Stop fretting, she told herself.Just a car.Just a light.
When the silence grew too thick, she reached over and turned on the radio—an old habit from student days, when she’d manned the night-desk in an old folks’ home and the voices of strangers had kept her sane.The low murmur of late-night talk filled the room: weather, traffic, a song from the seventies.Familiar, ordinary things.
She closed her eyes and tried to let them be enough.
***
The time was 07.03.The knock came softly at first, then harder.
Marcus waited a beat, then tried again.“Kate?”
Nothing.
The hallway of Torres’s mother’s annex smelled faintly of detergent, last night’s rain and, of course, further lavender.A line of winter light crept beneath the door.He knocked once more, gentler this time.“It’s seven, partner.Rise and—”
No answer.
He hesitated, thumb grazing the brass handle.Then he heard it: not movement, not breathing, just silence—too much of it.
He pushed the door open.
The room smelled of Kate; the bed was unmade, the covers half-slid to the floor, the pillow still warm with the shape of her head.Her bag sat by the dresser, open.No sign of her phone, gun, or jacket.
“Damn it, Vee,” he muttered, pulling out his phone.
He turned as Torres appeared in the hallway, barefoot, jeans half-zipped, a hoodie thrown over bare shoulders.“She’s not here?”
“Gone.”
Torres rubbed a hand through her curls, muttering something in Spanish that Marcus didn’t catch.“My mom heard someone leave about six.Thought it was you.”
“It wasn’t.”He moved past her into the small living area, scanning automatically—the mug in the sink, the half-empty water bottle, the single notebook left on the table.
Torres picked it up.“She left this.”
The cover was scuffed, Bureau-issue black.Inside: page after page of Kate’s neat, tight handwriting, interspersed with rough sketches, arrows, cross-references.
Torres read aloud.“‘Dad – Green Gables.Mom – Jeanette.St.B’s.H in a circle.Jephtha – daughter’s death.’”She frowned.“What the hell is this?”
“Her way of thinking,” Marcus said.“She draws threads until something appears.”
“Looks like she’s been trying to connect the Commandment murders to her father.”
“She’s been doing that for years,” he said quietly.Then, more sharply, “But this time, maybe she found something.”
“Victim or killer?”
Marcus could only shrug.
“On her own?”
“Always.”
Torres crossed her arms.“You make it sound like a habit.”
“It is.”He started pacing.“When she gets close to something, she shuts out everyone.No calls, no backup, just straight into the fire.Hence all those disciplinaries.”
“And you let her?”
