With Visions of Red (The Broken Bonds 1)

I’m lost in the meaning, confused as to why a purest—as the UNSUB has been so far—would lower his standards to hearsay and fictions…until my eyes discern the brutality masked under all the swirling red decoration.

A single, jagged slash across the second victim’s collarbone.

He sacrificed his kill method to send a message. The recipient: me.

The air becomes thick, my lungs struggle to accept a full breath. The bathroom is so small…too many bodies pressing against me. This whole apartment is like a tomb; taking on the shape and surroundings of a lightless, dank basement.

“Where are you going?”

But I can’t answer Quinn right now. I’m making my way back through the press of uniforms and through the living room, and then out through the front door, where I finally drag in an unobstructed breath.

No one knows about me. What happened all those years ago. My scar. That’s personal, and that’s mine. He’s been inside my house. He’s watched me. He knows secret details I’ve scribbled in my journal. The one place where I share my history.

The poem. What it means to me…the pain. The terror. The shame. The unbearable verses recited to me over and over, my captor making me feel each line. Fashioning and molding me into the perfect, virtuous woman through his special brand of torture. I was a dirty girl, one he desired to transform into a delicate beauty that was above reproach.

I know every stanza by heart. And back at the first scene, when I read those words, the old wound tore wide. And I’m bleeding…

“Sadie…” My name, softly spoken by Quinn, snaps me out of my panic. “You can’t have a meltdown here,” he says, gripping my elbow. He guides me down the pathway, away from the apartment building. “Too many people. I’m sure some of them reporters.”

I notice Quinn removing his coverall, and I decide to do the same. I slip out of the plastic, forcing it down my body with shaky hands, and kick out of the suit.

As I crumple the plastic into a tight ball, what Quinn said finally registers. “Wait.” I stuff the balled suit under my arm and turn to face the crowd.

“We can catch Avery later. Let’s go get some food in you. We’re going to have a long night—”

“No, Quinn. He’s here.” Swinging my gaze around to Quinn, I widen my eyes, discreetly nodding to the gathered bodies. “The profile suggests he’ll insert himself into the investigation.” And my life. “This was his big masterwork. The crime scene that would undoubtedly link everything together.” I scan over the crowd, seeking each individual face. “I’m sure he wouldn’t be able to keep away.”

From my peripheral, I see Quinn take out his phone and put it to his ear. “Make sure you get shots of the crowd. I want every gawker at this crime scene photographed.” I give him a raised eyebrow as he lowers his phone. “Well, we can’t go up to each one and ask if they’re the killer, can we?”

I press my lips together, conceding. “No…yeah, you’re right.” But I have to recognize him. Maybe. I’m so careful about who I allow to get close. My world consists of a handful of people.

Except at the club.

The place where I go to unleash the side I keep hidden from those people.

He could be a member. He could’ve fo

llowed me home one night. Waited until the right moment to break in and pry into my life. But the question remains: why?

“It doesn’t match the profile,” I say to myself. But Quinn picks up on it.

“What doesn’t?”

Damn.

Facing Quinn, I prepare to deprive him of the truth. For the first time in our working relationship—that has had its almost good moments, and its difficult ones—I cannot give him the unvarnished truth.

I have to withhold evidence—or at the very least, my suspicions.

Without knowing how this is linked to me, or why, I have to keep my guard up. And the truth is, I’m afraid. Though I don’t want to admit it, there’s the possibility that my mind is selectively piecing together this terrible reality with my past. After the abduction, there was a time when I seriously doubted my sanity—but that was a long time ago.

I’ve overcome so much, and I do not want to degrade back into that doubt. But that’s exactly what the UNSUB is making me do; doubt myself.

Until I discover just what it has to do with me, Quinn has to remain in the dark. He may pull me off the case, otherwise. And if the UNSUB’s game does revolve around me, that will only anger him. I’ll play his game—for now. I have to, to see what the rules are. Then I’ll turn them around on him.

“There may be a subtle difference forming from the initial profile,” I say, working out the weak details as they form in my mind. Quinn cocks his head. “We’re still dealing with a copycat, but I was off on his reasoning. He’s not just emulating Bathory, he doesn’t just admire her…he believes they share a special bond. A romantic relationship…” Quinn’s features shift, his face contorting in confusion, and I know I’m losing him. “Erotomania,” I blurt.

He shakes his head. “Really? You’re going there? With a delusional UNSUB who believes that a dead woman—for over four hundred years—is in love with him?”