Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

I pick up a photo from her dresser, smile as I see her standing between two people who are obviously her parents. She’s petite like her mother—has the same smile, delicate features, and bone structure. Her coloring she inherited from her father—the chestnut hair and golden-brown eyes. And the stubborn chin as well. Yet she emanates a strength and fire that’s hers and hers alone.

The three of them are holding up an archery trophy she won in college. How fitting for my Artemis. Her parents are beaming with pride. They’ll be even prouder when they realize where their daughter has been chosen to spend eternity.

I put down the picture frame and walk over to her night table. There are several rubberlike balls and a few hard plastic implements. I recognize the healing tools for her hand.

With a wave of compassion, I pick up each tool, study it. There have been so many times I’ve wanted to reach out to her, let her know that on Mount Olympus, her injury will be nonexistent. She’ll feel only reverence and joy—no pain, no suffering. Only the sanctity of eternal life.

I replace the tools and stare at her neatly made bed.

The urge to be close to her is too great. I can’t deny myself this one earthly pleasure.

My shoes are already off. I’d removed them as soon as I’d stepped into the house. This way there’d be no footprints, and no dirt tracked in from the outside to soil her personal space.

I gingerly lower myself onto the bed, inch over to the center. The mattress is soft, and I sink into it. The pillow beneath my head has the scent of her hair. I could lie here forever. It feels so right.

I indulge myself for a half hour. I might have stayed longer, but I can feel myself starting to doze off. I can’t risk falling asleep. Discovery at this point would be a disaster. I haven’t had the chance to show her the shrine I’ve built in her honor. Once I do that, she’ll understand.

She’s not coming home anytime soon. It doesn’t take a psychic to predict that. Whenever she’s home or almost home, either the black Ford Focus or the silver Toyota Corolla is parked nearby. Inside is one of her two bodyguards. They’re like homing devices, going wherever she goes. The Corolla by day, the Focus by night: 8 A.M. to 8 P.M.; 8 P.M. to 8 A.M., like clockwork.

Still, I’m not taking any chances. Mr. Corolla could reappear at any time.

I climb off the bed. I’m ready to go now. I linger in the bedroom doorway for one moment longer, savoring every detail.

I leave the same way I came.

As I slip out, I can hear the hounds whining.

FBI New York Field Office

26 Federal Plaza, New York City

4:35 P.M.

Derek was convinced he now knew what the term dead on your feet meant.

Slumped over his desk, his stomach growling and his mouth parched, he tried to remember the last time he’d eaten. He couldn’t. He also wondered if he had the strength to go get a bottle of water, since he knew how badly dehydrated he was. But the fatigue was winning the battle. It seemed he needed the rest more than he needed the fluids.

He and everyone at C-6 had lived at the field office all weekend. They’d needed every agent and every minute to defuse the time bomb that would go off if Xiao Long decided to ignore the information being strategically leaked that a psychopath, and not Lo Ma’s gang, was responsible for killing his girls.

There was only so far he’d trust his informants. Especially since all they were giving him were words. There was nothing concrete to back up their claims. Derek was quite sure Xiao Long had his enforcer on speed dial. Somehow, some way, they had to give him solid proof. Thus far, none had been forthcoming.

>

The weekend had been a real joyride. C-6’s entire squad had been out on the streets, meeting with their contacts, striving to keep the lid on this explosion. At the same time, precautions had been taken and safeguards initiated—just in case all their efforts failed.

The NYPD had posted cops on virtually every street corner in Chinatown. As a result, the streets were empty, and Chinatown was a ghost town. The restaurant owners were screaming, the shop owners were screaming, the produce-store owners were screaming. Everyone who owned a business in the district was screaming—and demanding answers, first from the NYPD’s Fifth Precinct, then from Puzzle Palace and the mayor’s office. All they got was the stock phrase orders from the top from the precinct, and the infamous no comment from the NYPD higher-ups and the PR folks at the mayor’s office.

Derek felt like a rat racing through an endless maze that kept leading him back to his starting point.

The phone on his desk rang. He was half tempted to ignore it. The last thing he needed was someone else blasting his eardrum.

Responsibility took over, and Derek fumbled for the phone, shoving it under his chin. “Parker.”

A second later, his head popped up, his exhaustion forgotten. It was the M.E.’s office.

“You have something for me?”

“Yeah,” the medical analyst at the other end replied.