Rhys nods and looks at the apartment complex that abuts the lake. “The police only canvassed neighbors in the complex where the vic lived. What about the others? There are three apartment buildings that surround the lake area.”
“Maybe a witness that didn’t come forward,” I reason aloud. “And anyone within close proximity could learn her routine.”
“Let’s walk the perimeter. See if we can tell which apartments are in view of the crime scene.” Rhys starts toward the bank.
Before I follow his lead, I look at the tablet in my hand, at the image displayed on the screen. My chest prickles as a sinister awareness slithers over me.
Last night, I was able to get through most of the case file while lying in the hotel bed. The reports describe the body in grisly candor, but actually seeing the mutilation is different; it stirs a visceral reaction.
With a guarded breath, I zoom in on the laceration that stretches the length of her rib cage. Despite the bloated skin, the washed out, paled appearance, I can imagine what it would look like—feel like—once healed, had the victim lived through the attack.
It’s not the same placement, or size…but the sight of the injury spikes my blood like a shot of alcohol. Dizzy, I lower the tablet.
“Dammit.” Air fights its way into my lungs, and I swallow past the constriction of my throat. I stumble over a mound of reed grass, my legs shaky. “Rhys…” He doesn’t hear me. “Agent Nolan!”
This stops him on the shore. He looks back at me, his suit jacket flapping open as a breeze crosses the lake. His features pull together in question.
I hold up the tablet when I reach him. “Did you see this?”
His hands go to his hips, pushing his jacket open farther. “Hale, what are you talking about?”
“This—” I point to the victim on the screen. “The ME report didn’t record this laceration correctly. Did you know about it? Did you see this image?” The accusation in my tone startles even me. I draw in a breath. “Am I crazy?”
His frown deepens as he squints against the noon sun. Then his eyes find mine. “You’re not crazy.”
My relief is momentary.
“But,” he continues, “I asked if you were comfortable taking this case.” It comes across accusatory.
I drop the tablet by my thigh. “That’s not—”
“I read the report. Studied the images. I asked you before,” he stresses.
“Stop. This isn’t about my reaction. Don’t analyze me. There’s a distinct similarity here.” Now that the words are out there, I can’t take them back.
At his intense silence, I look past him, out to the ripples sheeting the lake.
Take it back.
But I can’t. The remembered pain surges to life, bigger than this moment.
Rhys draws closer. Mercifully, he doesn’t make me elaborate. He doesn’t need me to. He’s seen this reaction before. In victims.
“Hale, look at me.”
I force my gaze away from the lake, but it’s difficult to look into his knowing eyes. Still, I make myself do it, to face the cold truth.
His jawline is tense. A muscle feathers along his cheek. He’s holding back. “Are you seeing a similarity?” he finally asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
My mind flips through my psych classes. One of the signs of late onset schizophrenia is seeing patterns where they don’t exist. Then there’s frequency illusion. Baader-Meinhoff phenomenon. It’s also a sign of stress. Like when a person is working a cold case that resembles their attack.
Simplest, most logical explanation. Stress.
“Focus on me. Right here,” he says, directing my gaze to his eyes. Something flashes in his steely gaze, and he takes hold of the tablet. He zooms in on the laceration. “What does the ME report read?”
“Length of laceration is six inches, though it could be longer. And the case file didn’t have a photo from this angle. Maybe the pathologist measured wrong…”