Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
There’s a faint blue-black on my inner elbow–a bruise from my mystery dom’s grip, something I didn’t notice before. The wrap covers the tiny bruise but leaves my forearms bare. From wrist to elbow, there are still faint pink marks from the ropes he used. They’re faded, but if you know what to look for, you’ll see them.
Something about the marks looks familiar.
Where have I seen them before?
I remove the wrap and tuck it into the giant bag I use as a purse. I’m wearing my boots—I’ll have to run into a shoe store for high heels to match the dress, but that won’t take long.
I shove the gift box into the back of my locker, unwilling to toss it. If I’m lucky, by tomorrow, my extra change of clothes and everything I’ve stored will have absorbed the subtle scent.
I pick up my heavy winter coat, reluctant to cover up the beautiful gown but unwilling to walk through the station looking like an escapee from the fashion catwalk. The coat sleeves cover the faint marks on my arm, and I get a flash of memory.
The body curled on my apartment stoop. Dirty hands, bitten nails, a sleeve pushed up to show a faint lattice of red marks. . .
On my way out, I pass my desk, and there’s a file waiting for me that wasn’t there before. No note, but I know it’s from Silva. The crime scene info I asked for.
I open the file and flip through the pictures of the vic left at my front door. Close-ups of his face, the lip ring, the hollows under his eyes. And his hands and wrists bearing faded red marks—a sign that he was tied up.
Marks on his arms that match mine.
But that’s not the only place I’ve seen these marks. . .
A droning hum like bees, like the whine of a buzz saw, fills my ears. My sixth sense is kicking into overdrive.
I stride to the room where we’re working on the Martin case. It’s empty, and I head straight to the evidence board, where they’ve put up photos pertaining to the crime.
There. The close-up photos of the vic’s arms. The red marks in a pattern suggesting he was tied to the chair.
Gregory Martin, the vic on my stoop. . . what do they have in common?
Rope marks.
The buzzing in my ears intensifies.
The crime scene photos are inches from my face. They blur as the vision comes to life.
Birds flying in formation. Moving, breaking, coming together to form a dark and dangerous shape. A man on a roof.
An intruder. . .
He plummets down from the roof, landing on the fire escape outside the Martin building. A pulse from a device and the alarm’s down. Another device unlocks the door. The shadow swoops through the door, down the empty hall toward his quarry. . .
Gregory Martin is sitting at the desk. How does the intruder incapacitate him?
A small orb attached to a utility belt. The intruder reaches for it, unhooks it, and tosses it ahead of him so it rolls into the office.
I pull out my phone and text Mina in the private, unmonitored messaging app she makes me use.
Me: Is there a gas bomb someone could use to knock out unsuspecting victims? Something portable, easy to store. Works fast but untraceable. Something on the black market?
Mina types back immediately. On it.
She’ll check the dark web and pose as a buyer if she has to. If something like that exists, even in prototype form, she’ll find it.
It’ll be nice to have confirmation, but my vision is clear. The UNSUB used a gas to knock Martin out and then tied him up. Just like someone did to poor Joey Daniels before leaving him on my doorstep.
I pull out the photos Silva left me and compare them to the ones on the wall. Gregory Martin. Joey Daniels. Same rope pattern.
What does it mean?
I claw off my coat and hold up my arm. There they are—the same marks. The killer tied his victims like my mystery dom tied me up.
Have you ever tried rope?
Maybe next time.
The room starts to spin. I try to hold on, but I’m back in the club, tied to the cross.
This is my favorite type of tie. The loops around my forearms. Strong. Secure. Safe.
I slump forward, planting my hands on the photo wall, panting. What are the chances the two murder victims had been tied up with the same pattern? The same pattern the dom used to tie me?
If we scene again, I’ll use rope to tie you.
The ground opens up, a monster’s maw yawning under my feet. And I’m falling, falling. . .
Little bird. . . secret admirer.
Rope. . .
The ringing in my ears stops abruptly. Someone’s walking down the hall toward the room. Dazed, I stuff the Joey Daniels file under my coat.