ew spots of blood splattered across the mirror. A bloodstained sweater wrapped in plastic and stuffed deep into the trash can.” She pushed the door open and entered. Her movements were still slow, but becoming steadier.
He could only shake his head in amazement. She shouldn’t even be alive, for Christ’s sake, and here she was, walking and talking almost normally. Whatever race she was, it was a damn strong one.
“So our murderer came down here to clean up?”
“It would appear so.”
The trash can’s cabinet door stood ajar. The plastic bag was easy enough to see, wedged about halfway down. A CSM hovered nearby, light flashing to indicate it was recording.
He put on fresh gloves, reached into the bin and grabbed the plastic bag, holding it by two fingers in an effort not to foul whatever prints might be available. Blood smeared the plastic inside and out.
“Military green,” she murmured. “Available in any disposal store.”
“Yes.” He tapped his wristcom and called O’Neal, instructing the young detective to bring the crime kit down. Then he glanced back at her. “Where are the blood spots?”
She pointed to an arc of five microscopic spots. Maybe the murderer had flicked her hair, spraying droplets across the mirror, but how had Sam spotted them? He could barely see them, and his hawk-sharpened senses were more attuned to things like this.
“The murderer is desperate.” Sam stared at the spots, her expression becoming distant once again. “She knows we’re closing in. She needs to get the job finished. Needs to fulfill promises made.”
Her voice was as distant as her expression. He’d seen this type of thing before—the SIU employed several psychics who could read the emotions that lingered in otherwise empty rooms. But Sam had been tested repeatedly for psychic gifts, and she had repeatedly come up negative. That is, until she reached the SIU, where she’d registered as a neutral—a feat that should have been impossible.
Finley had said that it implied her abilities were so strong that she was able to void all the tests done on her.
“What promises?” He kept his voice soft, not wanting to jar her out of her trancelike state.
“To the dead.” She hesitated, frowning lightly. “To her twin sister.”
Emma Pierce was listed as an only child, but she was also adopted. So it might be worth checking to see if a mistake had been made. “Why is she killing these people?”
“They should not exist.”
Her breathing was becoming too shallow, too quick. As much as he needed the insights, he couldn’t let her continue. Not while she was still clearing the Jadrone from her system.
“Sam.” He touched her arm lightly and she jumped.
Her gaze leapt to his, her expression confused and just a touch frightened. “What happened?”
“You were reading the room. Or the emotions in the room.”
A shudder ran through her. “It felt like I was an observer in someone else’s dream. I could see and hear what was going on, but I couldn’t intervene.”
He touched her cheek, gently wiping away a drop of sweat. “I think those psychic gifts you don’t have are starting to come to the surface.”
She stared at him and then shook her head. “Impossible! I was tested.”
“The tests can be skewed. I think we should do more.”
She reeled back as if he’d hit her. “No more tests. You promised!”
“I also promised to help you get answers about your past. That isn’t going to happen unless you start cooperating.”
“No.” She crossed her arms, her look mutinous. “The last batch of tests almost killed me. I won’t do any more.”
She was talking about the tests that the bastard she’d once called her partner had performed. “Jack didn’t care about you, only what you were and how he could use you.”
“And are you so very different, Assistant Director?”
The barb struck home and his anger surged. O’Neal chose that moment to walk into the room, but he stopped abruptly, his gaze darting from Gabriel to Sam.