Charlie a killer headache. Or at least, something was. If not the light, then the glow of the computer screen, or possibly the fact that all she’d had since lunch (which she’d lost) was two cups of coffee and a candy bar. Or maybe it was because she was forcing herself to concentrate really, really hard on the details of the pictures in front of her to keep from getting emotionally flattened by the gruesomeness of the whole.
The photos were horrific. And that would be because the murders had been horrific. Charlie had known the pictures would be upsetting and had steeled herself to face them. But that didn’t mean they didn’t bother her anyway.
I hate this . But there was nothing to do but deal.
Setting her jaw, Charlie continued to study the picture in front of her, practically millimeter by millimeter.
Meanwhile, her headache cranked up to a whole new level of bad.
It had been a long day. But headache or no, the situation was too urgent for anything but an all-out, full-bore effort on everyone’s part, including her own.
Somewhere out there, a terrified teenage girl’s life was ticking down.
Just like Holly’s had. While Charlie had cowered in a hospital room under police guard.
I can’t think about that. If I do, I’ll lose it .
“We just got those photos uploaded a few minutes ago. Give me a break,” FBI Special Agent Lena Kaminsky snapped at Crane before Charlie could answer him. Late twenties, small and curvy, with a black, chin-length bob and an olive complexion, Kaminsky was pretty in a sultry, exotic kind of way that her snug-fitting navy blue skirt suit and killer high heels elevated to glamorous. Her super-feminine looks had made her aggressive personality come as something of a surprise. She’d already made clear her feelings about assisting Charlie, which were, in a nutshell, she had better things to do. At the moment, she was seated at the other desk in the room, which was catty-corner to the one Charlie was using, looking at the same images Charlie was viewing.
“Sorry.” Crane held up both hands and grimaced as Kaminsky glared at him. Clearly there was some kind of history there, but Charlie had no interest in trying to figure out what it was. Every bit of her focus needed to be on the screen in front of her.
Maybe I can find something that will save this one .
As soon as she had it, Charlie banished the thought. She had to deliberately force away the sense that she had any kind of special responsibility for the victim. Emotions would only get in the way of what she needed to do. If she started reliving what had happened to Holly—which she recognized was what her mind was subconsciously attempting to do—she would no longer be objective, and thus would be no use at all to Bayley Evans.
She was the expert. As such, she had to keep her past out of this. She would stay in the present. This girl deserved the best she had to give.
Looking at pictures of the gruesome slash mark that had nearly decapitated Julie Mead, Bayley Evans’ mother, Charlie felt both grimly determined and ill. The wound was so eerily similar to the one that had killed Diane Palmer that it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to close her eyes and turn away. Horrible memoriestried to thrust themselves upon her consciousness, but she kept them at bay—barely—by concentrating on mundane details that kept her grounded in the here and now: the squeakiness of the office chair on which she sat, the uneven legs of the white metal desk in front of her, the glare coming off the monitor.
And if Bayley Evans reminded her irresistibly of Holly, well, that was just something she was going to have to keep from thinking about lest it cloud her judgment. Although that was difficult with a photograph of the sweet-faced blonde push-pinned to a bulletin board above the desk.
Cheerleader cute, tanned and blond, Bayley looked enough like Holly that they could have been sisters.
She also looked so young and happy
The photos were horrific. And that would be because the murders had been horrific. Charlie had known the pictures would be upsetting and had steeled herself to face them. But that didn’t mean they didn’t bother her anyway.
I hate this . But there was nothing to do but deal.
Setting her jaw, Charlie continued to study the picture in front of her, practically millimeter by millimeter.
Meanwhile, her headache cranked up to a whole new level of bad.
It had been a long day. But headache or no, the situation was too urgent for anything but an all-out, full-bore effort on everyone’s part, including her own.
Somewhere out there, a terrified teenage girl’s life was ticking down.
Just like Holly’s had. While Charlie had cowered in a hospital room under police guard.
I can’t think about that. If I do, I’ll lose it .
“We just got those photos uploaded a few minutes ago. Give me a break,” FBI Special Agent Lena Kaminsky snapped at Crane before Charlie could answer him. Late twenties, small and curvy, with a black, chin-length bob and an olive complexion, Kaminsky was pretty in a sultry, exotic kind of way that her snug-fitting navy blue skirt suit and killer high heels elevated to glamorous. Her super-feminine looks had made her aggressive personality come as something of a surprise. She’d already made clear her feelings about assisting Charlie, which were, in a nutshell, she had better things to do. At the moment, she was seated at the other desk in the room, which was catty-corner to the one Charlie was using, looking at the same images Charlie was viewing.
“Sorry.” Crane held up both hands and grimaced as Kaminsky glared at him. Clearly there was some kind of history there, but Charlie had no interest in trying to figure out what it was. Every bit of her focus needed to be on the screen in front of her.
Maybe I can find something that will save this one .
As soon as she had it, Charlie banished the thought. She had to deliberately force away the sense that she had any kind of special responsibility for the victim. Emotions would only get in the way of what she needed to do. If she started reliving what had happened to Holly—which she recognized was what her mind was subconsciously attempting to do—she would no longer be objective, and thus would be no use at all to Bayley Evans.
She was the expert. As such, she had to keep her past out of this. She would stay in the present. This girl deserved the best she had to give.
Looking at pictures of the gruesome slash mark that had nearly decapitated Julie Mead, Bayley Evans’ mother, Charlie felt both grimly determined and ill. The wound was so eerily similar to the one that had killed Diane Palmer that it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to close her eyes and turn away. Horrible memoriestried to thrust themselves upon her consciousness, but she kept them at bay—barely—by concentrating on mundane details that kept her grounded in the here and now: the squeakiness of the office chair on which she sat, the uneven legs of the white metal desk in front of her, the glare coming off the monitor.
And if Bayley Evans reminded her irresistibly of Holly, well, that was just something she was going to have to keep from thinking about lest it cloud her judgment. Although that was difficult with a photograph of the sweet-faced blonde push-pinned to a bulletin board above the desk.
Cheerleader cute, tanned and blond, Bayley looked enough like Holly that they could have been sisters.
She also looked so young and happy
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