Page 2 of Devotion

My arm shields my eyes from the faint, orange light seeping between the blinds, and I’m guessing I’ve done it again, woken up with at least half an hour before my alarm is set to ring. Usually, the sound of the garage door opening and closing beneath my apartment when Dad leaves for work is to blame. But this time, another nightmare.

Or should I say thesamenightmare.

A thin layer of sweat has my t-shirt sticking to my breasts and torso. I kick the blanket off to the side, trying to convince myself that just because the morning’s off to a bad start, that doesn’t have to mean the whole day will suck. I’ve made it to the edge of the mattress and have just about talked myself into believing it when my work phone rings.

Which is never a good sign.

A sigh puffs from my lips as I answer. “Bennett speaking.”

“Morning, Sunshine.”

I roll my eyes at the sound of Detective Martinez’s voice.

“We’re gonna need you in early. We got a call. I’m shooting you the address.”

“Can’t you call Reese? I was about to shower and—”

“Reese is shit before noon. You know that,” he cuts in. “Without coffee and a few hours to get his head in the game, we may as well have a kindergartner behind the camera. Besides… Seargent Mack thinks it’s another one.”

My fingers stop in the middle of a damn good head scratch at Martinez’s words. By “another one”,he means another of the strange cases we’ve seen popping up lately. A case he knows I’m interested in, based purely on the killer’s unique modus operandi.

I puff a heavy sigh into the receiver, hoping Martinez feels my frustration and the unspokenfuck youI’m trying to telepathically transmit to his brain.

“Fine. Be there in a few.”

“Sounds good. Be safe.”

I drop my phone to the bed and hold my face in both hands. It won’t do me any good to pout, so I head to the bathroom, settle for a quick washup in the sink until there’s time for an actual shower. Then, I brush my teeth, throw my hair in a ponytail, grab my lunch, and head out the door looking and feeling like complete shit.

There isn’t even time to stop for coffee, so whatever state of mind I’m in when I get to the scene, it isn’t on me. As I pull up to the address Martinez sent, a visual of Reese in his own bed, smiling at me from behind a warm, steaming mug vanishes in the array of red and blue lights parked out front. I trudge toward the door, glancing at the caution tape that creates a barrier from the sidewalk to the porch. Officers stand by, securing the area, chatting up the neighbors for intel as I slip into a pair of shoe covers before stepping inside the house.

Martinez peers up when I enter the foyer, and it’s hard to miss how he scans me with that loaded stare. It’s a little less subtle than we agreed to be about our after-work interactions, so I look away quickly. With any luck, my dismissiveness will dispel any suspicion he might’ve just planted in anyone’s head about us. I snap a pair of latex gloves into place as I lock in on the victim. Caucasian male, roughly aged fifty to fifty-five, laid out in the middle of the room.

Throat laceration resulting in a severed trachea.

Eyes and mouth open.

Hands and feet unbound.

Furniture and objects near the body appear to be undisturbed, suggesting there wasn’t much of a struggle.

The elaborate, post-mortem calling card draws me in—a spiderweb carved into the victim’s torso, stretching from nipple to nipple, extending down to the navel. Martinez was right. This does appear to be another ofthosecases. The fourth in less than six weeks, actually.

My lens whirs into focus, beeping a millisecond before I snap the first shot, effectively immortalizing the death of today’s unknown. But it’s impossible to capture thevictim’slikeness without inadvertently capturing a glimpse of the one responsible for their death.

I call itundeservedmemorialization.Giving the assailant a chance to be forever recorded in history, although typically only local or regional history, but history nonetheless. And people like this—the dark, the depraved—they’re better off forgotten.

“Alright, Bennett,” Mack says, hovering in my personal space. “How quickly do you think you’ll be able to wrap this up? The medical examiner’s enroute, kiddo.”

I check my watch, noting that, yes, I’ve now been at this for a couple hours, but it takes as long as it takes. My camera shutter clicks again, and I feel zero urgency as I line up another shot.

“I’ll…wrap it up…when I’ve thoroughly done my job. Thanks for the update, though.”

Without turning, I feel Seargent Mack’s glare burning a hole through the back of my head. His incessant need to call the shots at a scene has been a bone of contention between us during my entire two-year stint working for the department. One of many hazards of being employed by a bona fide boys’ club, I suppose.

“Whatever, smartass. Just remember you’re not the only one who has a job to do here. Others might not be as sweet as I am when they show up, only to findyourass is still in the way.”

A long breath leaves me as I lower my camera. “I’m mostly done. I just need a few more shots of the artwork on the torso.”

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