The ground opens up, a monster’s maw yawning under my feet. And I’m falling, falling. . .
Little bird. . . secret admirer.
Rope. . .
The ringing in my ears stops abruptly. Someone’s walking down the hall toward the room. Dazed, I stuff the Joey Daniels file under my coat.
“Ramos.” It’s Bonds. His jaw slackens as he looks me up and down. It’s the first time I’ve seen any expression on his face.
Can he tell I’ve just had a vision? An epiphany? I’m still floating, half drunk with it.
Then I remember: I’m wearing a dress.
He motions to it. “Heading out?”
“Yeah. Got a thing tonight.”
His shock disappears behind his hardened mask. “A thing?”
“The New Rome’s Finest Charity Gala. Chief ordered me to be there.” It sounds like I’m bragging. Out of everyone on the force, I’m one of the few singled out and personally ordered to be there by the chief himself?
“Ah.” He’s cataloging me as “brass brown noser.” Good. I need a chasm between me and him.
I have clues to the killer painted on my body. I fight the urge to hunch, to hide.
“I better get to it,” I say and grab my coat, careful to keep the file hidden as I drape it over my arms. The marks on my body seem to burn. They feel like they’re fluorescent orange, lit up like blood spatter in a black light.LOOK AT ME!
Bonds steps aside, letting me sweep past him. I’m almost to the door when he barks, “Ramos.”
I force myself to stop and turn slowly. What have I revealed? What did he see?
He holds out my bag. “Don’t forget this.”
I take it. “Thanks.” I hold my head up and make my way down the hall and through the bullpen, where the desk sergeant blinks as he takes in my ball gown. A bunch of uniformed officers turn to see me. The whispers start, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Nothing matters. Nothing but the case. Everything in me wants to drop what I’m doing and chase down the lead, but I can’t. I have to go to the ball.
Outside the precinct, the cold autumn wind washes over me, but I feel nothing. I’m already numb.
I flag down a cab and dive into the backseat. My bag flops over, and my sketch pad falls out. Slowly, pages flip, flashing the truth. First the drawing I made of the killer. There he is—huge and hulking in his strange armor.
And on the next page: the drawings I made of my mystery dom. Tall and broad-shouldered, just the right size to shrug on some stealth gear and head out to murder someone.
I flip it back and forth. It’s the same man.
My subconscious knew.
I close my sketchbook, feeling sick. But shutting the images away doesn’t keep them from rising like ghosts to haunt me.
In my mind’s eye, I see the murderer jumping down from the roof of the Martin Building on his way to subdue his victim. And then I hear the dom’s beautiful voice in my ear raspingThis is my favorite type of tieover and over again.
11
Him
The best thingabout having an enemy tied up and at your mercy is. . . everything. The muffled screams. The whites of my victim’s eyes flashing as he silently pleads for mercy. The blooming heat in my muscles, my power unleashed.
My last victim was a young, able-bodied man wreaking havoc on the streets of New Rome after dark. Now, he’s a pathetic husk of himself, stinking with fear.
