“I don’t know. I guess because it was a drug forum. People looking to get innovative ways to get high. You know, for SWIM.” He nods a couple of times, looking proud of himself for using the right slang. This twerp doesn’t have a clue what he’s fucking around with.
“What – your mommy bought you the darknet for Christmas?” I wave him on, impatient. “And?”
“And it just didn’t fit. I mean, the girl sure. I could tell she was legit and just looking for some hard-to-get shit. But him? It was like he was looking for her. You know what I’m saying?”
I do. Even a moron like this kid can read between the lines.
“You don’t start a convo with a chick about aphrodisiacs without having an ulterior motive,” he finishes with a shit-eating grin.
I’m impressed he strung that sentence together.
And Avery, even the brainy scientist she is, didn’t pick up on that. She doesn’t think like a criminal. Or hell, like a man.
“What’s this guy’s screen name?”
He stands and dusts off his backside. “I get a reward for this or some shit?”
I step up to him and glare down, letting our sizable difference speak for itself.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “All right, just don’t give my name over to any of your nark buddies or cops, and I’ll tell you. It was King.”
I raise my eyebrows. “King?”
“Yeah, I’m trying to think. It was A. King or something.” He holds up his hands. “But I can get it for you for sure when I get back to my house.”
“I know you will, Laurence,” I say, handing him the driver’s license I snaked from his pack. “You’ll send it to this number here”—I give him my card—“or else I’ll bring my cop buddies to your house and have us a fun search party.”
“Man.” He shakes his head, exasperated. “I’ll send it, yo.”
“Send it within the hour.”
When I’m back at my car, I text Avery, inquiring about this King contact she might recall. I wait a few minutes, my restlessness mounting when she doesn’t respond. Frustration laces my nerves tight as I crank the engine and head toward my apartment. That just happens to be near the crime scene.
5
Affliction
Avery
I’ve lost it. My ability to cope, to reason, to breathe. Bile coats my throat, my stomach roils with a sick tumble, and pain lances my chest. The bright day burns through my eyelids, too bright, too vivid. White circles flicker at the edges of my vision as I squeeze my eyes closed.
“Avery?”
I bend at the waist, gasp for air, dragging searing breaths into my constricted lungs. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute,” I tell Carson.
“Quinn’s going to have my ass if I don’t report this…”
I hold up a hand. “Not yet.” I manage to right myself and clear my thoughts of the victim. She’s behind me now, being photographed. Becoming a grotesque work of crime scene art.
“I’m processing this victim,” I say, overly determined, as if giving myself a pep talk. “It’s just exhaustion catching up. I’ll get a second wind soon. Quinn doesn’t need to know.” I find Carson’s gaze, and he nods reluctantly. Quinn will do something completely caveman—like storm the scene and throw me over his shoulder. Hell, he’s done it before.
Carson offers me my coffee, but I shake my head. “I think the caffeine had an adverse effect.” Thankfully, he accepts the lame attempt to excuse my sudden attack.
We both know the truth. The sight and smell of the vic hit too hard. Not right at first; shock might’ve staved it off. But once I was there beside her, visualizing and feeling her last moments…the panic took hold. Gripping me like death grips her now.
“I could call Bonds over here,” Carson says, worry creasing his eyes. “She could give us some insight into the offender, maybe, and—” And hold my hand, I surmise for him.
As if everyone here isn’t already thinking about how damaged I am and questioning whether I can do this. Whether I should do this. I don’t need a profiler here to add weight to their concerns.