To Dodge A Bullet

By Mariah Leverock

What would you choose, if you could live the last moment of your life over again?

FBI Special Agent Glory Hymark hasn’t had to make many hard choices in her life. Police Academy- check. FBI Academy at Quantico- check. After the loss of her family, Hymark has been living her life on auto-pilot.
But when a dangerous serial killer sets his sights on her and her partner Xavier DeCorias, Hymark’s life comes to a full stop.
Four people have been brutally murdered, their torsos carved with one of the seven deadly sins. Next to each body, ‘Liar’ is written out in the victim’s blood. There’s no timeline, no pattern. No warning. Only evidence that none of the victims seem to be guilty of the sins they supposedly represent.
In fact, they’re opposites.
Regardless of the truth, this killer believes he’s been called to force sinners to repentance. And that Hymark and DeCorias are two of the worst. They soon find themselves in the killer’s crosshairs, putting their skill as agents- and their relationship as partners- to the test.
When sinners and saints collide, Hymark is faced with the ultimate choice. One that will bring her to her knees… whether she’s ready to repent or not.

Perfect for fans of Tess Gerritsen and Kathy Reichs, To Dodge a Bullet takes readers on a sinfully wild ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Feb 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662922992

Book preview

ONE

Shit! I hiss forcefully, dropping my thermos back into the cup holder. The offending liquid inside sloshes out onto my hand in an act of rebellion, burning my skin just as it so recently scorched my lips. I pull up to the stoplight, seizing the opportunity to whip down the mirror and assess the damage. The area just beneath my lips is tinged a rosy, angry red as if bitten by an overzealous lover.

Yeah, right.

The light turns green just as I slap the visor closed, dismissing my wounded visage. I inch the Mustang forward a hair, my foot barely gracing the pedal. My bumper gets uncomfortably close to the vehicle ahead of me, but does nothing to encourage it forward. The blue pickup takes its time moving, acting like it has nowhere important to be and all the time in the world.

Something that I really don’t have.

Impatiently, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel to the tune of Devil Went Down to Georgia, trying my best to suppress the urge to put the pedal to the metal and hightail it out of here.

This morning’s call replays in my mind so vividly that I actually visualize myself pacing in my living room, even up to the point where I stubbed my toe on the couch and had to bite my lip to keep from cursing beautifully into the phone.

Good morning, Glory. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention after the first syllable alone. My boss’ tone is cold, stiff where it’s normally hearty and full of good humor when he talks to me.

Good morning, McNulty, I manage, stifling my surprise. A call before I even get halfway to the office is never a good sign, and I barely resist the urge to blurt out my questions. With forced patience, I endure the platitude.

You’ve still got a bug out bag ready to go, right? Unease sours my stomach.

Always. What’s happened?

There’s no point in asking why- I have a feeling I already know the answer. Can feel it in every fiber of my being, down to my very soul. I’m already headed to the bedroom closet where I keep a duffel bag stowed away on the top shelf. Fully packed with clothes, toiletries, even a spare handgun should the need arise. All I need is my passport from the nightstand.

I jerk at the sound of a car’s blaring horn. An angry Mercedes blasts by a moment later on my right, the driver shooting me the bird as he passes. Apparently I zoned out farther than I thought. A glance at my speedometer shows I’m doing 20 under the limit, easy. After checking my mirrors to see that the coast is clear, I slide into the right lane. Several other cars, too proud or stubborn to pass me before, breeze by now. I set the cruise control, muttering a curse under my breath before settling more comfortably into my seat. Now that I’m out of everyone’s way, I crawl back into my reverie like slipping on a wet bathing suit, leaning my head against my hand propped on the car door.

How soon can you be on the road? he asks in a tired voice, avoiding my question. I make a mental note of it, but don’t challenge him. Yet.

As soon as the Keurig brews, I answer as I retrieve my duffel from the top shelf and chuck it onto the bed. A few seconds later, I’ve also retrieved my passport from the nightstand and shoved it inside next to my spare handgun just in case.

The awkward pause that follows my response all but confirms my earlier misgivings and feelings of unease, setting my heart racing with tense anticipation.

He’s back, isn’t he, I say, no longer able to repress my curiosity.

He’s back, my boss says, his tone hollow and full of dread.

Shifting uncomfortably in my seat at the memory, I engage my blinker and take a right onto Meyers street. A lonely road, none of the other cars I’ve traveled alongside so far follow. Sunlight arches directly into my eyes from the early morning sun, and I flip the visor down to block it. The mirror panel is still open, showing my battle scar from my fight with coffee. The tingling in my singed lip has all but abated, replaced by an entirely new sensation as I draw closer to the crime scene.

Dread.

Four months. Four long, agonizing months where my partner and I desperately hoped we would finally catch our man. Four months since, instead, we found…

Another horn blast abruptly tears me from my macabre reverie. I thought I was alone on this road, but apparently another car followed me after all. I growl in annoyance, tightening my grip on the steering wheel.

"Focus, Glory. Focus."

The GPS pinned to my dash alerts that my destination is up ahead on the left. So far, I’ve passed by several idyllic colonial homes made of brick or fabricated white siding. Each the size of a mountain and worth more than I make in several year’s pay. I try not to dwell on it as I come closer to the end of the road and the homes taper off, becoming wide expanses of land with fencing meant for large breeds of animals. Here and there I pass a horse, head bent and grazing.

Oh, to live a life where my only problem was flies biting my ass.

The GPS bleats again and I scan the left side of the road for my destination. When the line of police cars comes into view, I sit up straighter in my seat. Even considering the crowd, it isn’t hard to find a place to park in the grass alongside the tall fencing of the property. I ease the Mustang snugly into position between a cruiser and a brown stone mailbox. With a final glimpse at the vanity mirror to check on my lip burn, I suck in a breath to fortify myself and get out of the car.

Experience has taught me to always expect the worst when pulling up to a crime scene.

I scan the area, looking for my partner. He’s almost always at a scene before me, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he was lingering outside with a sour expression on his face. It doesn’t take me long to spot his silver Dodge already parked on the side of the street a little ways ahead, closer to the driveway of the house. It gleams in the early morning sunlight, nearly blinding me as I approach. Polished to a shine, as always. As if his life wasn’t just fighting criminals, but dirt and grime, too.

For a moment, I regret not being the sunglasses type as I shield my eyes with the back of my hand.

A uniformed officer stands at the front of a cordoned off area just inside the white fence of the property, gesturing me over with a broad wave. I nod in acknowledgment, checking both directions before hurriedly crossing the street.

Agent Hymark, he says by way of greeting. He’s bald, mid-to-late thirties with brown eyes creased by long hours in the sun. It’s surprising to see someone his age working a detail like this, making me wonder if he’s new to the force or if he merely lacks ambition. I force the automatic profiling from my mind and approach the police tape, plastering a friendly expression onto my face.

Officer. Is Special Agent DeCorias inside the house already? I ask, gesturing to the large colonial behind him. He nods, kindly lifting the tape for me to pass underneath.

He got here not long before you, he says.

Thanks. My earlier assumption confirmed, I head up towards the house, squinting against the sun. DeCorias has always been the boy scout type- never late, always prepared for every situation. But at least he isn’t the goody-two-shoes type. That would drive me nuts.

I take in the details of the house on my way up, craning my head back to fully take it all in. The sun behind me now that I’ve rounded the front fencing, I have an unobstructed view of the structure.

Bushes dotted with various flowers line either side of a winding cement driveway. Every few feet, a black lamppost stands at attention, garnished with what I assume to be a family crest forged from metal. The lawn seems to go on for miles in every direction, a vibrant green sea that’s been immaculately maintained.

The house itself is like a mountain in the distance, more details coming into focus as I get closer and fall under its shadow. Pale blue paneling, large white columns on either side of the red front door. The porch holds a dozen hanging flower pots, the hosts soaking up the very best spring has to offer. The crest from the lampposts makes a reappearance on the front door, almost twice the size but made of the same shiny black metal.

As I reach the stone steps, the front door opens and a familiar face greets me.

About time you showed up, my partner Xavier DeCorias says by way of welcome, shooting me a cheeky grin.

I roll my eyes in response, shouldering past him and into the house. Impossibly, it’s even bigger on the inside. The crystal chandelier in the entranceway is easily ten or eleven feet above our heads. It glimmers, catching sunlight from the windows behind it and sending tiny rainbows dancing along the white walls. All of it gives me this feeling like I’ve walked into a celebrity’s mansion, not a layperson’s private home.

Did you get to drink any of your coffee, or did you decide wearing it was the better option? DeCorias asks from behind me.

I stop walking long enough to turn back around and face him, brow raised.

What do you mean?

He smirks, pointing at my chest. Curious, I follow his finger with my gaze. A blotch of coffee the size of my fists mars the white surface of my blouse like a crime scene. My navy suit jacket won’t close in the front to hide it, so I’ll have to wear it like a battle scar for the day. All well.

Oh, that. I thought it would be trendy. All the kids are doing it these days, I dismiss the stain with a wave of my hand, talking out of my ass.

DeCorias doesn’t buy it but merely chuckles instead of calling my bluff. He gestures me further into the house, towards the stairs that seem to reach all the way to Heaven itself. I can’t help but wonder who could possibly need this much space. A person could live with just a bedroom, living room, and kitchen. Anything else just seems… unnecessary to me. Grandiose.

DeCorias walks comfortably up the wide stairs at my side, having plenty of room to maneuver. The light streaming in from the large bay windows highlights his features, catching in his hair and eyes as we go. His tan skin is offset by closely cut dark hair, with just a bit of scruff. His beard matches, also meticulously maintained and just enough to accentuate his chiseled features. He isn’t a heart-stopping kind of attractive, but he’s not exactly a troll either. The way the light dances in his golden-brown eyes makes it seem like they’re twin stars, bursting. In my opinion, they’re the only non-average thing about his appearance.

I run my hand along the banister as I ascend the stairs, the dark wood polished to a gleam and smooth as if just cleaned this morning. A sobering thought.

Who lives here? I ask, turning my head to face him as we reach a break in the stairs. I stop on the landing long enough to look down on the entrance where we came from, mentally calculating sight lines and cover almost instinctively. An old habit born from years of training and having to watch our asses.

Paul and Martha McIntyre, DeCorias supplies helpfully. They have a son, Tyson, who’s 23. But he’s in and out, not here very much. Uniforms called him when they found the bodies. Apparently he’s been out of the country for weeks doing a semester abroad. He doesn’t know anything about his parents’ friends or potential enemies. He hurries me forward with a hand on my shoulder, his expression uncharacteristically somber.

And the victim? I ask, mouth suddenly dry. Unbidden, my boss’ words come back to haunt me.

He’s back.

Patience, Glory, DeCorias admonishes quietly. You’ll see.

We continue the rest of the way in silence, passing by several officers and crime scene techs busy about their various tasks. All of them with their heads bent, expressions grim. Not a great sign for what lays ahead, but then… I didn’t have much hope for that anyways.

From the moment I got McNulty’s phone call this morning, I’ve been bracing myself. Wrapping up my mind and my heart into a protective little box against the unabashed, unholy evil of this world. It’s something I have to do for each and every case DeCorias and I take on, but none more so than this one.

Even still, none of my mental preparations were enough of a bastion for what lay inside this bedroom.

Newspapers are strewn about in a haphazard fashion, covering almost every surface at least in part. Some are a full spread, but others are merely segments torn by a rough hand. All are smeared with what appear to be bloody hand prints, small but not exactly childlike in their size. Several clippings even dangle limply from the ceiling fan, like moss on a dying tree. A nearby dresser, dark oak, is littered with the defiled newspapers in a large stack. As if the person sleeping in this room had set them there for later reading. The thought makes my stomach churn.

Two large windows let morning light into the space, but it does nothing to penetrate the oppressive darkness of the room.

Glory…, DeCorias chastens. He knows I’m stalling, taking in the outside ring of the crime scene before looking at the gruesome center. Steeling myself with a held breath, I force my gaze to the bed.

An older male I assume to be Paul McIntyre is splayed across the bed, milky blue eyes open and unseeing. Blood forms twin trails from the corners of his mouth, which hangs agape in a silent scream. He wears a basic white t-shirt and flannel, the former cut to ribbons across the chest and rendered nearly unrecognizable by blood.

Which does it say? I ask, voice quiet. I don’t turn to face my partner. Not because I can’t look away from the body, but because I’ve gone rigid. He takes a few steps forward until he’s standing beside me, looking down at the form before us.

Four month old memories rise to the surface unbidden, like bile with the force of a tidal wave. I force my gaze away from the body, swallowing hard as I look at DeCorias from the corner of my eye.

Cupiditas, he intones. The Latin is unfamiliar to me, but he has no trouble forming the word. It sounds almost natural coming from his lips.

And for those of us spared a Catholic upbringing?

Covetousness.

A portly uniformed officer approaches behind us, rudely whistling low when he sees the body.

A little respect, Jacobsen, my partner scolds him. Seriously. His remark goes ignored by the officer who continues to look at McIntyre’s bloodied corpse.

So what did this guy covet so bad that it got him killed? Jacobsen asks, janitorial mustache twitching. Seems to me he was already richer than God Himself.

The air around him, his irreverent personality… It makes me want to rip that infernal mustache off his face and beat him with it.

I swallow the urge down with great effort, understanding the need to remain professional.

That’s not how this killer works, I find myself saying. My mind has drifted far away, brushing against the memories of the other crime scenes almost reverentially, as if I were running my hand along the lid of a coffin with someone dear to me encased inside.

I stretch on a pair of latex gloves unearthed from my pocket and crouch down to the floor. Gently, I retrieve one of the newspaper bits and hold it up for closer inspection.

A petite, bloody hand print mars the surface, but I can make out just enough about the article to know it references some form of donation made to a charitable organization. The McIntyres are mentioned at least twice in separate paragraphs, as well as a dollar figure rendered illegible by a large clot of blood. Whatever it is, it has to be a pretty hefty amount to warrant being immortalized in newsprint.

"So how does he ‘work’ then?" Jacobsen asks, hocking phlegm as if poised to spit. I sense, rather than physically see, DeCorias tense. The air in the room drops a few degrees, turns electric and charged.

He- or she- kills the victims based on the seven deadly sins, I explain, rising to my feet as Jacobsen spits into a plastic Mountain Dew bottle. I’m not sure why I’m entertaining this neanderthal, but it wouldn’t do to piss off the locals while we’re still on the scene. Better to wait to ostracize ourselves once we’ve got full control.

Ain’t that a Nancy Drew book or sumfin’? I continue on, unperturbed by the interruption and his utter lack of human decency. There’s always one.

Only the people he kills never match up to the sins he labels them with. I’m willing to bet Paul McIntyre is no exception.

I walk over to DeCorias, hand him the clipping I liberated from the floor. He takes it in a gloved hand, looks it over with narrowed eyes.

I don’t know whose hand prints these are, but they’re petite. Perhaps a woman’s, or an unusually feminine male’s. Do we know where his wife is? I ask him.

Impossibly, DeCorias’ face pales even further than when we first ascended the stairs, becoming almost ashen now.

She’s… downstairs, he manages on a sigh, swallowing hard. He looks away from me abruptly, trying to hide his expression.

Did you clock the back wall? he asks. Over the headboard?

I shake my head, not bothering to turn and look.

I didn’t need to. I knew it would be there, I answer morosely.

The one detail we kept from the press from the past crime scenes, a herculean effort to prevent any copycats and to hopefully one day weed out suspects.

Liar is inscribed across the wall in the victim’s bold, red blood. Right where I knew it would be- the most prominent place in the room.

I turn my back to it, taking in the rest of the room without moving an inch. Thankfully, Jacobsen has decided to be alone with his thoughts in silence, giving me time to think. I have a handful of puzzle pieces, but no idea of the real picture they’re intended to make.

Are you done here? DeCorias asks, taking my inaction as a sign. I dismiss him with a subtle shake of my head, stepping closer to McIntyre’s body. There’s more here, a story I haven’t yet read. And I intend to find it.

Now that I’ve confronted the thing making me so apprehensive, my mind slips into the familiar calm I’ve come to know so well. Some would call it grim detachment, but I prefer to consider it something akin to a sharpening of my focus. Removing my visceral feelings about what I’m looking at and instead trying to be purely analytical. In some cases, I even go so far as to imagine the crime in progress with myself as the killer. How I would do it, what I would do.

At the end of the day, emotions get in the way of the facts and can influence perception. I have to be able to turn them off, then back on again.

The latter being of utmost importance in this line of work. It’s a tightrope, but I walk it.

The bustling of the uniformed officers and crime scene techs fades until it’s nothing more than a negligible droning in the back of my mind. In my peripheral vision, I catch Jacobsen about to say something when my partner places a calloused hand on his shoulder. A moment later and DeCorias is steering him out of the room like a bouncer at a night club.

I take another step closer to the bed, my knees almost touching the mattress. First, I look at his hands. No defensive wounds, and the blood is only in splotches on his knuckles if it’s there at all. His clothes are the same, with the obvious exception of the marred t-shirt.

He didn’t struggle, didn’t fight off his killer, I say to no one in particular. I sense DeCorias take a step closer, saying nothing. This is a dance we have done many times before.

I run my eyes down to the other end of McIntyre’s body. Jeans, lightly bloodied. Almost like an afterthought. Spotless Doc Martins on his feet. But… something more.

The shoes, I gesture with a pointed finger. DeCorias appears at my side, following with his eyes.

If he was wearing them during the attack, they should be at least a little bloody. But they’re clean, almost as if he wasn’t wearing them when it happened.

Nodding in acknowledgment, DeCorias walks over to the foot of the bed and stands before McIntyre’s feet. He pokes the bottom of one with the end of a ballpoint pen.

"And do you wear your shoes inside the house?" I follow up.

It’s early morning on a week day. He’s dressed casually as if he were planning on spending the day around the house, not like he intended to go into work at any point.

Size seven, DeCorias says by way of response, bent low to inspect the sole of the shoe. I turn away from studying McIntyre’s abdomen, immediately zeroing in on the shoes.

How many men do you know that wear size sevens? I ask. "Do they even make men’s shoes that small?"

No. But that’s an average size for women, DeCorias supplies, locking eyes with me. Even with my rock steady focus, my stomach drops.

Where did you say the wife was? I ask, voice quiet.

Per McNulty’s usual MO, he didn’t tell me a single thing about the crime scene other than the location. He prefers I go in fresh, take things at face value and make inferences. I have a course in Behavioral Analysis and Profiling to thank for that. DeCorias typically acts as the scouting party, going in first. I come in later and then we compare notes. Sometimes it feels like I’m playing catch up, and I hate it.

This is one of those times.

Downstairs. He’s no longer looking at me, head bent as picks at his gloves to move them more comfortably into place over his large hands. I watch in tense silence, my heart beating a staccato rhythm in my ears.

Gently, he places both hands on either end of McIntyre’s left shoe and pulls. It comes away unexpectedly easy, causing DeCorias to stagger backwards a step. He calls out to a tech for an evidence bag, but I don’t look up to see if one comes running or not. I can’t stop staring at McIntyre’s foot.

Or, rather, the bloody stump where his foot should be.

Had to be postmortem. There wasn’t enough blood to seep through the shoe, even though it’s black and would be hard to see regardless, DeCorias explains.

The other one, too? I assume, gesturing with a wave of my hand as my stomach churns. This time I look up when I see movement from the corner of my eye. A tech stands waiting with an evidence bag at the ready. He’s young with sandy blond hair, probably fresh out of college.

And pale. Very pale.

I’m about to take the bag from him and instruct the poor soul to puke in a different room when DeCorias speaks.

Yes, he answers, removing the right shoe and placing it in the waiting evidence bag. The tech seals it and leaves the room in record time, its twin in a separate bag in tow.

Do we know how he died yet? I ask, taking another look. Other than blood loss, there’s nothing inherently obvious on the surface.

Not yet. We’ll have to wait on the M.E. I nod in response, sighing with finality.

Alright. Let’s go downstairs, then. I want to talk to the wife, see what she knows. If anything. DeCorias gestures for me to precede him out of the room, a grim look on his face.

Okay. But I don’t imagine she’ll be much for conversation. I stutter-step, processing the meaning of his words in the span of a heartbeat.

They never make our job easy, do they? I ask on a defeated sigh, to which DeCorias merely scoffs.

If it were easy, you wouldn’t be here. You’d get bored, Glory. Not enough puzzles for that wicked mind of yours. I chuckle halfheartedly as I descend the stairs, DeCorias a few steps behind me this time.

You’re probably right, I mutter.

Once we’re back on the ground floor, DeCorias steers me off to the right towards what I assume will be the formal dining room or perhaps a sectioned-off area for a family room. I’m close, but not quite. We step into what appears to be a living room, or whatever the well-to-do refer to their obscenely large living room as. There’s a stone-bordered electric fireplace across from a luxurious brown sofa arranged in the typical L-shape.

And, in between the two, sits Martha McIntyre.

He’s never done two at once before, I muse, treading carefully into the space. The very air seems to take on a sudden heaviness, as if Martha McIntyre’s misery were on its way to becoming corporeal right before she died.

Every killer does something for the first time. It’s only a pattern if they repeat it, DeCorias corrects, an all-too familiar adage he likes to reiterate from time to time to give himself an air of gravitas.

Okay, Mr. Rhodes Scholar, I say while rolling my eyes. "Since you know so much, care to tell me why she’s wearing his shoes?"

DeCorias ignores me, stepping closer to McIntyre’s body. She’s posed in a chair probably nicked from the dining room, tied up like a hostage with her head resting forlornly against her chest. Her shoulder-length blonde hair hangs down, shielding her face.

Hands are bloody. Could be she made the prints on all those newspapers in the master bedroom upstairs, DeCorias mumbles, leaning forward to get a better look.

Could be. We’ll need to have forensics take a look. I don’t want to assume anything here, even if it appears to be painfully obvious at face value. I take a few steps closer to the body, my eyes straining.

The sharp, metallic tang of blood assaults my nostrils when I come toe-to-toe with Martha McIntyre’s body. Even though I’m closer now there isn’t anything new to see on her corpse, no fresh details come to light. Her death seems almost cut and dried, simple. It’ll be up to the M.E. to tease out the details that can’t be discerned with the naked eye alone, unlocking the rest of the puzzle.

Cause of death seems straightforward at first blush, I muse, bent over with my gloved hands braced on my knees. Her throat is cut. DeCorias shoots me a look, as if I should know better.

Wait for the medical examiner, we say in unison.

If you two lovebirds are done finishing each others’ sentences…, a familiar voice drawls. I bristle, turning towards the grating sound as I straighten.

Jacobsen stands with hands on hips in an almost heroic pose, belied only by his protruding belly and evidently ever-present spit bottle clutched in his meaty fist. His voice is vaguely reminiscent of a forbidden love affair between steel wool and a dark green chalkboard.

What can I do for you, Officer Jacobsen? I say sweetly, trying not to choke on it. DeCorias has no such compunctions, coughing into his hand to stifle a laugh. He knows I have a very low tolerance for human pustules like Jacobsen.

Medical examiner just pulled in. She’s a wildcat, don’t take kindly to folks messin’ with her stiffs none. Y’all best get to gettin’ while the gettin’ is good.

For a moment, DeCorias and I turn to each other and merely blink, as if waiting for the other to explain what was just heard because it wasn’t in a familiar language.

Did you understand any of that? DeCorias finally asks me.

"Not a word. And I’m from the south."

Jacobsen lets out what I can only describe as a disgruntled growl as he abandons us to go to the front door of the house. I wave at his back, eyes narrowed. Good riddance.

Have you seen enough in person? DeCorias asks quickly once Jacobsen is gone. I’m not sure we’ll want to piss off whoever this ‘wildcat’ is.

Yeah, I say on a sigh. It doesn’t seem like we have much of a choice in the matter anyways.

I strip off my gloves with a snap and head to the front door, DeCorias close behind. A waste basket sits near the entrance, and we both drop our used gloves into it as we pass by.

Make way, make way you lot. A woman’s voice snaps from somewhere close by. As I reach the front door, I nearly collide with the ass-end of a stretcher.

Watch your pretty little toes, Feebie, an impressively short woman admonishes me, her look severe. A blast of gray, unruly hair sits atop her head like an ancient mop put through the ringer. The glasses on her face would put a Coke bottle to shame, but they make her tiny eyes no less fierce. She and her two morgue techs storm through the front door and out into the main hall without so much as a ‘hello’ or even an ‘excuse me’.

"You had better not be in here disrespecting the dead. I heard voices," she threatens, piercing me with a scowl. I open my mouth to speak but lose her attention almost as quickly as I got it. Small mercies.

Theo, you take a body bag upstairs and collect the husband. Charles, you take the stretcher and collect the wife first, she practically barks, turning to look at each tech in turn. A chill runs down my spine even though she isn’t talking to me any longer. This woman already seems like the kind whom would make Death himself shit his robes.

And make sure you bag the hands and feet this time, or so help me I will clout you both! she calls out as they practically sprint into action, desperate to oblige.

"Run," DeCorias whispers, his breath hot on my ear.

Meet you at the office, I shoot back, elbowing him out of my way so I can get through the door first and then speed-walking to my Mustang for all I’m worth.

TWO

In a cruel twist of humor, the universe has gifted me with yet another red light to sit at and contemplate the series of evidently poor choices that have brought me to this point in my life. There’s even another blue pickup just like the one from earlier, yet again in my path. Yet again moving backwards as far as momentum is concerned once the light finally turns green.

Sighing in exasperation, I use the extra minutes to run through the crime scene in my head. Normally, I would like to spend significantly longer at a scene. To really get a feel for the circumstances, get into the mind of the killer and what it was he-or she- was trying to say. This crime scene, I didn’t quite get the chance. Given the situation, it’s a damn shame.

I bite my bottom lip in frustration as I draw one street closer to the office. In all my years as an agent, I’ve never let anyone chase me off a scene. But with that medical examiner… I suppose there’s a first time for everything.

Tapping my fingers absently on the steering wheel, I begin to reconstruct the master bedroom in my mind. The bloody newspapers, scattered floor to ceiling, come through the clearest. If I assume all of the articles are related to charitable donations or organizations in general, and the McIntyres’ relationship to them, then why all the hand prints? With the sheer volume of prints and clippings, each print had to be deliberately placed on the paper. That’s time consuming as hell, meaning the symbolism must have been hugely important to the killer for some reason. On a side note, if those petite prints do end up belonging to the wife, is that the killer’s way of telling us she somehow had a hand in her husband’s dealings? In his… sin?

I merge onto the interstate, briefly interrupting my musings long enough to focus on actually driving the car and being present. Until forensics submits their findings, all of this is just speculation anyways. Those prints could turn out to be the neighbor’s for all I know, rendering the rest of my inferences completely moot.

The next thing that comes to mind, once it’s safe to let my thoughts wander again, are the victims’ feet. Why put them in each others’ shoes? And where are Paul McIntyre’s feet in general? At the very least, it appears to be more symbolism on the killer’s part. A duality of sorts- making the wife walk in the husband’s shoes as a way to demonstrate her sharing his guilt. Putting him in her shoes as a way of forcing him to look at things from her side of the fence. Again, more speculation that feels completely pointless.

I grunt in frustration from more than just the traffic beginning to cluster around me.

This killer has never murdered two people in one go before, has never taken any trophies- that we know of. But, much as it