I had no other choice but to comply. I moved closer, my professional mask sliding into place as I narrowed my focus on the area below Alfred Thorne’s waist. From this angle, I could see that his zipper had been left partially open.
There was a gaping absence where there should have been anatomy. The skin was slightly puckered, shrunken at the edges. Most of the blood had dried already, forming a crustedhalo around the mutilation, like an outline drawn in rust.
“Unusual wound presentation. Looks clean, no sign of arterial spray. Likely done post-mortem,” I told her, but I already knew that, of course. “And where is….”
“The gentleman’s Johnson?” Detective Sawyer’s tone remained maddeningly casual. She shrugged. “I have no idea.”
I made a noncommittal sound, adjusting my position to examine the wound from a different angle, careful not to disturb anything that might be catalogued as evidence. Detective Sawyer stayed back, her expression bordering on boredom, but I knew better. Behind that look of indifference, she was cataloging every little detail, filing away inconsistencies, building theories the way architects drafted blueprints.
While this wouldn’t be the first time one of my kills ended up on my table, having it officially ruled a homicide was less than ideal. But I wasn’t too worried—at least, not yet. There was nothing that could link me to Alfred Thorne’s murder. I’d made sure of that.
Still… This was close.
Way closer than I’d ever intended to be.
* * *
Stalking,by definition of the word, meant following someone without their knowledge, observing their patterns and habits. I was well acquainted with the concept. Working as a forensic pathologist had some similarities. I was taught how to tracea person’s final hours through the cooling of flesh and the settling of blood, rigor mortis traveling through muscle groups in a predictable wave. The dead were cooperative subjects. They kept their secrets in bone and tissue, waiting patiently for someone skilled enough to read them.
The living were a bit more complicated. They moved unpredictably, changed their routines on a whim, glanced over their shoulders without a reason. They required a subtler touch. The trick was to become part of the background, just one more face among the many.
However, if an ordinary person called for subtlety, Detective Sawyer was a whole different beast.
She’d been camping at a corner table for a few hours now, ordering nothing but coffee, staring down at her laptop with an intensity that had the barista giving her a wide berth.
I continued to linger outside the edges of her awareness, not ready to draw her attention quite yet.
I had never seen her look so… unguarded, before. Her professional mask had slipped, revealing something softer beneath. Her expression lost some of its usual severity as the tension eased from her posture, no longer held in that tight, rigid line. She’d chew on her thumbnail every once in a while, a nervous habit at odds with the woman who usually projected unshakable confidence. There was something almost fragile about her now—a version that only existed in passing, visible only when she believed herself alone.
It made me want to see more.
Not that it mattered, I swiftly reminded myself,I was here for a reason.
I took one last look at her through the window—head bent, hair falling forward to partially obscure her face, completelyabsorbed in whatever she was reading—then pushed away from my vantage point and crossed the street. I let the bell announce my arrival and walked straight to her table with, what I hoped, passed for pleasant surprise.
“Detective Sawyer. Funny running into you here.”
The detective in question glanced up at me, blinking like I was some kind of anomaly—which, to be fair, I probably was.
I gestured toward her empty cup. “Looks like you could use a refill. What are you drinking?”
“Why?” The question was immediate, followed by the slightest narrowing of her eyes.
Nothing was ever simple with her, was it?
Most people would have accepted the offer without making a fuss, along with the small talk that came with it, grateful for the kind gesture. But not Detective Sawyer, of course. That would be too easy.
It took effort not to let my irritation show, to keep my expression open and friendly. “Consider it professional courtesy.” I offered her a small smile. “My treat.”
She hesitated, clearly debating whether to indulge me or send me on my way. Her fingers drummed once against the table before she sighed, as if she were the one doing me the favor.
“Coffee. Black.”
I nodded and headed to the counter, feeling her eyes on my back the entire way. While the barista made our drinks, I kept my gaze fixed ahead. There were files scattered all over her table, and I had no doubt that some of them belonged to Alfred Thorne.
While I’d always taken care not to leave any loose ends, that didn’t make me immune to mistakes. There was alwaysa possibility that I’d missed something—some microscopic thread that, when pulled, would unravel everything I’d built. A fiber caught on a button. A witness I hadn’t accounted for. A pattern emerging from chaos, connecting the dots I’d assumed were scattered beyond recognition.
But there was no point in getting ahead of myself quite yet. First, I needed to find out how the investigation was coming along. To do that, I had to go straight to the source.
