Walking a circle around the victim, I keep my face cast upward as I pick out the distinct shapes amid the stars until I find the one I’m searching for. Then I look down at the victim, the way his body is posed.
As soon as I see it, I can’t unsee it. Obvious after the fact.
“Shit.” I stagger away from the body, hands unsteady as I download a sky map to my tablet, then angle my device skyward. “Aquarius,” I whisper, the excited tremble of my voice snatched by a gust of wind.
Wary, Darby eases my way. “Hey, you all right?”
Wasting no time with assurances, I rush to find a sturdy reed and yank it free of the dune. I drop my tablet and scratch a sloppy symbol into the sand. “It’s a constellation,” I say, looking up at the sky and using the stalk to trace the air and connect the twinkling dots. I then trace out the same design above the victim, my arm shaky with the surge of adrenaline. “He staged the victim in the shape of a star constellation.”
Darby tears his gloves off, pocketing them into his pristine suit as he comes around to stand at my side. “What are you talking about?”
As I stare up into his shadowed face, I catch the microexpressions he’s trying to conceal. The worry line carved deep between his brows, the tight rim of his lips.
“Look at the victim,” I tell him as I scoop up my tablet. I punch in a web search and turn the screen around, showing him an image with the stars connected by lines so he can clearly see the shape. “Aquarius. The victim has been posed like the constellation. The arms outstretched…the legs curled inward.”
He takes the tablet and studies the image, comparing it to the body. He glances back and forth, his silence burrowing beneath my skin like abrasive grains of sand.
“Darby—”
“Yeah.” He cuts me short. “I mean, I see it, Hol. But you know it’s likely a coincidence. There’s a billion different star patterns. If you try to find one to match every victim, chances are, you will.”
Disappointment tightens my throat. I swallow, swiping the hair from my face. “Why do you always do this.”
His exasperated sigh stirs my irritation further. When he finally meets my eyes, I’m devastated by the doubt I see banked there.“To keep McCallister off your case,” he says. “Just…if we do find any correlation, let me take it to him.”
He stands before me like an imposing obstacle. Hand braced on his hip to part the bottom of his black blazer, tie side-swept by the wind. A fierce devotion carves his features that, I know deep down, he’s only trying to protect me. That’s his nature.
And yet, a flame fills the hollow pit of my stomach. This rage is always festering right below my surface. At times, I latch onto it and let it char my insides to ash. I try not to give it enough oxygen to blaze hot enough to burn those closest to me, but it’s malignant, tainting every relationship.
As I feel the bubble of anger rising, I smother it. “Of course, all right,” I say to ease Darby’s concern.
He expels a lengthy breath. “We’ll finish up here and then look through the past cases, compare the poses of all the victims. See what, if anything, it could mean. Okay?”
I nod again in reply, only hearing the crash of the waves, the howl of the wind. Seeing the glowing embers of fireflies blinking against the starry backdrop of night.
But even as I gently consent to his suggestion, my mind is racing as quick as my pulse.
I accept the tablet from Darby, the star map still displayed on the screen, and a surge of adrenaline heats my blood.
Map.
It’s a fucking map.
The realization clicks into place so effortlessly, I almost feel buzzed. Desperation claws at my waning patience. Time is always against me.
“I can find him,” I say, my voice softly muffled.
Darby watches me closely, that hint of worry creased between his brows, but fails to respond when the spotlights flick on, illuminating the dark beach. All around, agents begin to assemble and erect a tent.
“I was watching this documentary on Michelangelo last month,” Darby says, and I can hear the solemn inflection in his tone. “It was about how he saw raw materials before transforming them into art.”
Normally, I can follow his winding commentary on all the things he uses to fill his idle time, and I can even sympathize, knowing the reason he does so, but my mind is humming too frantically, impatience fraying my nerves.
“He put it this way,” Darby continues. “‘Every block of stone has a statue inside it, and it’s the task of the sculptor to discover it.’”
Clicking the tablet off, I let him have my full attention. “What are you trying to say to me?”
“That the artist should never impose their will on the stone.” He folds his arms across his chest. “I know how badly you want to make this case, but you can’t impose your will on it, Hol.”
