Page 29 of 1st Shock
Meg
Crime scenes, particularly murders, are never easy. This one? I'm not sure what to think.
Or feel.
All I know is I'm sitting in Matt's car, a vintage Mustang he restored himself, while pounding rain batters the hood like missiles from the sky. They soaked us while we stood over a decomposed body and I'm now shivering as I wait for the heat to kick in.
In my gut, I know the unearthed woman is another victim of our serial killer. I feel it with every icy stab to my system. Infuriating. All of it. I curl my fingers and as short as my nails are, they dig into my palm, pinching my skin. The pressure refocuses me, forces me to get control of my emotions. Anger won't help now. Calm, rational thought will.
From the corner of my eye, I see Matt glance at me. "What are you thinking, Meg?"
I'm too quiet. He knows that's never a good thing. "She's one of his," I say. "And I'm pissed. We have to stop him."
"I know. But who is he?"
That's the problem. I need to know, and I don't. Not yet, anyway.
"It has to be the same guy who killed Avery. And maybe Emily."
"I'd like to agree, but we don't have enough to go on yet. Don't get ahead of yourself."
Matt's an investigator. He needs all his pieces, his physical evidence, to fit in a nice convenient sequence that tells a story. A book unfolding in front of him. Me? I'm an artist. I rely on cognitive instincts.
Like the ones telling me college-aged blondes in D.C. shouldn't walk alone at night.
Or maybe I'm tired.
Quiet fills the car as Matt battles traffic on the way to the office. As much as I'd like to discuss this case, about what we have—and don't—I can't. The emotional onslaught has drained my energy bucket. I'm smart enough to know I shouldn't battle it. I should allow myself to go home, to crawl into my bed with a mug of herbal tea and watch Full House reruns.
Yet, here I am, refusing to give in to the exhaustion that holds me hostage.
Rather than drive around the building, Matt pulls to the curb in front and I yank the door lever. The low rumble of the Mustang's engine goes silent and I turn back to him.
"I'm coming in with you."
"Why?"
"Because it's dark and a psycho creeped around here yesterday."
My protector. Good for him. As much as it pains me, I smile. "You're a good man."
"I like to think so."
Even still, I need to be alone right now and let my emotions come unglued. "Go home. Taylor is waiting for you and I have a lot of work to do. You can't stay with me all night."
"I won't stay all night. Neither will you."
He's stubborn. I know this about him. In turn, he knows me well enough to figure out we'll get inside, I'll feel guilty from him sitting with me and after an hour we'll both go home.
No one will ever accuse Matt of stupidity.
"I know what you're doing," I inform him.
"Good. Then maybe we won't be here all fucking night."
At that I laugh. "An hour," I say. "Then we'll both go home and sleep."
Thankfully, the rain has slowed to a drizzle as we head to the door. Our jackets are drenched and I'm more than ready to wrap myself in one of the cozy sweatshirts I keep in my office. Matt's phone dings an incoming text and he pauses to check the screen. "I gotta respond to this. Be right in."
