them memorized.
Despite it all, a persistent sense of cold dread slithers through every cell in my body, keeping me alert and tense.
Keep it together, Scarlett, don't let them see anything. Don't show any weakness. Flashes of the current scene pass through my mind, as I try to make sense of all the details I'm positive the killer has left for me. It can't be. It's not possible.
Even as I try to deny it, my mind pulls up a vivid image of the current victim's head wound with the slight imprint.
One that I instantly zeroed in on. It's only a matter of time before Dr. Stephens or Garnier also notice, and look through the other files.
Maybe they won't catch on, and I'll have time to find this fucker on my own.
You've failed, face it, this guy is smarter than you are.
"Agent Lyssa, the fire department's preliminary report says the accelerant was gasoline.
" Tom passes me a piece of paper, careful not to touch me in any way, as if he might catch cooties or something from me.
I swallow the snarky remark at the tip of my tongue, nodding as I take it from him, and he quickly shuffles away.
Men can be so freaking emotional. It was only that one time that I bit his head off, because he had sticky fingers when he handed me a file, and the mess later ended up on my shirt.
Now he walks around as if at any moment I will cut his hand off.
If I'm honest, I might if he doesn't start fucking washing them.
"I see you're still making friends, Lyssa," Garnier's voice slithers down my back, causing the hairs to stand on end as he shifts forward and leans his muscular, round ass against my desk.
His scent, a rich amber mixed with something clean like cedar or pine, instantly assaults me, and my stomach tightens.
Garnier's biceps bulge as he folds his arms across his broad chest. The veins and tattoos on his forearm are prominent in my sightline, making it hard to look away as I meet his glance with fake annoyance.
Men shouldn't be allowed to roll their sleeves up when they have veins and tats that look like that.
They also shouldn't be allowed to loosen their ties and open their shirt buttons, exposing their sexy as fuck neck, making them look disheveled and delicious.
I dart a quick glance at his veiny hand and long fingers, and bite my cheek to suppress a groan.
Now my pitiful mind is busy imagining one of his elegant hands wrapped around my neck. Fuck.
I shift in my seat, forcing him to move over so he won't be trampled by the wheels of my chair, and instantly receive a dark, questioning raised eyebrow for my efforts.
"I'm not here to make friends. This is a place of work, and I have a job to do, Garnier.
" My voice is biting and cold, but it never seems to have any effect on him.
A snort instantly rips through the air. The sound should irritate me, but instead it causes my stomach to clench tightly.
"One day, Lyssa, that huge stick you have up your ass will either kill ya, or hopefully dislodge itself.
I'm hoping for the latter, for your sake.
Life's too short and ugly to be so miserable.
" He reaches forward and snatches the document right out of my hands, and proceeds to ignore me as he reads over the results.
"Ashmaker's struck again. Nothing new, fire again, no obvious evidence left at the scene, and no tracks leading us to how he got away. At least this cunt is consistent."
I realize my mouth is still hanging open at his audacity and quickly shut it, my eyes narrowing on him, even though he's not looking at me. "Do not refer to him by that ridiculous media moniker." My voice drops an octave, steady and sharp. "He is far too methodical to change his call sign."
A phantom ache claws painfully behind my temples, dragging a bitter wave of nausea up my throat. "It serves two purposes," I strain out, the words tasting bitter and sounding harsh to my ears. "It destroys the evidence and marks his territory, letting us know it was him."
Even as I declare it, something prickles deep in my mind.
A dark heat stirs with an image of a ravenous fire licking up high walls, and arching toward a blackened ceiling.
My skin flushes feverishly, slick with sudden sweat.
In my mind's eye, I can see a delicate hand reaching towards it, fine-boned fingers dancing above the flames' inferno.
The slender fingers dance over the sparks, unburned, yet coaxing the flames as if directing a symphony.
The amber light bleeds into a deep, seductive crimson, painting the skin in foreboding shadows.
I can smell the heavy, choking ash even though I know that shouldn't be possible.
I feel the suffocating warmth press against my chest, stealing my breath until my lungs scream with the need for clean oxygen.
The hairs on my arms stand on end, wired to a terror that feels far too real and much like overwhelming desire.
"Jesus, Lyssa, where the hell do you keep disappearing to?
" Garnier's voice cracks like a whip, violently ripping me from the fiery abyss.
The vision shatters. The hypnotic crimson flames instantly vanish, swallowed by a sudden, suffocating dark void of nothingness.
I grasp desperately for the edges of the thought, but it dissolves into a thick, poisonous fog behind my eyes.
Something is watching me from inside that mist. Something vital, buried just inches out of reach.
The sheer terror of forgetting it leaves me paralyzed, and the air becomes trapped in my lungs as my chest seizes.
A low, jagged breath rips from my lungs, thick with the taste of my own failure.
God, the sheer, suffocating fucking rage of it.
Rage at the evidence slipping through my fingers like water.
Rage at the monster executing men out there, carving messages meant exclusively for my eyes.
Worst of all, rage at the devastating, lethal scent of Garnier.
He smells of expensive bourbon and sin. A textbook, high-profile degenerate I have absolutely no right to crave.
The dark, electric current snapping between us is a match waiting to drop, a fire capable of incinerating everything around us, and blowing up my hard-fought control.
It's the absolute last thing I need right now.
"Are you ever fucking silent?" I growl, the friction in my throat sounding dangerous.
"Like, even for a single second? I'm trying to untangle a goddamn slaughter to see what we're missing.
" I slam my hand down on the edge of the desk, the sound loud in the suddenly silent office.
"Maybe try holding your breath. It might help.
" My words strike him like a physical blow.
A sudden, sharp flush stains his high, whiskered cheekbones.
His heavy, sinful lips lock into a tight, displeased line, his eyes instantly darkening with wounded fury.
Take it back, the terrified, desperate part of my mind screams. Apologize.
A sharp, fractured breath scrapes past my lips, thick still with the imaginary smoke still trapped in my lungs.
I can't apologize. To soften now would dissolve the fragile, iron-clad border I've forced between us.
Jasper's jaw locks, a hard, white knot tightening beneath his dark stubble.
The brutal friction of his grinding teeth echoes in the heavy silence.
If I possessed a shred of empathy, the raw tension in his frame might worry me, but I'm entirely hollowed out.
"He's hunting the margins," Jasper replies, his voice dropping into a flat, dangerous register that instantly has me on guard.
"Picking secluded spots to bleed and torture them, using fire to burn away any evidence.
None of them are ever more than twenty miles from their homes or workplaces.
I've cross-referenced the files, Lyssa, and there's zero visual connection.
The guy before this was a dental hygienist. This one's a youth pastor.
Before that, we had a professor of psychology. "
"Child psychology," I cut in, the correction sharp as a razor.
"Huh?" He drags a rough hand across his jaw, his piercing dark blue eyes locking onto mine. The distance metaphorically between us is now an ice-filled chasm. It needs to stay that way. I cannot afford a single thaw with a man who tastes like temptation and ruin.
"There's a difference..." I start, but the sheer exhaustion bruising the skin beneath his eyes catches in my throat.
I swallow the rest of the sentence. It doesn't matter anyway.
Not in the grand scheme of this nightmare.
The killer isn't courting Jasper. Every ashes-and-crimson horror, every twisted breadcrumb, they're a depraved love letter written solely for me.
While that realization should leave me trembling with fear, it also sparks something dark and violently exhilarating deep inside my chest. Something that sings to me with a siren's song.
"If you say so, Lyssa." Jasper lets out a heady, gravelly groan, the sound vibrating low in his throat as he rubs the back of his neck.
"Listen, I'm going to get a few hours of shut-eye.
I suggest you do the same, then we meet back here.
We'll rip apart the evidence from the last few kills.
Maybe he's leaving us a clue we're just not seeing yet. "
You're not seeing it. To me, it is screaming from the pages.
I tilt my head, a mute gesture of agreement, and watch the slow, confident rise of his shoulders as he gets up and walks away.
The scent of him lingers in the stagnant air, a cruel reminder of the heat I'm denying myself.
I glance around the bullpen. The desks are mostly deserted, the ambient hum of the computers the only company left.
My back and neck scream with a jagged, white-hot tension.
I should listen to him. I should go home, but I know the second I lay my head down in the dark, the fire will find me again.
The delicate, unbothered fingers dancing in the flames will haunt my closed eyelids.
My gaze drops back to the discarded crime scene report.
What are you trying to tell me? Where are you leading me?
Dammit, I have to hunt this maniac down before he takes another victim.
The question that scratches at the raw edges of my mind is, why me?
Why is Jasper completely invisible to him?
This beast isn't just killing; he's courting.
He wants something from me, and I'm betting it's not just to throw his ass in a maximum security facility and throw away the key.
He wants a game of cat and mouse. As the silence of the office closes in around me, I'm no longer sure which one I am.