Oz shrugs. “You were twenty-two when you made detective.”
“I am the anomaly.”
Oz’s lip quirks as he eyes the death grip I have on the wheel. “Apparently, so is she.”
I force myself to loosen my fingers. Profiling isn’t a skill any of us can switch off and I don’t need Oz analyzing my response to Freya. For some reason this woman provokes more emotions in me than I’ve felt in years and emotions do nothing but cloud judgement. I need to shut it down. “I’ll drop you off at The Lair before going to the morgue.”
The Lair is what we call the SCU offices. The nickname was our teammate Jude’s invention because, in his words, our crime case boards filled with images of dead bodies are better suited to villains than the good guys. It’s foolish and unprofessional but if I don’t indulge Jude from time to time, he would do more sulking than work.
“You going to talk to Dr Knightly?” Oz watches me carefully. “Do you think Danvers might be right?”
My jaw ticks and I turn on the windscreen wipers, pushing away the increasing rain. “If she is, whoever did Maddison Briggs’ autopsy is getting fired.”
CHAPTER THREE
Freya
I NEED A new obsession. I don’t have much of a reference but I’m pretty sure most twenty-three-year old’s don’t spend their time researching serial killers.
Footsteps approach my desk and I flip shut the file I’ve been analyzing. It’s not my official case. If I got caught working on it my captain wouldn’t be happy and she is one scary woman.
It’s just my partner, Luke, though and I lean back into my chair, doing a quick scan of the precinct. I don’t like how wrapped up I get in my work; anyone could have snuck up on me. A few of my fellow detectives sit at their desks, clicking away at their computers. Others lounge on the sofas in the break area, the hiss of the coffee machine filtering through the open door. Once I’m sure everyone is going about their business as normal, I turn my attention to Luke. He’s got soft blue eyes and mussed up, surfer boy hair. He may have left California years ago, but California hasn’t left him.
The corner of his lip ticks up as he hands me a coffee and leans against my desk. “So did you fangirl?”
I glower at him over the lid of the coffee cup, but the look is ruined by my chagrined smile. “I was 100% professional.” I had to be. Even if I am in awe of Agent Park and his team, I can’t afford to fall under the scrutiny of the SCU.
“It was good though?”
I take a sip of the coffee, savoring the caramel kick. “Yeah.”
Luke taps his fingers against the brown paper folder I spend far too much time reading. “I hate to break up your serial killer hunting, but the far from glamorous world of domestics is calling us.”
I’d been partners with Luke for less than two months when he caught on to my extra-curricular activities. I passed it off as a true-crime obsession and having ambitions to be a profiler, but the slip up served as a reminder not to get too close to anyone. I like Luke and part of me wants to tell him the truth, but I broke laws to get where I am, and I can’t give up my position as detective. It’s the best chance I have to catch The Cross-Cut Killer.
Right now, though, my side gig will have to wait. I grab the file and lock it away in my drawer.
Luke chucks me the car keys and I snatch them out of the air as I walk past him. Normally, we take it in turns to drive but I have the wheel for the whole week because Luke lost a bet. He always thinks he’s going to be better at picking up men than he is. I smirk to myself, remembering the forlorn look on his face when the mountain man left with the chef. If the sun-kissed, blond Adonis was looking for more than just a one-night stand, I might feel bad for him, but Luke isn’t one for settling down.
I, on the other hand, dream of it. The idea of having someone to lean on, someone always in my corner, someone to look after me, seems so perfect it’s unreachable. It’s a fairy tale so far away from anything I’ve ever had in life, and I can’t see it happening anytime soon. Relationships are built on honesty. How can I fall in love with someone when I can’t even tell them my real name?
Luke fills me in on the details of the case as I drive. “Neighbors heard shouting, a ruckus next door and called it in. Apparently, the beat cops radioed for back up when they arrived to find a woman in hysterics over her missing sister.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and force my expression to stay neutral. I hate cases with siblings.
The directions take us to a row of cookie cutter houses with vibrant green grass and freshly painted doors. It’s not the usual type of place for domestics, not because they don’t happen in neighborhoods like this but because when they do, they tend to stay under the radar. The whole case isn’t your usual domestic though, or Luke and I wouldn’t be here.
I put the car in park, and we head up the drive to a sweet, pink hued house. Sobs reach me before we’re even through the front door.
I glance at Luke, panic fluttering in my chest. He rolls his eyes but takes the lead and goes ahead to calm the woman down. We both know he’s better at the emotional stuff than me. I hang back, checking in with the Uniforms that got here first. It’s not that I don’t empathize, it’s that I feel everything too much. I can’t handle the intensity without internalizing the emotion myself. So, I shut it out. Maybe a little too much given the number of times I’ve been called an emotionless bitch.
I walk around the living room, letting Luke calm our witness as I take in the wooden blinds that are drawn shut even though it’s day. The cream walls are decorated with photos. Groups of friends. Smiling faces in graduation shots or dressed up for a hen night. Not for the first time, I find myself longing for the experiences I missed out on. I never graduated from high school. Never got the chance to go to college. I don’t think I’ve even ever spent the night just hanging out with friends.
The sobs behind me quieten as Luke works his magic. I turn my back on the photos and face the woman. She’s got blonde, wavy hair that flows past the shoulders of her cardigan and blends in with the golden-haired dog in her arms. Her face is blotchy and damp and her eyes look like someone’s taken sandpaper to them, but she manages to calm herself enough forus to question her. She tells us her name is Elsie. Her words are still shaky, but she answers as best she can.
“I was supposed to meet her here for lunch. I know it’s not been twenty-four hours, but she didn’t call yesterday, and Rocco’s bowl was completely empty when I arrived.” The woman runs her hand through the little terrier’s fur. He’s trembling, which is a dead giveaway that something isn’t right.
“Is it unusual for her to not call?”
