Page 8 of Make You Mine

It’s red. Bright red.

But more damning is the memory I’m hit with, this one more vivid than the earlier ones…

Jason holding a blade, the end dripping blood as he cut the young woman from just below her collarbones to her navel. Splayed open, the wound filled with her life’s essence, pooling at the center of her torso before spilling over the sides of her bruised ribs.

So much blood everywhere. A surgically precise line.

I’ll never forget the image or the sound of her pain-filled screams—the pleading to stop.

The gratification on his face while she begged for her life.

My mouth hurts, and I grimace as I try to unclench my jaw, but the pain is making it nearly impossible. I try to force out words, too, but fail. Then there are the alarms sounding from my monitors and the doctor’s speaking to me, but I don’t understand what he’s saying.

Not that it matters a second later because the world goes black, and I finally find peace.

3

ELIJAH

Crouching beside a convenience store endcap, I place an evidence marker beside a butcher’s knife with a bloodied tip. It’s nestled against the metal bottom, almost hidden by a family-size bag of chips that fell as the robber crashed into the aisle while running toward the door.

Luckily, no one was hurt. Both the employees on shift and the customer buying cigarettes were unharmed, but the fucking idiot left behind a gift in the form of his DNA. This is the fourth store he’s hit in East Hollywood, a series of burglaries that started a month ago.

The culprit is an older male between the ages of forty and fifty-five with a badly dyed beard; he made the mistake of looking up and into a camera on his second holdup while pointing his weapon at the female cashier. That day, it’d been a metal baseball bat.

He’s changed his weapon each time.

A screwdriver.

A baseball bat.

A tire iron.

A knife.

He’s growing more dangerous.

“But he’s still a dumb fuck,” I mutter, and Officer Baez to my left raises a brow, but I shake my head. “Not yet.”

“We’ll follow your lead.”

“Good. No sudden movements, just keep actively searching this area.” My voice is loud—carries—and those inside dusting for fingerprints or speaking to the victims call out ayes, sir.I’m not their boss, but these men and women know me—some have been part of the LAPD since I began—and they trust me.

No one acts suspicious as I take off my gloves and head toward the bathrooms. They’re located near the soda and ICEE machines and are blocked by two large stacks of empty food trays that haven’t been stowed away. The nightly food delivery came earlier than normal and before the store was robbed—the perpetrator’s efforts have earned him a hundred and eighteen dollars and an upcoming arrest.

Because for some reason, criminals don’t seem to understand that this type of business doesn’t keep large amounts of money in their registers. It says so right on the fucking glass door, but he tried his luck anyway and won a one-on-one meet and greet with me in about five minutes.

There’s a reason for the bulky steel safe.

There’s a reason why every bill larger than a twenty is never held on to and deposited right away.

But they don’t seem to teach that in thehow-to-be-a-shitty-criminalclass, and this idiocy comes with a very harsh lesson attached.

The suspect is wearing the same mustard-colored hoodie and dark denim pants the store employee gave as part of his description. There’s a new addition, though. A black bandana is wrapped around his left palm—his hand is clenched tight—and the hood from his sweatshirt is down, revealing a bald head.

Giving a subtle head tilt to Officer Baez, I stretch my neck while walking behind the counter and into the backroom. It’s a quick deviation, but needed. The owner is talking with another detective near the designated office space, and both men turn and give me a questioning look. “He’s outside by the mint green station wagon, lurking to see if we find anything. Get cameras on him. I’m going around back.”

“You need me?”

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