I scan the image. The manner of death is marked as homicide, but the cause of death is undetermined, which in itself isn’t unusual, but it is strange considering the particulars of this case. Undetermined is common in cases with a lot of decomp, or when the entire body isn’t present. However, Hayzel was found quickly after her death, and she was intact. I scan the black and white silhouette of a body, which isn’t much more than a glorified stick person, and assess the extensive injuries illustrated.
The wound across the neck stands out, as do the lines over the breasts. I glance over at Harlyn to make sure she’s still asleep, then I turn my focus to my computer. I need to see the real images and read the findings to make sense of why they don’t have a definite cause of death.
While my computer downloads and opens the files, I send Frank a quick thank you message for getting a hold of this tonight. I know that couldn’t have been easy, and I’m not even going to ask how he managed it.
I click through the documents until I find the autopsy photos. I thought I prepared myself for seeing Harlyn’s twin on the silver table, but I don’t think anything would have readied me to see Hayzel lying there lifeless. The fact that I want to close thelaptop and walk away spurs me to find the differences between the two women instead of only seeing the similarities. Hayzel was thinner, and because of that, their face shapes are different. Hayzel doesn’t have freckles across her nose and cheeks, and even their mouths are dissimilar. Harlyn’s top lip is fuller, creating a pouty bow, while her sister’s lips are smaller and match her features better. I remind myself one final time that these images are not of Harlyn, then I take in the rest of her nude figure.
My eyes are drawn to the injuries. I note the line I knew would be across her neck and the fact that it’s much thinner than I imagined, but very smooth. There isn’t a single hesitation mark present on the wound, nor would it have killed her—not for a very long time anyway, because the cut is too shallow.
The cuts over her breasts are deeper, but not a single one of them alone would be enough to kill Hayzel unless she was left untreated. Her hands are a mess, with torn nails and cuts proving she fought her attacker, meaning some of the DNA at the house could very well be his. I haven’t gotten far enough into the reports to know what’s been tested and ran, but the images from the crime scene appeared to have plenty of biological evidence to test. Over the years, I’ve developed friendships in a few labs that specialize in genetic phenotyping and genealogy that the police don’t have the access to or the budget to use. If they have material from the unsub, I’m more than willing to call in a few favors to get me closer to this guy.
I pour over each image, each injury, and all the written findings. I can’t deny how much harder it is to be detached than it usually is while viewing these reports. It’s sad but necessary to develop an analytical approach, but that methodical process is failing me now. I find myself vacillating between sadness and anger. The anger is much easier to deal with.
Hours later, I close the lid to my laptop and lean back in the chair. My eyes and ass are tired. I don’t know Hayzel’s cause of death for sure, but I do know she had quite a bit of THC in her system, along with a few partially digested grapes in her stomach. There’s something terribly sad about knowing the last thing she ate.
I stretch when I get up, then I peer out through the windows from the shadows. I don’t see anyone or anything unusual, but I wasn’t expecting to. The only thing those files confirmed were my suspicions about the killer being experienced. Hayzel wasn’t his first kill, not by a long shot, and that means there will be other murders and opportunities to find his mistakes.
I settle on the end of the sofa near Harlyn. She’s barely even moved, but I still make sure not to disturb her before tipping my head back and closing my eyes for a little while.
Harlyn
I wake with a start when I begin to stretch and realize I’m not in my bed. Memories of last night flood back into focus while my eyes struggle to stay open. It’s still dark outside, so I know it’s very early.
I can just make out Boone at the other end of the couch with his face turned away from me. He’s half crumpled, half splayed out with his neck at an odd angle that tells me he’s going to feel it when he wakes up. I’m already feeling the discomfort of sleeping in an awkward position myself.
After staring at him far longer than I should, I finally look around the shadows of the condo. So much has changed in the past twenty-four hours. Yesterday at this time, I had my suspicions about the strange things that happened to me in Texas, but I allowed the distance I put between me and the placewhere Hayzel was murdered to ease my concerns. I thought I could escape her reality with a few thousand miles, but I was wrong.
I have no idea what I’m going to do. Guilt eats away at my resolve when I allow myself to glance over at Boone again. This is too much to ask of him, FBI agent or not. This goes far beyond his responsibilities, yet at the same time, I know without a doubt he will do whatever it takes to help me. He proved that last night, and that kind of dedication is… addicting. I don’t want to give it up, and I don’t want to givehimup, which isn’t fair.
As the cogs in my mind begin to spin for another solution, I lower my feet onto the floor, making every effort not to disturb him. As I’m tiptoeing past, he snatches my arm, and I let out a yelp. He releases me as if I burned him, and I look down, noting the alertness in his gaze.
“Sorry.” His voice is rumbly and soft.
“It’s okay. I didn’t know you were awake,” I whisper in response.
“I wasn’t,” he admits, letting out a deep groan while pushing himself more upright. His neck audibly pops when he twists his head from left to right.
“Sorry about the couch.” It’s the only thing I can think to say since I’m not sorry he stayed with me. I don’t know what I would have done last night had he not.
“I’ve slept on much worse.” He continues to move around slowly, as if testing how sore he is. When he stands up smoothly, I step out of his way. Suddenly, I’m thinking about what I look like and the way my breath would singe the fur off a cat.
I’m just going to freshen up.” I hook my thumb over my shoulder, gesturing loosely at the stairs. Boone looks over at the sliding glass door then toward the front of the unit before stepping toward me.
I hustle to get out of his way and, more importantly, out of his olfactory range and escape closer to the stairs. He passes right by me when he beats me to the steps and heads up much quicker than I would have attempted this early in the morning.
“I…” I stop myself, because I don’t even know what I was about to say.
He stops halfway up and glances back at me. “It will only take me a second to clear the top floors.”
“You think someone could have snuck in?” My tone is incredulous.
“I’d rather be safe than sorry. Besides, I did fall asleep, although it wasn’t my intention,” he admits after continuing up to the loft.
I trail behind him aimlessly. “I wasn’t expecting you to stay awake all night.” He’s already coming out of the bathroom when I make it up to the loft.
“You’re good to do whatever you need to in there,” he says without missing a beat, strolling past me again.
“I… Thank you,” I stammer, watching him walk back down over my shoulder. He seems to be in a little bit of a rush. I can imagine why, since the need to use the bathroom is getting more insistent, especially now that I know I’m close.
