took it hard.”
“I’m sorry.” The bell chimed, and the door rolled open. A couple of guys in suits stepped out; their gazes flicked to me as they walked past. I smashed my arms over my chest. “This is ridiculous. I want to change.”
“You look fine,” JT said, poking the button for our floor.
“People are staring.”
“That’s only because you appear younger than you are. You look out of place.”
“I don’t know.” I glanced down. My boobs looked mighty big in this shirt.
“I’m telling the truth.”
The car bounced to a stop at our floor, and I scurried into the sanctuary of the unit, dropped my stuff on my desk, and grabbed a legal pad and pen. Then I headed up to the conference room, situated at the back of the open space, elevated slightly. A raised walk led to the entrance. I clomped up the steps in my high-school “ho heels” and plopped down in a chair at the huge table. Within minutes, the others joined me. JT, Chad Fischer, our media liaison, some man I didn’t know, Gabe Wagner, who seemed to appreciate my outfit more than JT, and the chief.
Chief Peyton cleared her throat. “Good morning.” She motioned to the stranger. “This is Steve McBride. He’ll be handling Hough’s duties while she’s on medical leave.”
We all uttered a polite hello, to which he gave each of us a little nod.
“Now let’s go over the case.” Peyton motioned to the board she’d set up. There were two pictures on it—one of each of our victims. There was a line drawn from each photo to the words “Fitzgerald High School.” Another line was drawn from Stephanie Barnett to Michael Barnett. “This is what we have so far. The only connection between our victims is their school. They share nothing else in common, outside of gender. Different races—one Caucasian, the other black. Different body types. We’ve found no link between our one person of interest, Michael Barnett, and Emma Walker.”
“But they both live in single-parent households. Middle-class,” I pointed out.
“True.” She uncapped a whiteboard Magic Marker and wrote some notes below the high school.
“They are geographically linked too,” JT pointed out.
“Their homes are located within blocks of each other. Michael Barnett’s house is close to both.”
“Has cause of death been confirmed for either victim yet?” I asked.
“Yes. The official COD for both Barnett and Walker is fibrillation and heart failure caused by electrocution.”
“Electrocution?” I echoed, completely surprised.
“Yes.” Peyton turned on a projector, displaying a set of two photographs, both of the young women’s torsos. One was a smooth ivory color, the other a deep mocha. A series of branching red marks, like those found on lightning-strike victims, fanned out from the center of their chests.
“Lightning strikes generally cause no entry or exit wounds. No muscle damage,” I recited. Back when I was little, after our neighbor had been struck by lightning, I’d done some reading on it. It seemed that it might come in handy in this case.
“That is consistent with our victims,” the chief said, pointing at the photos. “The current interrupted the normal electrical activity of the heart, causing the cells to beat independently from each other, rather than as one coordinated system.”
“What about the bite marks?” I asked as I jotted down some info. “Is our unsub vampiric?”
“It appears he may be. Both victims were bit, but the level of blood loss was not lethal.”
“Electrocution,” I repeated. I’d read a lot of my father’s research before I’d lost it. But I didn’t recall any Mythic that used electricity to kill its victims. I was going to have to skim through the book Damen had given me. ASAP.
“Is it possible we’re dealing with a mortal unsub, pretending to be Mythic?” Chad Fischer asked. “Someone who is using some kind of electrical device to deliver the current and is merely biting, to throw us
“I’m sorry.” The bell chimed, and the door rolled open. A couple of guys in suits stepped out; their gazes flicked to me as they walked past. I smashed my arms over my chest. “This is ridiculous. I want to change.”
“You look fine,” JT said, poking the button for our floor.
“People are staring.”
“That’s only because you appear younger than you are. You look out of place.”
“I don’t know.” I glanced down. My boobs looked mighty big in this shirt.
“I’m telling the truth.”
The car bounced to a stop at our floor, and I scurried into the sanctuary of the unit, dropped my stuff on my desk, and grabbed a legal pad and pen. Then I headed up to the conference room, situated at the back of the open space, elevated slightly. A raised walk led to the entrance. I clomped up the steps in my high-school “ho heels” and plopped down in a chair at the huge table. Within minutes, the others joined me. JT, Chad Fischer, our media liaison, some man I didn’t know, Gabe Wagner, who seemed to appreciate my outfit more than JT, and the chief.
Chief Peyton cleared her throat. “Good morning.” She motioned to the stranger. “This is Steve McBride. He’ll be handling Hough’s duties while she’s on medical leave.”
We all uttered a polite hello, to which he gave each of us a little nod.
“Now let’s go over the case.” Peyton motioned to the board she’d set up. There were two pictures on it—one of each of our victims. There was a line drawn from each photo to the words “Fitzgerald High School.” Another line was drawn from Stephanie Barnett to Michael Barnett. “This is what we have so far. The only connection between our victims is their school. They share nothing else in common, outside of gender. Different races—one Caucasian, the other black. Different body types. We’ve found no link between our one person of interest, Michael Barnett, and Emma Walker.”
“But they both live in single-parent households. Middle-class,” I pointed out.
“True.” She uncapped a whiteboard Magic Marker and wrote some notes below the high school.
“They are geographically linked too,” JT pointed out.
“Their homes are located within blocks of each other. Michael Barnett’s house is close to both.”
“Has cause of death been confirmed for either victim yet?” I asked.
“Yes. The official COD for both Barnett and Walker is fibrillation and heart failure caused by electrocution.”
“Electrocution?” I echoed, completely surprised.
“Yes.” Peyton turned on a projector, displaying a set of two photographs, both of the young women’s torsos. One was a smooth ivory color, the other a deep mocha. A series of branching red marks, like those found on lightning-strike victims, fanned out from the center of their chests.
“Lightning strikes generally cause no entry or exit wounds. No muscle damage,” I recited. Back when I was little, after our neighbor had been struck by lightning, I’d done some reading on it. It seemed that it might come in handy in this case.
“That is consistent with our victims,” the chief said, pointing at the photos. “The current interrupted the normal electrical activity of the heart, causing the cells to beat independently from each other, rather than as one coordinated system.”
“What about the bite marks?” I asked as I jotted down some info. “Is our unsub vampiric?”
“It appears he may be. Both victims were bit, but the level of blood loss was not lethal.”
“Electrocution,” I repeated. I’d read a lot of my father’s research before I’d lost it. But I didn’t recall any Mythic that used electricity to kill its victims. I was going to have to skim through the book Damen had given me. ASAP.
“Is it possible we’re dealing with a mortal unsub, pretending to be Mythic?” Chad Fischer asked. “Someone who is using some kind of electrical device to deliver the current and is merely biting, to throw us
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