women. I mean. . . seriously.”
She stifled a sigh. Leave it to him to completely miss the message she’d tried to get across. “It’s a remote possibility. But it’s a possibility until we prove otherwise.”
“You really think this guy on the loose in Savannah might be a female?”
“No.” She pushed by him and went in search of her desk. “I think he’s a perverted sadist—a male sadist—who gets off by inflicting horrendous torture on his victims and then fantasizes about it for weeks afterwards. We just don’t have enough to prove it yet. But that’s what I’m being paid for, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
It was nearly dark before Abbie reached her house again. When she was on the job, there were few other distractions, so she usually kept long hours. If she was going to be here for any length of time, however, she needed to find a gym to work out in. She made a mental note to ask Robel about it tomorrow.
Robel. She parked the rental car in the driveway and then got out, locking it with the remote. His attitude toward her assignment to the task force hadn’t softened appreciably. But she’d completed entire cases without having the lead investigators ever make nice. The job was still possible. It just made for a tense way to work.
She started toward the house, still preoccupied with the case. She wanted to interview all the victims herself. She’d already set up a meeting with Amanda Richards, the mayor’s granddaughter, for the next morning, in her hospital room. She was being prepared for her third surgery since the attack. From the photos in the file, it was apparent the damage had been. . .
Abbie stopped. Then in one smooth movement she bent, slipped the weapon from her ankle holster, and trained it on the back door, which was standing ajar.
Glass littered the steps from the shattered window in the door. The method of entry had been crude, but effective. She thumbed off the safety on her Sig, while reaching for the cell phone in her purse. After calling it in, she replaced the phone and circled the house.
The front door was still shut. She climbed the porch and tried the doorknob. Locked. Completing her journey around the house, it was evident that the intruder had entered and left the same way.
If he’d left at all.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Keeping her weapon steady, Abbie climbed the back steps and nudged the door open with the toe of her shoe. She stepped into the kitchen, surveyed the area, and found it empty.
The house was a small L shape. The kitchen opened on to the living room, and the bedroom and bath were on its right. Her gaze flicked to the cellar door. The latch was in place. She continued into the house carefully, the glass crunching underfoot the only sound in the stillness.
The only things out of place were the three framed pictures she’d brought with her and set on the mantle of the small fireplace. These were lying facedown on the floor, as if someone had knocked them off with one swipe of a forearm.
There were few hiding places in the room, but she checked them all. Behind the couch. In back of the recliner. And more cautiously, the front closet. Nothing.
She could hear tires screeching to a halt in front. Giving the bathroom a swift look, she focused on the bedroom. A quick search convinced her the prowler was no longer around. Abbie reholstered her weapon, her gaze trained on the gaping doors to the bedroom closet. Fabric littered its floor. She approached it, stared at the savagery that had been done to her wardrobe, and felt her stomach hollow out. For the first time she considered that the “intruder” was probably all too familiar to her.
She walked back through the house and met the two officers at the back door, hands by her sides. “I live here. I made the call about the break-in.”
“Please step to the side, ma’am.” One officer passed by her, weapon ready, while the other stopped in front of her. “I’ll need to see
She stifled a sigh. Leave it to him to completely miss the message she’d tried to get across. “It’s a remote possibility. But it’s a possibility until we prove otherwise.”
“You really think this guy on the loose in Savannah might be a female?”
“No.” She pushed by him and went in search of her desk. “I think he’s a perverted sadist—a male sadist—who gets off by inflicting horrendous torture on his victims and then fantasizes about it for weeks afterwards. We just don’t have enough to prove it yet. But that’s what I’m being paid for, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
It was nearly dark before Abbie reached her house again. When she was on the job, there were few other distractions, so she usually kept long hours. If she was going to be here for any length of time, however, she needed to find a gym to work out in. She made a mental note to ask Robel about it tomorrow.
Robel. She parked the rental car in the driveway and then got out, locking it with the remote. His attitude toward her assignment to the task force hadn’t softened appreciably. But she’d completed entire cases without having the lead investigators ever make nice. The job was still possible. It just made for a tense way to work.
She started toward the house, still preoccupied with the case. She wanted to interview all the victims herself. She’d already set up a meeting with Amanda Richards, the mayor’s granddaughter, for the next morning, in her hospital room. She was being prepared for her third surgery since the attack. From the photos in the file, it was apparent the damage had been. . .
Abbie stopped. Then in one smooth movement she bent, slipped the weapon from her ankle holster, and trained it on the back door, which was standing ajar.
Glass littered the steps from the shattered window in the door. The method of entry had been crude, but effective. She thumbed off the safety on her Sig, while reaching for the cell phone in her purse. After calling it in, she replaced the phone and circled the house.
The front door was still shut. She climbed the porch and tried the doorknob. Locked. Completing her journey around the house, it was evident that the intruder had entered and left the same way.
If he’d left at all.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Keeping her weapon steady, Abbie climbed the back steps and nudged the door open with the toe of her shoe. She stepped into the kitchen, surveyed the area, and found it empty.
The house was a small L shape. The kitchen opened on to the living room, and the bedroom and bath were on its right. Her gaze flicked to the cellar door. The latch was in place. She continued into the house carefully, the glass crunching underfoot the only sound in the stillness.
The only things out of place were the three framed pictures she’d brought with her and set on the mantle of the small fireplace. These were lying facedown on the floor, as if someone had knocked them off with one swipe of a forearm.
There were few hiding places in the room, but she checked them all. Behind the couch. In back of the recliner. And more cautiously, the front closet. Nothing.
She could hear tires screeching to a halt in front. Giving the bathroom a swift look, she focused on the bedroom. A quick search convinced her the prowler was no longer around. Abbie reholstered her weapon, her gaze trained on the gaping doors to the bedroom closet. Fabric littered its floor. She approached it, stared at the savagery that had been done to her wardrobe, and felt her stomach hollow out. For the first time she considered that the “intruder” was probably all too familiar to her.
She walked back through the house and met the two officers at the back door, hands by her sides. “I live here. I made the call about the break-in.”
“Please step to the side, ma’am.” One officer passed by her, weapon ready, while the other stopped in front of her. “I’ll need to see
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