?OfficerMorris?
The rain had followed me uptown, slicking the awnings and pooling on the marble steps of the penthouse, but inside it was warm with the kind of old-money elegance that smelled faintly of dust and moth-eaten velvet. Crystal sconces burned low against paneled walls, portraits stared down from gilt frames, and the city outside seemed a thousand miles away.
I’d gotten an anonymous letter to come here. Normally, I would’ve added it to a pile to sift through with the other detectives at the precinct, but this one couldn’t wait. I’d recognized the symbol stamped at the bottom—but it was more than that.
It had been covered in blood.
Now I sat opposite my anonymous suspect in a leather chair that had seen better decades, voicerecorder ready. She hadn’t spoken yet. Not a word. Just let the flames paint her blood-streaked face in fractured gold. Her hair was dripping. Blood. Rain. I wasn’t sure. Her hands were badly burned but healed over as if the damage was done years ago, her eyes holding a darkness I never wanted to understand. One of her irises was a stark grey, while the other was nearly bleached white, the pupil slightly dilated further than the other. She wore a torn up black tank top and equally ragged jeans, the makeup around her eyes smeared.
“Can you state your name and age for the record, ma’am?” I asked.
Her eyes flicked away from the fire as if she’d just noticed I was sitting there. “Arden,” she pushed out. “Twenty-nine.” She didn’t manage anything more before she turned her gaze back to the fire.
But my gaze fell to the ink on her right forearm the same I’d witnessed on bodies across the tenure of my career.
“Ma’am,” I said carefully, “I believe in innocent until proven guilty, but that’s a lot of blood. At the very least, tell me if you’re hurt. I can order a medic.”
A hard laugh cracked from her. It sounded estranged from her being, her lips not even turning upward. “Guilty,” she said quietly—so low I didn’t think I heard her right.
“Ma’am?”
“Guilty,” she hissed, her eyes slicing toward mine, her face pinched with rage. “I’m fucking guilty. The blood isn’t mine.”
I found myself staring at her tattoos again. Hers had variations. One I recognized that filled me with keen dread, and one I’d never seen before on any of the other victims. It looked like a word that’d been jumbled up, its ink faded as if it had been there slightly longer than the others.
“Doll,” she rasped, and I jerked my gaze back to hers. Her eyes wavered. “It says Doll.” Tears brimmed, but she didn’t let them fall. She blinked rapidly, her expression carved with such a deep rage I had my hand hovering over my gun without realizing it.
But she noticed.
“Do you know how to use that thing, officer?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, shifting uncomfortably, “yes, ma’am. It’s part of my training.”
“But have you shot someone?” she demanded.
I cleared my throat. “No. I’m grateful not to have—”
“Send someone else,” she said then, lifting from the chair on shaking legs. She walked over to a bar cart in the corner, grabbed a bottle of brandy by the neck, and took a large swig, ignoring the crystal glassware.
I stood. “Listen, I can’t just leave. I’m going to have to call in backup and take you to the station. I got your letter. That and the blood on your clothes, plus now this recording of you saying you’re guilty…I’m sorry, Arden, but I’m booking you.”
Her back was to me, her shoulders tensing with each of my words.
Frowning, I tugged my cuffs free. “Ma’am, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you—”
She whipped around, those tears she’d held back now carving down through the blood dried on her cheeks. “What if I told you I could get you something better than a random woman covered in blood? That would get you a promotion, right? You’d call in everyone you know?”
My frown deepened. “Ma’am, if you know about a dangerous situation or person, you need to report it now.”
Her laugh was dark and brittle this time. “Rafe. Creed.”
My eyes snapped down to her tattoos again. I knew I’d recognized it. I just hoped I hadn’t. “You know the whereabouts of Rafe Creed?”
She lifted her chin. “That depends, officer.” Her eyes hardened. “You got men who’ve shot people or not?” Then she plucked a jacket from the back of the chair I’d found her in, its leather melted in places. She shoved it on, wincing in pain. “Call them all. Every trigger-happy person you have,” she said and jutted her chin toward my recorder, her heeled boots clicking as she headed for the door, “and keep that thing recording. I’ll confess on the way.”
?Arden?
YEARS BEFORE
