Page 12 of Spitfire

Think, Scarlett, assess the evidence you see before you. There are clothes scattered everywhere, so unlike you, you're always neat and tidy. Your phone was on the nightstand where you usually leave it, but it wasn't plugged in. You're disciplined, you don't forget to do things like that.

I quickly stare at the watch on my wrist and realize what time it is. At least nine hours are unaccounted for. The metallic taste, the fresh blood on your clothes, and the smell of smoke. "Stop, you're building a victimology on yourself," I growl with annoyance, but I can't shake the uneasy feeling rapidly encompassing me.

"I'll deal with it after I've been to the crime scene. I'll... I'll get a rape... kit... It'll be fine." My voice sounds uncertain, small, and weak to my ears. Just the thought of putting myself in that vulnerable position has everything in me wanting to flee.

I force myself to steady my shaky legs and stare at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, turning the faucet and letting cold water cascade. Dark smudges of yesterday's mascara stain my eyes, and make me look like a deranged raccoon. My long, thick hair is a rat’s nest, and my skin looks almost translucent, and green-tinged, as the reflection meets my gaze. Another panicked thought quickly replaces the last. "What if... I did... something?"

"Fuck, this is bad." I drag my trembling fingers down my face, washing off as much of last night as I can, as fear at what might have happened to me races through my limbs. My thoughts offer random possibilities as I try to calm my galloping heart. The sound of my blood rushing in my ears is so loud that it drowns out all other sounds, until it feels like I'm wrapped in a goddamn vacuum. My chest tightens as if someone is squeezing it, inch by painful inch, and my vision threatens to go white as I grasp for the sink's edge, the cold water running over my fingers and washing away the stain. "No... not... now." I don't have time for a fucking panic attack. I need to think logically. There would be evidence left if I did something.

I race out of the room and lunge for my gun, finding it discarded on a dresser next to my badge. I check the magazine, and release a heavy breath as I realize it's full, and there's one in the chamber. Good. Next, I get down on my hands and knees and search for my phone, which somehow made its way underneath my nightstand. My fingers tremble as I unlock it and go to my maps. The location history has been disabled. What. The Fuck. Who disabled it?

Before I can unravel, Jasper's words manage to break through the darkness that is quickly threatening to envelop me. Another body, this one of someone important. I have to get my shit together and get down to the crime scene. Ashmaker has struck again, and he might have left another clue for me.

What if he did this to me? What if he somehow was able to get to me and drug me, and that's why I'm in this state? The thought flickers in my mind, but immediately sounds ludicrous to me, and I quickly dismiss it, but the seed of doubt lingers. I drag myself into my closet, quickly pulling clothes off hangers and dressing frantically. I take one last glance in the mirror, and what greets me back has a sense of failure and dismay washing over me. Great, I look exactly like I feel, like death warmed over.

As I get into my vehicle, I realize I've put on sneakers instead of my confident heels. I almost hesitate, get back out to change, and then decide, fuck it, it will cause a stir, and maybe they'll talk about that instead of my hungover appearance.

What have you left for me this time, Ashmaker, and will it bring me closer to finding you?

Just as I'm about to pull away, a thought rips through my mind: you can't drive. What if whatever knocked you out is still in your system, and you kill someone heading to the crime scene? I slam my hands against the steering wheel, rage overtaking me. "FUCKING HELL!"

I wrap my fingers tightly around the wheel until they're bloodless, as I try to get myself under control. The thought is a valid possibility, and I can't chance it. What the hell am I going to do now? I can't very well show up to a crime scene in an Uber. I'd never live it down. I slam my head against the headrest as I try to think of a way out of this mess, that doesn't have me disclosing what I woke up to, and how I have no idea how to account for what happened to me last night. Fuck, Jasper Garnier would have a heyday if he knew, and there's zero chance that asshole wouldn't keep bringing it up or try to get me taken off this case.

No, I can't let anyone know, not until I'm sure. I yank out my phone and dial Jasper. "Lyssa, are you close?" I can hear the gaggle of reporters screaming questions at him, and his heavy breathing as he moves away from all the noise.

"I need you to send a cruiser to my place to get me," I grit.

"What the hell for, Scarlett?"

"Someone slashed all four of my tires while I slept," I reply calmly, even though that's the last thing I'm feeling. I wait with bated breath, but I don't have long, and Jasper doesn't disappoint with the string of profanity that exits him. Jesus, the man does have a filthy mouth.

"I'm sending someone fucking now, Scarlett. Tell me you have a decent camera set up to catch who did this to you?" He growls.

"Nope," I pop the 'P' like a brat, and hear the sudden intake of his breath in reaction.

"Stay fucking put, I'm coming myself." He disconnects before I have a chance to argue with him. I push open the door of my car, racing back inside to grab the biggest and sturdiest knife I can find, so I can slash all four of my tires before he gets here. This day just started, and it already sucks ass.

Whatever happened to me, whoever did this to me is going to beg for death when I find them.

NINE

SCARLETT

Jasper's sharp jaw is currently performing fury-filled jumping jacks as we race back to the crime scene, and I discreetly survey him from below my lashes. I replay the look of astonishment and disbelief when he arrived, and inspected the hasty job I'd done on my poor tires. God, it was almost impossible to stifle the chuckle at the obscenities that he shouted. His dark sapphire eyes, with their bruising intensity, radiated rage, and the way his body tensed, ready to fight whoever did this to me, was pure gold and sexy as fuck.

Now I'm sitting confined in this metal box with him, the scent of his cologne invading all of my pores as he drives us at breakneck speed, completely disobeying every speed limit this city has, back to the scene. The sight of his long, well-shaped fingers choking the steering wheel has me picturing the same fingers doing very inappropriate things to my body. "Tell me about the scene and the victim."

He briefly takes his eyes off the road and meets my gaze. "Male, late forties, family money with connections to the higher-ups. He used fire again to cover his tracks. This guy was left in an alleyway, and it looks like he used trash to help the accelerant along."

"Mutilation?" I question as I take in the details, my mind whirling with possibilities. So far, the victims have been of middle or lower-class origins, and no one has had any connections. What has made Ashmaker target this one?

"Yup, severed cock, Stephens is pretty sure it's lodged in the throat like the rest of them. This guy is fucking sick, Lyssa. There has to be a connection that we're missing. Why men? Why cut off their cocks? There's a message we're overlooking. He's speaking to us. We're just not listening."

I don't dispute his assessment. Jasper's right, there has to be a connection, a reason he's targeting these particular men. I have my suspicions, but I'm not willing to volunteer my thoughts yet. I'd rather keep all my cards close to my chest until I'm sure. "The mayor is involved?"

"Yeah," he releases a weary sigh, and it makes me wonder if he managed to get any sleep. I'd ask him, but I don't want him to turn that same question in my direction. I'd rather not lie to him any more than I have to, and there's no way I'm admitting that I have no idea what happened to me last night. A flash of something niggles at my mind, an image or perhaps a feeling, yet it's frustratingly gone before I can grasp it, leaving me more unsettled than I care to admit.

"The deceased's family was apparently a large donor to his campaign last year. The heat and pressure to catch this guy are about to be turned up. The reporters somehow caught wind of it, even before we managed to get the forensic team fully on-site. It's a bloody zoo, and you need to prepare yourself, Lyssa. The fingers are already being pointed in our direction as to why he hasn't been caught yet." Well, fuck.