Page 9 of Can You Take It?

He nods and advises, “Don’t touch anything. I’ll get your clothes from your wardrobe. Just let me know which ones you need.”

He keeps holding my hand, and his proximity is both comforting and unsettling. We walk together in the direction of my room.

We finally reach my room, and I instruct Richard to grab a blue tank top, beige shorts, and a bra from my underwear drawer. I need to change out of these crime scene clothes—anything to distance myself from the horrors I’ve seen today.

I disappear into the bathroom, quickly closing the door behind me. As I change, the day’s fatigue sinks deep into me. It’s been full of fear, anger, and now, an odd sense of connection with Richard.

Once I’ve changed, I step out of the bathroom, only to find Richard going through my personal stuff. I clear my throat loudly, feeling a deep sense of violation. My privacy is being trampled on, and I won’t stand for it.

“Uh, excuse me,” I say with disbelief. “You mind not snooping through my things?”

Richard jumps, looking kind of embarrassed but not exactly sorry. “I was just looking for a bag to grab more clothes for you.”

I cross my arms, feeling indignant. “You can ask me or wait outside, you know.”

He shrugs, not exactly repentant. “I figured you’d take forever, and I wanted to get it done.”

I roll my eyes, partly amused and partly annoyed. “You guys really have no boundaries, do you?”

He grins, his cocky attitude still intact. “Not when it comes to solving a case.”

Enough of this. I take control. I don’t need Mr. Snoopy FBI rummaging through my drawers, so I slide past him, pointing at the drawer. He gets the hint and grabs a bag to stuff my clothes into. This whole invasion of my personal space wasn’t part of the plan, and I’m itching to get out of here.

We step outside, and the blast of fresh air mixed with blaring sirens is a sweet relief. Richard looks at me, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

“A deal’s a deal. I got your clothes, now it’s time for you to help us with the sketch. I need you to come down to the office with me.”

I just nod. It’s a begrudging agreement, but what choice do I have?

Chapter 4

RICHARD

We drive away from the crime scene, with Izel in the backseat. She is fiddling with the hem of her top and it’s clear she’s avoiding eye contact. Another thing bothers me—the way she flinched when my fingers accidentally brushed against her arm. Her left arm, specifically, the one with that tattoo. I remember noticing it before, the image of a candle. The tattoo drips down to her elbow, covering burns that could’ve only come from something painful, something violent. The inked candle might look like just art to anyone else, but I know better. There’s pain there. Hidden, but not erased.

The scars don’t tell me much. Abusive relationship? I glance at her in the mirror, catching her gaze for a fleeting second. She looks like someone immune to that kind of damage, but I’ve seen enough to know better. Strength can make others feel small, and some people will hurt you just to feel bigger.

Letting her walk into the crime scene earlier wasn’t about being a gentleman; it was about watching her. I’ve got this hunch, this itch at the back of my mind. If she’s involved inany way, she’d be checking things out, scanning the scene for any possible clues she might’ve left behind. But what do I see instead? Nothing.

She was ice-cold. You don’t look at your friend like that. You don’t look at your roommate like that either. The way she was distancing herself, it’s clear as day, they weren’t friends.

I spent some time in her room. Everything was in its place, not a speck of dust out of line. Her books, meticulously arranged by size and genre: her clothes, neatly folded and color-coded in the closet. Even the bed was made with precision, not a wrinkle in sight. It was like she lived in a museum, a place where everything had its designated spot, and nothing could be out of order. That kind of control, that level of detachment—it screams of someone who’s used to compartmentalizing, someone who is used to making most out of small spaces. But that makes no sense since Izel Montclair comes from money, so space shouldn’t be a problem.

Noah leans over and murmurs in my ear, “Got a sketch artist waiting for us, Rick.” I nod, keeping my eyes on Izel.

“Good. Let’s get back, and maybe this sketch will give us something to work with.”

The whole drive back to the office is awkward as hell. Izel’s still messing with the hem of her top, lost in her own thoughts. I can tell she’s battling some heavy demons. What I don’t know is if she’s a victim, a witness, or, hell, maybe even a suspect. I’ve got to get to the bottom of it.

Izel looks up at me. She’s probably wondering what comes next. Well, it’s not going to be a picnic, that’s for sure. We’re going to dig into her life, her secrets, and maybe even her nightmares. But one thing’s for sure, she isn’t walking away from this case without giving up some answers.

I pull into the FBI office parking lot, and we all pile out of the car. Izel doesn’t look too thrilled about being here, but I don’t blame her. Nobody wants to be in a place like this.

Inside, the sketch artist is waiting for us. She sets up her materials with practiced efficiency. “Let’s get started,” she says.

Izel takes a deep breath, clearly struggling to recount what she saw. “Take your time,” I say softly.

The artist looks at Izel expectantly. “Tell me everything you remember about his face,” she instructs. “Start with the basics - hair color, eyes, any distinguishing features.”

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