it!” Mia cried, grabbing her arms and shaking her. “Just stop! I hate when you get like this. What’s wrong with you, Ashley?”
Tears flooded Ashley’s eyes. She loved her sisters so much. So why couldn’t they understand her? Why couldn’t they make her feel better? Why couldn’t anyone?
She fought the tears back, focusing on her pain and rage—the twin demons she relied on so often. Her friends. Her only friends. She would show Mia. And Melanie. Someday they would know what she had done for them. And they would be grateful. And sorry. So very sorry.
“Screw you!” Ashley wrenched free of her sister’s grasp. “There’s nothing wrong with me. You’ll see. And when you do, you’ll beg me to forgive you, Mia. You’ll beg.”
10
The tequila burned as it slid down Connor Parks’s throat. He drained the glass anyway, refilled it, then tossed back another. Then another. He knew from experience that three shots, tossed back in quick succession, would catapult him to the edge of inebriation. From there he could sip and savor his way clear over.
In the past five years, he had become an expert on the numbing effects of alcohol.
Connor poured another finger of the liquor, then set the glass on the coffee table, on top of a folder stamped Photos—Do Not Bend. That folder was not alone, other folders, papers and files covered every available inch of the table, the floor around it and even the seat of an easy chair. The photos and files, the documents they contained, represented the past five years of his life. They represented his quest to find a killer and bring him to justice.
Not just any killer—the man who had taken his sister from him. His sweet Suzi. His only family.
Connor picked up one of the files, but didn’t open it. He knew its contents by heart, could recite the words contained within by rote, the way he could the Declaration of Independence as a kid.
His sister’s killer’s profile.
He had spent every available moment of the last five years studying it and the corresponding crime-scene evidence. Without authorization, he had used the Bureau’s resources to search for and investigate similar crime scenes and similar signatures. In the process, he had thrown away a marriage, a career, his reputation.
Even so, he was no closer to catching Suzi’s killer now than he had been the day he’d been notified of her disappearance.
Connor passed a hand over his eyes, his head heavy from too much booze and too little sleep. A part of him wanted to give up, if only for the night. He forced himself to go on, to focus on the facts, such as they were. Though Suzi’s body had never been found, that she had been murdered had been obvious from the scene.
The scene. Her pretty patio home in Charleston. The one he had helped her buy.
With his mind’s eye, Connor hurtled back five years to that house, to that awful day. The day the Charleston police had called him at Quantico and informed him that it appeared Suzi had been missing for four days, that foul play was suspected.
Connor stood in Suzi’s foyer, orchestrated pandemonium reigning around him, his stomach in his throat. As a professional courtesy, the CPD had promised Connor and a fellow profiler immediate access to the as yet unprocessed scene—if they could be there ASAP. He had caught the first flight home.
He surveyed his surroundings, the hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck prickling. Violent
death left an indelible mark on a place. It possessed an aura. Palpable. Resonant. Even when a scene appeared normal at first glance, as this one did, death made its presence felt.
Connor moved forward, deeper into the house. Some scenes shouted, some whimpered. He had seen it all. Scenes painted red by blood and gore; others as clean as a hospital room. He had seen murder victims who’d been brutalized beyond recognition and others who appeared more asleep than dead. And everything in between.
Or so he’d thought. Until today.
Suzi. It couldn’t be.
Despair assailed him again. He fought it off and focused on the job before him. The UNSUB had taken great pains—and a good bit of time—to clean up after himself. That level of comfort told Connor much: that the UNSUB hadn’t feared being disturbed or discovered, that he had been familiar with the neighborhood, maybe even the house.
Connor crossed to the bloodstains that marred the carpet in front of the fireplace and squatted in front of them. The UNSUB had attempted to scrub them away. Connor snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then inspected the largest stain. It was still damp. He brought his fingers to his nose. They smelled of pine cleaner.
He shifted his gaze, moving it over the room. Judging by the impressions in the thick pile, the carpet appeared to have been recently vacuumed. His gaze landed on the hearth, stopping on the set of iron fireplace tools. Broom. Shovel. Log iron. The fourth hook stood empty.
Connor made a mental note to ask the detectives about both observations, then moved on. The kitchen was clean save for the two bloody bath towels shoved into the garbage pail under the sink. They reeked of pine cleaner and had been used, he deduced, to scrub at the stains in the family room. He removed them from the trash can, carefully examined them, then searched the rest of the can’s contents.
“Find anything?”
He looked up to find Ben Miller, the Charleston satellite office SAC, standing in the kitchen doorway, watching him, his expression sympathetic.
“An empty bottle of pine cleaner,” Connor answered. “A Diet Coke can. Banana peel.”
“We did as you requested, everything’s as it was the first time the police came through. The CPD forensic guys are collecting evidence behind you.”
“I appreciate it, Ben.”
“You understand, of course, that officially you’re not involved. That officially the Bureau’s not involved. “
“I understand.” A lump formed in his throat, Connor looked quickly away. “Make sure they collect the vacuum bag. I suspect the UNSUB vacuumed the scene. “
“I’ll do that.”
“And, Ben?” The man looked back at him. “One of the fire irons is missing. The poker. Anybody run across it?”
“Not that I know of. I’ll check it out and get back to you.”
Connor nodded and moved on to the hallway that
led to the two bedrooms. The hall storage closet was open, several suitcases spilling out. The way they would if Suzi had rifled through them, frantic to pack and leave for a trip.
He placed his hands on his hips and stared at the cases. Two cases, not three. One was missing; he knew
