“Jack signed-off on both donations,” Brad whispers as he traces pensive patterns onto my arm. “He placed both bodies in the field. We need to look into the details, see if something is amiss with the donation records. Maybe take the most recent remains to the medical examiner and verify the identity against dental records.”
“Agreed,” I reply, nodding against his chest. “We need to be careful. If Jack is up to something, we don’t want to spook him or put Mason into a difficult position.” I push away from Brad before he can draw his arms tight around me, then I back away from the bed. “I just need the restroom, want anything while I’m up?”
“I’m good, babe.”
I turn before I cringe into the shadows, padding away into the dark, heading to the bathroom before continuing to the kitchen. I’m familiar enough with Brad’s place to make us a couple of drinks, taking the whisky on ice back with me to the bedroom. We don’t speak more about the discrepancies in the records, and I make sure to divert to other topics as we sip our drinks. But my mind roams back to the campus. To the grounds of the Bass Research Fields. To Jack Sorensen.
I stare up at the ceiling as Brad falls asleep. The mild sedative I dropped into his whisky keeps his breathing slow and even. When he starts to snore I rise, my movement silent as I rifle through his closet to retrieve a pair of his sweats, a hoodie, and his slippers. I give him one last check before I jog down the hall, changing in his laundry room. I leave out the back door and escape into the night, heading for my house, my smile sheathed by shadow.
Sometimes, the universe gives you exactly what you need. And I’m not the kind of girl to just take what it has to offer.
I’m the one to seize it.
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TWO
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FOLLOW
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JACK
Muffled sounds of the gala fade into the scenic backdrop of the Brentwood building behind a thick veil of crisp, fall air. I pull in a satisfying lungful to cleanse the muggy feel of crowded bodies pressed too closely together and stalk toward the edge of the steps, just in time to watch a white Corolla pull away from the curb.
Annoyance gathers beneath my ribs in a tight spasm. Enough of an irritation to make my bones itch.
I don’t like the loss of control.
I had one objective in mind for tonight, and it didn’t involve stalking Dr. Roth.
In fact, she’s managed to upset more than a few of my plans this evening.
With the reminder, I remove my phone from my blazer inseam to note the time. Right now, I should be seated inside Black Rock Distillery, the bar favored by college students. Colby Cameron is there, like he is every Thursday. He has a routine for his study sessions.
I never miss a study session.
Phone clenched tight in my gloved hand, I move toward the parking lot, torn between sticking to my routine and trailing my colleagues.
Precaution has to come first.
Especially when one of those colleagues is the outgoing, outspoken Dr. Roth.
She has a serious problem keeping quiet.
The woman is like a frenzied ball of energy; she never settles long enough for me to pin her down.
The first time I encountered the strange, annoying creature, I had the overwhelming urge to strangle her and trap her constant prattle of words in her slender throat. Then stuff her in a freezer just to see her in a calm state.
I’ll admit, I’m curious enough to wonder what her animated features would look like suspended, motionless, her thick lashes resting stationary over her high cheekbones. Her plump, berry lips drained of color.
One reason I throttled the urge was because I don’t shit where I eat.
As crude as the cliché is, it’s a nonnegotiable rule that has kept me safely hidden my whole life.
Another reason is, like the distinct perfume she wears that announces her presence before she enters a room, Dr. Kyrie Roth’s magnetic personality draws all attention on her.
When one requires the shadows to maneuver, one should be grateful for the sunshine that provides them. No matter how irritated your eyes become while staring at the bright, bothersome light.
The onslaught of torturous thoughts further wastes my time as I reach my Beamer and slip behind the wheel. I remove my black gloves and crank the engine. The A/C vent blasts my face with arctic air. I don’t change the temperature settings.
The stretch of busy roads leading away from downtown narrow into suburban streets as I tail the white car at a distance. My jaw sets as I realize where my two co-workers are heading.
Dr. Bradley Thompson’s house.
Before the car ahead brakes, I veer off onto the shoulder and park behind a wall of manicured shrubbery. I kill the engine and watch as they both exit the car and make their way up the walkway to the front door of Brad’s modest home.
All hope they were simply sharing a ride is defeated, and I push back in my seat to settle in and wait. An intimate relationship between Dr. Thompson and Dr. Roth doesn’t bode well. People have this irritating tendency to share details and secrets when sex is involved.
An unwanted image of Kyrie sneaks across my vision, and I reach for my leather satchel on the floormat and remove the spiral bound notebook. I flip to my most recent sketch.
My fingers reverently trace the contrasting play of light and shadows along the anatomy of the leg. I use a hard graphite pencil to capture and define the muscle structure, then a softer pencil to outline the bones. This technique is more delicate as, where light cannot penetrate the body, there will be darker tones.
Then there is only the open view to what lay beneath the flesh and veins and sinew.
I imagine the detail on the femur pectineal line is smooth and fine, no indentations due to his youthful age. Depicting the flesh flayed away from the bone is like tearing open wrapping paper to discover what’s inside. One of my favorite parts is to compare the accuracy of my rendering to the actual bones.
But as it’s not yet time to unwrap Colby, I close the notebook and glance at my Rolex, gauging the time Brad and Kyrie have spent inside. I have to handle a nosy colleague first.
An intrusive thought of sweaty, overheated skin slipping together fills my head. I can almost smell the stench of sex drifting from Brad’s house, and my nostrils flare in revulsion at the thought of them together.
After two hours of watching the front door, Dr. Roth still hasn’t emerged. The stale air inside the car presses against my skin like a moist towel, humid and suffocating. I remove my clammy palms from the steering wheel and open the door, welcoming the hit of fresh air.
The lights inside the house blinked out a while ago. I take my chances that Brad doesn’t have much stamina and they’re now asleep. Carelessly, the front door has been left unlocked. I slip my gloves on and let myself in, doing a quick sweep around the living space.
I made sure there are no cameras or an alarm system the first time I searched Brad’s home. For all his arising paranoia, I figured he’d at least get a dog. His bedroom is off to the right of the narrow hallway. I creep along the hardwood toward the cracked door and nudge it farther open.
Brad is asleep on the left side of the bed nearest the door. Dr. Roth is missing. My hackles raise and I dart a look around the darkened space, using the sliver of moonlight from the slatted blinds to search the corners, listening for any movement from the ensuite bathroom.
The stillness of the house settles my nerves, and I enter the room and stare down at Brad.
