Page 2 of The Killer She Knew

Officer Caine had no idea how right he was. How much Ava had been through in the past few weeks alone. First losing her father to suicide, her childhood home to a blackmailer, then her mother to life behind bars for murder. Then being placed with a woman she didn’t know in a city she’d never stepped foot in. Leigh wanted to escape, too.

“Can I offer you some orange chicken to go before you head back on shift?” Leigh stretched across the peeling circular dining table set for two, pulling Ava’s plate to the edge in offering. Heat crested her neck and into her face as she realized she’d given Officer Caine a direct view down her sweater with the movement, and he’d taken the opportunity to catch a glimpse. Great. She pulled back sharply, adjusting her neckline, and tried to think of a reason for her embarrassment. She wasn’t married. Hadn’t even had a boyfriend in… She didn’t want to think about how long. “I have a feeling it’s going to go cold.”

Officer Caine was classically handsome. Chiseled jawline, long, straight nose, which had obviously never been broken. Usually clean shaven with a hint of beard growth, his unkept appearance told her he’d had an equally as long day as she had. They were around the same age. He might’ve been a couple years younger than her thirty-seven. And it wasn’t the first time she’d been a little more than embarrassed with him in the house.

The third night Officer Caine had brought Ava back, clawing and screaming about her human rights being violated, Leigh had dumped an entire mug of coffee on his crotch. Every interaction since got a little more pathetic and desperate to prove she wasn’t holding a fifteen-year-old hostage against her will. Illegally. She was a good person with a good job and very little baggage. That last part was a lie. But, all things considered, she had to work with this man. And the thought of taking her and Officer Caine’srelationship beyond fugitive hunter and “the actual devil,” as Ava lovingly referred to Leigh, scared her more than facing down a killer. Acquaintances worked fine for her.

“You know I’ll never turn down one of your home cooked meals.” He took a step forward.

“Not sure you’d consider this home cooked since it came out of a box, but it might be better than the garbage you usually eat.” The truth was she and Ava were living off boxed dinners as they figured out new school schedules and transitioning back from medical leave. Who knew mom guilt was transferrable?

“Hey, that garbage serves a purpose. Mostly.” Officer Caine’s smile cracked wide, and Leigh couldn’t help but return it. Being in law enforcement put them both center stage to evil of the worst kind. Moments like this got her through. The… connection to another person that didn’t come with a load of obscenities and slamming doors.

His radio crackled in interruption. A call down the street. He pinched the handheld and notched his head down to respond. “Sorry, Leigh. Raincheck?”

She didn’t want to give too much attention to his use of her first name. He’d never called her Leigh before.

“Of course.” She motioned to the door. He could let himself out as he had the few times he’d dragged Ava home before. And within a matter of seconds, she was alone again. Not in the most basic sense. Ava would calm down. She would venture into the common areas for food once her stomach got the best of her, as most feral animals did, but it wouldn’t change the hollowness in Leigh’s chest. She’d wanted this her entire life. Wanted Ava and a family and all the impossible things that came with it since losing her own mother. But why did it have to feel as if she was slogging through mud day after day with no finish line in sight?

Leigh secured the deadbolt on the door and cleared her dishes from the table.

Her phone vibrated from the peninsula counter jutting out from the wall. She grabbed for it with a soapy hand and wedged it between her shoulder and ear. “Brody.”

“Agen’ Brody, time’s up.” Director Angelina Livingstone’s thick Scottish accent cut through the line as sharp as the blade paramedics had pulled from Leigh’s shoulder a month ago. “I have a case for you.”

A knot physically released in her gut. As grateful as she’d been to have the time out of the field to recover from the hysterectomy and to get Ava situated in Quantico, not to mention overcoming a stab wound, a part of her had been waiting for this moment. Craving it. Consulting on serial investigations and scouring data for criminal patterns for over twenty years had become an obsession. Made violence part of her very being. Without it, she wasn’t sure who she was supposed to be. Clearly not a stand-in mom to a teenager who kept trying to escape or even a sensible person who could attract a date. “What do you have?”

“You’re going back to New Hampshire,” the director said.

Gravity drained the blood from her face. Leigh forgot about the dishes, reaching to steady her phone against her ear. Not Lebanon. For crying out loud, please not Lebanon. She’d barely managed to make it out of her hometown alive the last time she’d visited. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Durham.” Livingstone let the word sink in. “University of New Hampshire. The US Marshals office is specifically asking for your collaboration, as you have relationships within the local police department and know the area well.”

University of New Hampshire. Previously Granite State. Her alma mater. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. In her experience, law enforcement only asked for the FBI to consult after they’d already exhausted and run through potential leads. Or something came up pertaining to an old case. ButDirector Livingstone’s assumption hit the target. She still had contacts at the university, however strained. “I’m trained to work serial crimes, which means the university has more than one victim on their hands, and police are concerned there may be a serial element.”

That was how this job worked. Despite the violence and sadness and desperation for answers tacked onto this job, Leigh had made patterns her entire life. From the moment her brother had been abducted twenty years ago, they’d consumed and driven her to become one of the FBI’s most nationally recognized assets. She found the connections—between evidence, victimology, and unsubs—most experts ignored in favor of physical proof. Solved some of the country’s coldest cases through personal interactions, body language, and relationships. She read people. Probably better than she read herself.

“I need you on scene as soon as possible,” Livingstone said. “A storm is approaching the east coast. The crime scene is at risk.”

Leigh’s gaze flicked to the closed bedroom door on the other side of the dining room. There’d been a time she wouldn’t have hesitated to jump into the next investigation. The promise of a shiny new puzzle kept her from spiraling into the crushing weight of the past. But a lot had changed in the last month. Now she had a teenager—a flight risk—to worry about. “There are far more qualified officials in and around Durham to handle this investigation than someone who hasn’t been back for almost twenty years. Let one of them have this one.”

Unless there was a reason Livingstone had offered her up.

A reason Leigh hadn’t let herself think about since she was a college freshman.

“One victim, Agen’ Brody. Alice Dietz. Twenty-one years old. Blonde, athletic build, brown eyes.” Livingstone’s accentwent neutral but still managed to reach a couple of levels above deadpan. There was enough life in her voice to give her away. The director knew exactly what Leigh was thinking. She wouldn’t be able to turn this investigation over to some other agent. “According to the officials on scene, the body smells as though it was recently bathed in a mixture of bleach, and she was left in front of Thompson Hall. Sound familiar?”

Leigh found herself sagging against the counter to keep herself on her feet.

“Let me guess. Poisoning?” The pieces were starting to line up. The familiarity knotted her gut tighter. She’d moved on. She’d left the black hole of her college days behind. They weren’t supposed to catch up with her until she was ready. Or never. “The medical examiner likely found she was poisoned with an equal mixture of arsenic and cyanide that will be traced back to the university biomedical lab. The killer also cleaned under the victim’s fingernails to ensure there was no trace of DNA to connect back to him.”

“It seems you’re already quite familiar with the investigation,” Livingstone said. It wasn’t a question, but no. Leigh wasn’t just familiar with this potential case. She’d lived it. “There is no sign of a puncture wound anywhere on the body, no burn evidence in the esophagus revealing the victim was forced to swallow the poison, and her stomach was empty of food that could’ve led to her death.”

It was all adding up. Same MO. Different victim.

He was back. Taunting her. Daring her to give chase.

And she was going to take the bait.

---