Page 8 of Can You Take It?

When he returns with a jacket, Mr. FBI hands it to me, guess I can’t complain about my topless situation anymore. I flinch as I try to put it on. The pain from the wound on my leg sends a sharp reminder of the trauma I’ve just been through.

I catch SSA Reynolds observing my discomfort, and for the first time, he seems less like an interrogator prick and more like a human being. He offers me the help to get into the jacket, and I slowly slip my arms into it, grateful for the cover.

He motions for me to take a seat, and I do, even though I’d rather be anywhere else but here. It’s not lost on me that my entire life has been upended by the presence of the FBI.

“Is there somewhere you can stay tonight?” he inquires.

“I’m not going to run around like a fugitive just because the FBI is incompetent at their jobs. I’m spending the night at my own damn house.”

Reynolds’ expression tightens, and he doesn’t mince words when he lays it out for me. “Izel, this is life-threatening. The killer has seen your face, and he might come back to the crime scene to finish off a possible witness.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Let him come. I might as well kill him. I’m not scared of him, but I am sick of you guys.”

SSA Reynolds seems to completely disregard my anger and frustration as he continues to push. “We also need you to come down to the FBI office to help make a possible sketch of the guy.”

My patience is wearing thin, andI finally let it all out. “Hell no! Do you think I’m some kind of an artist? I barely had a fucking glance at him. I can’t give a detailed description of how he looks. It’s not like we had a heart-to-heart for me to remember his face.”

“We’re not asking for a masterpiece, just whatever details you can provide. It could make a difference in our investigation.”

“I don’t care what you’re asking for. I’m not helping you people with anything.”

“I understand this is difficult, but any small detail you can provide could be crucial in identifying the killer. We have forensic artists who can work with you to create the sketch.”

I cross my arms. “I told you, I barely got a look at the guy. It won’t help. Besides, I’ve had enough of your FBI circus for one day.”

“Izel, please. We just need your cooperation.”

But I’m not ready to give in. I’ve been through enough, and I’m not about to become an unwitting participant in their investigation.

“Cooperation? How about you start by letting me go back to my house and get changed? Then we can talk about cooperation.”

“There’s a dead body inside. Are you sure you can handle seeing that?”

A scoff escapes me at the question. “I just survived a serial killer. I’m pretty sure I can handle anything at this point.”

“Alright, let’s go,” he says, motioning for me to lead the way. As we approach the door, the stale air of the old building hits us, mixing with the faint scent of antiseptic.

Just as we’re about to proceed further, a burly homicide detective steps in front of us. “Hold it right there,” he growls, narrowing his eyes at me. “Who do you think you are?”

“Supervisory Special Agent Reynolds, FBI,” he states, pulling out his badge and holding it up for the detective to see.

For a moment, it seems like the detective might stand his ground. But then he lets out a resigned sigh and steps aside.

Inside, the house is a mess. The crime scene is frenzied with investigators and forensic experts everywhere.

I can feel SSA Reynolds’ presence behind me as I walk through my living room. It’s oddly comforting. The discovery of a dead body is a grim reminder of the darkness that has invaded my life, and I’m not sure if I’m truly ready for what we’re about to see.

We step further into the house, and I spot two people huddled over Cassie’s naked body. My mind struggles to process everything. As I take another step, something catches my foot, and I stumble.

Before I can fully topple, strong arms wrap around me, steadying me. I look up and find myself staring into Richard’s eyes. For a moment, everything else fades away. Our eyes lock, and there’s this strange, unspoken connection between us.

“Easy there,” he says softly.

“Thanks.”

He helps me regain my footing. “Are you okay?”

I nod, holding myself together. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

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