Chapter One

”They called her Protein Heather ”cause she spent most of her days in the yoga studio wearin” leggings and preachin” about the benefits of plant-based protein.”

I stared at the woman in front of me as she sucked on the sloppy end of a rain-dampened cigarette. She propped her elbow on the arm she lazily left draped across her middle.

”Protein Heather…” I repeated. ”That”s the only recollection you have of the victim.”

”Protein Heather.” When she said Heather, it sounded more like Heath-uh. She drew deeply on the stick and glanced at me. ”That”s what I got. Not easy to forget. You got my dime?”

”You think that information is worth me dropping money in your palm, Bernice?” I folded my arms over my chest and cocked a brow at her. ”Do you even know me?”

”I know you wan”cha information an” I gave it to ya.” A frown met her edentulous mouth. ”Fork it over.”

”Give me something to go on first.”

”Protein Heath-uh!” Bernice waved her arms wildly as her frustration grew. ”It”s what I got.”

”It”s not anything at all. Where did she hang out? Who were her friends? How can you call yourself the mayor of the park and not know everything about everyone you people-watch all day?” I whined at her, dramatically and ridiculously, in the way that always seemed to shock her into calming down.

”That”s what I got an” I ain”t got nothin” more.” She turned her nose in the air and snorted.

”Well, then neither do I.” I flicked the brim of my ballcap and turned on my heel.

Bernice said nothing as I headed off down the street in the familiar stalemate that”d snared both of us in our usual way. She”d crack eventually, and I”d get the long-sought information in no time at all.

I returned to the station not long after with nothing save for a cold soda gripped in my palm and a hot pretzel between my teeth. A few of the uniformed officers nodded to me as I trudged past on my trek down to my office—the farthest one in the building. In my near-decade on the job, Cold Cases always landed in the farthest recesses of the unit. Part of the perks of the job belonged to the quieter digs of the back office. The only person I saw on a daily basis this far out was a shy Criminal Intelligence Analyst named Rosie. We never spoke, but we always shared a nod or wave in our crossings.

”Did you bring me one?”

”Nope.” I hopped up to sit on the desk where my partner in anti-crime took up space. ”Did you bring me coffee this morning? No. You didn”t and so I get to eat this mustard covered ball of bread all by myself.”

”Asshat.” Zay rolled his eyes at me. ”I”m starving. Did Bernice talk to you?”

”Barely—you have ketchup on your I.D. tag, by the way. Zay-splat is now your name.” I pointed at it, and he smacked my hand away to swipe at it with a napkin. ”How many hotdogs did you eat, today?”

”Four. That truck out front is deadly.” He snorted at me. ”How many pretzels did you eat?”

”Two. And some fries. Perhaps a taco or two.” I tapped my bottom lip with the cap of my soda bottle. ”Or three.”

”Ew.” He scoffed, then tried to hide a chuckle. ”Three tacos in one day? Skank.”

”You know it.” I tore off a bite of the pretzel then handed the rest to him. ”I”m a taco loving sapphic.”

”Duh.”

”Apparently, our last vic carried the nickname Protein Heather which was some sort of stab about her plant-based lifestyle. I feel mildly offended because plants are everything.” I slid from the desk, then dropped down to sit in the chair on the other side by the banker boxes stacked next to it. ”Also, it”s my turn at the desk. Why don”t we have two?”

”Because Scully never got a desk. Only Mulder. I”m Mulder.” He folded his arms behind his head then crossed his feet at the ankles.

”Don”t even.” I pointed at him and narrowed my eyes, then kicked the wheel of his chair. It slid out from under him, and he caught himself just in time. ”That was for the 90s-born misogyny.”

”I was kidding! Wait—do it again. If I fall, I can get workman”s comp.”

”Asshole.” I rolled my eyes, then slapped a file down in my lap. ”I”m sure Walsh would love to hear that.”

”He”d laugh.”

”Stop acting like a fool and get to work already.” I nodded to the laptop beside him. ”We need the list of folks who worked this case.”

”On it.” In a split second, his silliness faded, and we tumbled back in to work. Zayan wasn”t always ridiculous, and sometimes I appreciated his levity, but today I didn”t for some reason.

My mind wandered while I perused the files to thoughts of the previous eyes that landed on those pages. A decade”s old cold case, six people with matching mortal wounds, and no suspect in sight. Coffee rings marred the white pages on some of the files, while others bore the burden of many fingers over the years. Notes in pencil, notes in pen, in varied scrawls, littered the edges of some.

”Got it,” Zay called out. ”It was with Homicide before us—”

”Naturally, but who in Cold Case?”

”The first was Yetzen and Klemp, both retired now. And two years later, Stiles and James.” He looked up from his screen. ”James is marked as retired, but Stiles works in Sex Crimes.”

”Yeah, I know him. Who else?”

”Miller and Moreno. Moreno”s in Homicide now, and Miller is marked as retired. A lot of retirees from this unit…”

”Most people go to Cold Cases before retiring. Not much action, a lot of desk work and interviews.” I took a swig of my soda then set the bottle down. ”The question is, why are we here?”

”I took whatever position was open for a promotion. You?”

”Not sure.” I flicked my fingers in his direction. ”Was Moreno last on this case?”

”Yeah. Seems like it just sat around since then. Though there have been a few inquiries in the system. Some private investigators or something.” His fingers tapped away on the keyboard.

”Not surprised. Probably hired by the family. Protein Heather”s family, I”m sure, must”ve done something. It”s only been a short while for her,” I said while moving her file to the top. ”What agency?”

”Miller and Miller Investigations.” His brow furrowed. ”Think it”s the same Miller?”

”Probably. But Miller”s a common name.” I shrugged then hopped up. ”Gonna go harass Stiles and Moreno. You coming?”

”Double team or tag team?” He stood up with me and nodded.

”How about tag team? You hound Moreno first and then we”ll swap. Same with Stiles.”

”Deal.”

That”s how it usually went when it came to the old cases. Zayan and I bouncing around the precinct hounding our coworkers who turned the cases cold, or galivanting off into the community to talk to our retired comrades about their work. Most of the time, the latter enjoyed the visits, especially if they were of the older generation. Sometimes it didn”t go over so well, though.

I found Stiles in the breakroom, leaning against the counter while sipping a steaming cup of coffee. His gaze, downcast and distracted, told me his thoughts were a million miles away. I glanced at the vending machine with my favorite samplings of energy drinks and pondered imbibing in the spirits of hypomania.

”Nice hair,” mumbled Stiles, his day-dreamy expression unchanged.

”Thanks.” I ran my fingers through the long strands of the left side and exposed the shaved right side, now painted in a muted burgundy. ”Jordan”s work.”

”Always is. Why are you hanging around staring at me?” He finally looked at me before sipping his coffee.

”Waiting for the opportunity to bug you.”

”Task completed.” He smirked before setting down his mug. His eyes flickered toward my right hand then met my eyes again.

I wiggled my fingers at him. ”Looking for residue?”

”I mean…every time I pulled you off the streets for tagging, you wore the evidence on your hands. Like that Shakespearean murderer. What”s her name?”

A laugh escaped me at his insinuation. ”Lady Macbeth.”

”Yup.” He shook his head and nodded in my direction. ”The nails though. Dead giveaway.”

”Yeah.” A half-smile tugged the corner of my mouth as I showed him the blueish-purple still caked around my fingernails. ”Still are.”

”Literal dirty grunt.” He scoffed and folded his arms over his chest. ”What do you want, Jag?”

”Wow, I should be insulted.” I gripped my chest in mock horror.

”As if you give a shit.” He gestured in my direction. ”Talk.”

”It”s about a case you worked back in the day.” I tapped my credit card against the reader on the vending machine after giving in to my desires and swiped out the watermelon-flavored energy bomb when it dropped from the dispenser. ”The Bleeder case.”

”Ah.” He smirked and lifted his chin in my direction. ”The bodies we found bled out at construction sites. What”s the count at?”

”Six. When you had it there were four.” I cracked the top of the can and took a swig.

”Vaguely remember. Two in the same year, right?”

”Yeah. Two in 2005, then 2008, and 2009. Four-year gap,” I reminded him. ”He was probably in jail or something.”

”Possibly. Usually that”s what interrupts the signature. When were the other two?” he asked, his interest appearing perked.

”Both were in 2019. Another two-in-the-same-year scenario.”

”Nothing since then?”

”Not that anyone found. They briefly reopened the case after that, but turned it cold again five years later. No new leads. What do you remember of the signature?”

”To be honest, not much. My partner was the queen of unraveling signatures back then. I lived more for the interviews,” he said, then lifted his coffee again for a sip.

”James? Too bad she retired.” I shrugged and pondered the idea of interviewing her like the others.

A smirk tugged the corner of his mouth as if he fought its attempt to broaden across his face. His gaze flickered in my direction over the top of his cup after another sip. ”From the force, at least.”

”What”s that supposed to mean?”

”She”s a P.I.”

My stomach lurched at the disclosure. ”Think she”d talk to me?”

”I think she”ll give you a run for your money, but yup. Pretty sure she will.”

”Awesome. Is she independent?”

”Sorta.” He ditched his cup then plucked a doughnut from the box on the counter. ”Runs the agency with her wife. Look her up.”

”I will. What”s the name of it?”

”Miller and Miller.” He tore a bite from the sugary confection before pulling open the door.

My eyes widened as I tried to keep my composure. ”I think she might”ve already beat me to it.”

”I”m not surprised. Later, Jag.” He saluted me before leaving me alone to my thoughts.

I didn”t bother returning to the office to meet up with Zay. Instead, I sent him a text with the plans for my next move. Sometimes I preferred working alone. Zay was good enough company, but I tended to think better when given time and space.

My phone rang in my pocket as my Vans slapped the dampening pavement when the rain began to pick up. I tugged it from my pocket to see Tatiana”s rainbow-painted mug flashing across my screen. I swiped to answer and held it to my ear.

”What”s up?”

”Hey. Can you pick Reagan up from dance class? I just got a call back about the gallery exhibit and I legit have to show up in fifteen minutes.” Her voice sounded rushed and coupled with the background sounds of rustling, I believed her.

”Yeah. Sure.” I glanced down the street to my right and jaywalked my way across it. ”Teacher know?”

”You”re a cop.”

”A cop can still kidnap a kid, T.”

”Accurate. I”ll text her. She”s cool.” The sound of rattling keys made it through the line. ”Thanks, Jags.”

”All good. I got the kid. Later.” I ended the call and jogged off down the street toward the dance studio.

Wolfe Dance Company wasn”t far from where I landed every day, and making the detour didn”t change much of my plans, save for the ones that involved crashing a private eye agency.

I pulled open the door only to find myself flooded with the sounds of classical music and strange counting. The cool air stunk of sugar and sweat, and all the things kids bring with it. A few adults waited by the glass windows that overlooked the dance floor. A bunch of six and seven-year-olds danced their hearts out while a petite woman in a leotard and cut up sweatshirt guided them. A second instructor stood in the back, helping out a few of the kids.

Reagan spotted me, and she waved frantically, a broad smile brightening her tiny face. In the purple leotard and matching slipper things, her long brown hair stood out like some sort of delicate waterfall over her little shoulders. She looked just like her mother, except in tiny form. I smirked while waving back to her, then waited in the awkward space with the bragging parental figures. I fought hard and long not to roll my eyes too much.

”Tia Jags, can we get ice cream?” was the first thing Reagan asked me when she emerged from the studio. She took my hand before I offered it, and I gave her little knuckles a squeeze.

”Nope.” I glanced over my shoulder to her dance instructor who waved to me before pointing to her phone. I nodded, then looked back to the kid. ”But we can get hotdogs and milkshakes. How”s that sound?”

”Terrible.” She giggled and hopped in place. ”Let”s do it.”

I chuckled and led her out the door with her hand held tightly in mine. ”Consider it done.”

”Where”s Mama?” she asked while shifting the weight of her backpack.

”She got a call for a gallery exhibit for her art. What do you think about that?”

”I think it”s good. She has good art.” Reagan yawned. ”Are we going to see Frankie”s shop?”

”Yup. But food on the way.”

”From a truck?” Her voice squeaked with excitement.

”Yup.” I laughed and gestured ahead of us to where the food trucks gathered outside the busy office center downtown. ”Right here.”

”Food from trucks is my favorite!”

”That should be a line in the national anthem.”

”What”s that?” She scrunched up her nose at me.

”Nothing.” I chuckled and tugged her over to the vendor to place our orders.

Reagan chattered my ear off, asking me ten-billion questions before we arrived at the tattoo studio. In the early evening, it wasn”t very busy yet. Wyatt covered the front desk in Tatiana”s absence and kicked around a hacky sack while standing there. I shook my head at him when the beanbag-filled ball landed on top of his coffee cup and tipped it over.

”Frankie”s gonna kill you,” I said, smirking as he scrambled for napkins.

”Sh”up, Jags,” he muttered while cleaning up. ”Hey, kiddo.” He addressed Reagan and tossed her a wink. ”Can I have some of that milkshake?”

”No way. You have germs,” she said, and took a slurpy draw on the straw.

We both burst out laughing at the same time that Frankie appeared from the back room. Her thick boots thudded on the tiled floor, announcing her presences as usual, and the neon tips of her mohawk preceded the rest of her.

”What are you fu—” she paused mid-sentence and shifted to— ”Fartheads doing?” She high-fived Reagan on the way past. ”Sup, kid?”

”Sup, Frankie.” Reagan hopped up to sit on a vacant tattoo chair. ”Where are everyone else?”

”They”ll be here soon.” Frankie stopped in front of her and the two shared their usual handshake greeting that ended in a finger snap and a cheek kiss. ”Looks like we got you while she”s out.”

”Technically, Jags got me so kinda.” Reagan grinned and swung her feet, now clad in a pair of slip-on fluffy winter boots even though it was June.

”Wise butt.” Frankie scowled at her, then messed up her hair before turning to me. ”Nikki and Teeg will be here later. Full house tonight.”

”Sounds like it.” I dropped down to sit beside Reagan and let out an obnoxious burp to make her laugh. ”Well, pardon me.”

Reagan giggled her head off and flopped backward into the chair.

”Gross.” Frankie shoved my shoulder. ”Also, is that my shirt?”

”Nope.” I swatted her hand away.

”Hmm. And my jeans.”

”Like my arse would ever be in something yours was in.” I scoffed and fought the laughter that threatened to take hold.

She shoved me again and I grabbed her thumb to twist it backward. ”Ow! Jag.”

”Don”t assault a cop.” I narrowed my eyes at her while Reagan laughed so hard I worried she”d pee herself.

”Hey, idiots.” Wyatt threw the hacky sack at me, and I caught it a split second before it collided with my head. ”We all know Frankie is the sole owner of all the giant plaid shirts. As for the torn up jeans.” He chuffed like an annoyed puppy. ”Those are mine.”

”Well, no one”s wearin” my clothes. That”s for sure!” Reagan pointed at her frilly skirt.

The three of us stared at her, then erupted with laughter.

”Righteous, kiddo.” Wyatt grinned at Reagan and high-fived her in the air. ”Wanna chill with me while Jag works on the mural?”

”Can I answer the phone?” Reagan hopped off the chair and rushed over to him.

”Heck yeah. And you can write in the appointment book, too.” He grinned and helped her into the barstool chair beside him.

Frankie smirked before pulling a pair of black nitrile gloves from the pocket of her skirt before setting them down on the chair. ”I”ve got a client in twenty.”

”Good. You got the fans off in the back?”

”Yeah. Drop cloth all set, too. When am I finishing your ink?” She nodded to my shoulder. ”Tomorrow?”

”Not sure. I”m chasing down a case and technically still working. I bailed for Tati.” I glanced at Reagan”s excited face when the phone rang.

”She”s good with Wyatt for now.” Frankie nodded for me to follow her, and she led me down to the back room, now completely vacant save for my crate of supplies.

Plastic drop cloths covered the floors, leaving bare the huge brick-face wall and three ratty old wood plank paneled ones. I stepped into the center of the big space and turned in a slow circle.

”Mav did a good job exposing the wood.”

”She did.” Frankie propped her hands on her hips and the metal of her chain-link belts clinked. ”It”s gonna make a great showroom.”

”It is. You sure you want me to cover the whole brick?” I moved toward my gear and shrugged out of my jacket.

”Yeah. Work your magic. Street up the rest of this place.” She stepped back toward the door, her eyes wandering around the room as if attempting to envision something. ”Finally own this place so I want it ours, you know?”

”Yeah.”

”We”ve come a long way from sleeping in a puppy pile in the alley behind it,” she added, her hands on her hips as she watched me.

”Remember Wynona pulling us off the streets and saying some shit like, ”You wanna sleep here, you gotta work here,” and made us scrub salon chairs?” I smirked at the salty memory of days gone.

”Oh yeah.”

”Best meal I ever had after that though…”

”I know…” Her tilted smile said more than her words did in the moment.

I plucked out the black can of spray paint and shook it out of idle habit. ”I think I have an idea.”

”Good.” She pointed to the respirator mask in the crate. ”Don”t be a martyr.”

”You”re unfunny.” I snatched the mask, still speckled with the wear and tear of my previous work. ”Meaning you were once funny and now you”re not.”

”Ha.” She flipped me off then melted into a cocky grin. ”Ever think you”d be tagging with a badge and gun strapped to your belt?”

I cocked a brow at her, extended my left arm, and sprayed a straight line across the wall for no particular reason. ”Go away.”

She laughed at me. ””Kay. Bye.”

”Bye,” I grumbled and pulled the respirator mask over my face.

I turned to face the exposed brick in all its bareness. Ever since my early teens, I could barely resist the call of a naked urban wall. Dingy and wearing the stains of the people who slept under it, peed on it, or ignored its existence, I felt compelled to leave my mark. I would make it so that everyone would look at it, so that they could catch a glimpse of something a bit more than the inner world that stole them so far away from connecting. The thing about it was that blank walls themselves often captured the inner world of most people anyway.

Frankie preferred bold colors and designs that made a statement. Her style, as brazen as her tattoo work, would find a suitable home here.

With the mask fixed in place, I took to the task that calmed my insides, and connected me to nothing save for the colors and smell of the paint. Nearly two decades defacing property now only to be encouraged to commit the same acts. A mixed message caught in time. When I was a kid, I dreamt that I was destruction. That everywhere I went, I left a path of devastation in my wake. I was a residue left behind like spray paint trapped in my fingernails after a long night of tagging. Even if I created beautiful, illegal art, my nails always gave away the artist. I ended up in juvie because of my nails. And because of the damaged trail that followed after me.

I lost myself in time, in the hiss of the nozzle and the crack of a fresh seal when I opened a new can. With no plans, no predicted vision, I melded with my work, guided only by the fluid movement of my arm and the support of the rickety ladder under me.

My phone rang an hour later after I”d covered the wall with the majority of my design. I”d always prided myself on the speed of my work. Getting run out of places on the daily meant moving fast, and that was something I was good at. With my less-painted hand, I pulled out my phone and swiped to answer when I saw Zay”s name.

”Yeah?”

”Moreno has a connection with the M.E. who did the autopsies of the two vics from 2019. We can meet up with her tonight.”

”Who is it?”

”Why”s your voice sound funny? Ainsley Monson. Know her?”

”Yeah. I know her.” I glanced at the wall in front of me while slicing a deep yellow across the bold pink I laid before it. ”Didn”t really need Moreno for that connection.”

”Yeah, well, whatever he did got us an audience with her. Can you make it?”

”What time?”

”Eight. Downtown.”

”All good. Yeah.”

”Later.”

”Bye.”

I pocketed my phone and stepped back to take a look at my work. It wasn”t done, which annoyed me, but I reminded myself this wasn”t a tag. I set down my gear, wiped my hand on Frankie”s shirt, then grabbed my jacket before heading back out front.

Tatiana slid into the front door, announced by the sound of the doorbell that growled anytime someone entered. Metal music blasted through the speakers and both Thiago and Frankie”s chairs were now occupied by people ready to be stabbed with colorful needles. Wyatt sat with Reagan at the front desk while he taught her how to play air guitar and headbang. The sight before me belonged to that of an average day with my friends. Tati rushed over to her kid, grabbing her in a surprise hug from behind. Reagan squealed in delight and latched on to her arms.

”Hi, Mam?.”

”Hi, querida. How was your day?” Tati smooched her cheek then waved at me when I joined them at the desk.

”Good. Fun. Did you get a painting show?” Reagan asked, her smile broad as she hung on to her mother”s neck.

Tati lifted her off the counter, shoved Wyatt playfully, then took his seat with Reagan in her lap. ”We”ll find out tomorrow.”

”Aw, man. Why does everything always have to be tomorrow?” Reagan flopped her hands in her lap.

I laughed while Tati soothed her kid.

”You”ll find out when you”re older,” she said, then patted her hip. ”Get your stuff, baby doll. Time to head home.”

””Kay.” Reagan slid from her lap and began gathering her things.

Tati met my gaze and smiled. ”Those nails.”

I wiggled my fingers at her. ”Yup. I gotta head out for a case. You good?”

”All good. I promise to have your elementary school roommate in bed before you get home.” She tossed me a Scout”s Honor salute and grinned.

”You know I don”t care about that.”

”I know, but you like, never sleep.”

”I don”t have time for sleeping.” I smirked and accepted the cheek kiss when she offered it. ”See you later.”

”Later.”

I returned to the misty rain of the Seattle streets to head down to the medical examiner”s office. It wasn”t far from Frankie”s, and I passed Jordan”s Mermaid Salon on the way as well. Customers bustled inside and I narrowly avoided being seen when Finnley brought the trash out of the side door. I jogged the rest of the way when the rain picked up and made it in time to catch Zay just as he pulled into the lot. Droplets flecked my eyelashes as he hurried over to me when I pulled open the double-glass doors.

”I”ve always wanted to see the forensics lab here,” said Zay as we headed down the hall toward the stairwell. ”Apparently, it”s state of the art.”

”It”s pretty impressive.” I outpaced him on the steps, and he hurried to keep up while gripping the strap of his messenger bag. ”Been there once for a case.”

We landed one floor below only to be met with signs and arrows pointing toward the M.E.”s office. The green-gray paint, pristine white tile, and fresh-faced décor spruced up the place enough to cover up the fact that the workers there spent hours dissecting cadavers all day. We found the office of Ainsley Monson, MD, monogrammed in a gold plate on the door. Before I could even knock, the door opened and the bright, charming face of the woman I”d spoke to at Jordan”s fairly often appeared. She beamed with excitement as if we brought her a big slice of birthday cake after everyone else forgot about her.

”Jagger, how are you?” She shook my hand then hugged me as if we were old friends. To be fair, we were old acquaintances, but still.

”All good. You?” I returned the embrace, one-armed and haphazardly at best.

”Doing good.” She turned to Zay and hugged him, too. ”Nice to see you.”

”Um…” He gulped, but returned her hug awkwardly. ”We haven”t actually met yet, but hello. I”m Zay.”

”Ainsley,” she chirped. ”Come on in.” She waved us inside her office while turning on her heel.

We followed her without hesitation and took the seats she offered us. Ainsley didn”t give either of us much choice before we found ourselves holding cups of freshly brewed coffee as well. I knew Ainsley to be a bit overzealous socially, but didn”t quite imagine her to be such at work. For some reason, my brain coded her as more reserved. I was wrong.

”You wanted to talk about the Bleeder case, right?”

”Yes.” I jumped in before Zay could. ”Moreno said you examined some of the bodies.”

Ainsley nodded then pointed to the files on her desk. ”In expecting you, I printed out copies of my reports and some of the photos to accompany them.”

”Was there something about the murders that struck you differently than others?” asked Zay, his fingers pinching a pen close to his notebook.

”Of course,” chirped Ainsley, her expression bright as a butterfly fluttering in the summer breeze. ”The manner of death.”

Zay waited eagerly, his gaze locked on hers, but Ainsley didn”t continue. She simply smiled pleasantly and sat there. A smirk made its way to my mouth as I observed the interaction. In her differences, Ainsley came across as endearing to me, but totally confusing to Zay.

”Um…” He gulped and glanced at me. ”And…what was the cause of death, Doctor Monson?”

”Oh.” Ainsley perked up as if it never occurred to her to respond to him before his prompting. ”Exsanguination.”

”Vampire serial killer?” he muttered.

Ainsley chuckled and shook her head. ”Not quite.” She sat forward in her chair and opened one of the files. ”All of the victims were incapacitated or killed using a captive bolt pistol first.” She tapped her forehead. ”Before being strung up and bled out via carotid or jugular puncture. Much like they do in slaughterhouses.”

Zay leaned back, his eyes on his notepad. ”Gross,” he said, as if finally catching up on the tale.

”Yes, but unique.” Ainsley held her finger in the air. ”Which struck me differently than the others,” she said, finally answering his question.

”There was evidence of sexual assault in all cases,” I added after rolling my eyes at Zay. ”Can you confirm, Ainsley?”

”Yep.” She closed the files again then pushed them back toward us. ”No DNA was found in connection with the assaults, but there was some taken from the bodies. I asked the crime lab to pull that info for you. Want me to take you up?”

”Yeah. Thanks.”

We stood with her, and I snatched the files off the desk before Zay could. Annoyance trickled inside me when I glanced at him. He was inexperienced, I understood that, but being unprepared or emotional when receiving information irked me.

Ainsley led us to the elevator where she swiped her I.D. badge followed by a thumb print in the biometric sensor. The doors opened for us, and we rode with her up six floors, only to exit into a white-washed hall. Every inch of the place appeared spotlessly clean, brilliant white, and edged in rich black. The sleek, excessively modern design of the floor gave off a sci-fi feel, as if we stepped out of a spaceship onto another planet. The clinically cold colors weren”t the only unusual aspects. As we walked down the hall, the windowed areas allowed us to observe space-age machinery whizzing about. Mechanical arms grabbed, moved, and plucked things from countertops and placed them at workstations. A few workers bustled about in full protective gear, making them appear like astronauts, but with a softer touch.

”This place is unreal,” commented Zay, his eyes wide as he gazed around in awe.

”Isn”t it?” Ainsley used her I.D. plus palm print to lead us through a series of doors as we made it through the long halls. ”State of the art and best in the state. I think top in the country as well at this level.”

”I”m here for it,” I added, allowing a bit of my own wonderment to seep through.

At the far end and protected by double-entry security unlike the other labs, we finally arrived at our destination. The last door opened with a soft hiss, announcing our entrance. The pristine workspace, most of which had automated robotic equipment doing a lot of the work, sent a rush of eeriness tangled with excitement through my core.

In the far corner, the movement of something more natural drew my attention. A woman, somewhat taller than me with dirty-blonde hair tied back into a neat ponytail, shifted her position to gaze into a microscope. She wore a white lab coat, similar to Ainsley”s, but unlike her, she wasn”t wearing scrubs. Tidy slacks fell neatly to the ankle of her heeled boot, and an unseasonably warm blue sweater filled the gap where the coat parted. She didn”t look up at us, acknowledge our existence, or seem particularly bothered by our entry into her space.

”Clem,” called Ainsley, before hopping up to sit on one of the empty stools by the desk filled with neat papers.

The woman didn”t respond. Instead, she fussed with a slide pinched by the stage clip of her microscope. She adjusted the course with her white-gloved fingers, then fell still again.

”Oh, Clementine,” Ainsley announced in a sweet sing-song tone.

A smirk tugged the corner of my mouth when I heard the woman”s full name. It was different, like mine, and I liked that.

She tossed Ainsley the keenest glare, her eyes twinkling with a tangle of annoyance and amusement. ”Can I help you?” Clem”s speech carried a lilt to it that I didn”t expect. An air of sharpness, tangled with a mild accent that told me she spoke at least more than one language like Tati.

Ainsley giggled her head off, then held her hands palm up along with her shrug.

”Don”t do that anymore. Now tell me what you need.” Clem narrowed her eyes, her lips pursed as if she fought to hold on to the limit that she just set with Ainsley”s silliness.

I noted right away that Clem didn”t address us and kept her focus solely on Ainsley. I couldn”t quite tell if she was anxious or annoyed, and the mystery of that intrigued me.

”Information, of course.” Ainsley patted her arm and Clem seemed to settle down, as if the mild gesture repaired any pinch in the relationship Ainsley”s overbearing silliness caused. ”These are my detective friends—”

”Friends?” whispered Zay in my ear. ”Are we friends?”

I elbowed him and kept my focus on the other two.

”Cold Cases?” Clem”s interest seemed to rise in that context, and her gaze flickered to mine.

The fluorescent lights above brought an unusual doll-like quality to her petite features, including brightening her already twinkling hazel eyes. When my insides warmed, I shoved my hands deeper into the pockets of my jeans when she held my gaze a second longer than comfortable.

”Yes, Cold—” I began, but she cut me off.

”There are many holes in your jeans.” Her brow crinkled as she stared at my legs. ”Are you bleeding?”

”Uh…n-no. That”s paint.” I turned my palm over to show her the speckled stains on my hands that matched my pants.

Her eyes widened, and her gaze returned to mine before she looked back to Ainsley.

”Clem, this is Jagger.” Ainsley gestured between us. ”And her partner Zay.” Ainsley seemed to roll right with the situation with ease.

”Hi.” Clem looked back at us, her eyes darting about as if trying desperately to avoid looking at us. ”Nice to meet you.”

”You, too.” I held my hand out to her, and she shook it firmly.

”Cold Cases are somewhat of a special interest of mine. Genealogy testing on old cases, rerunning DNA with today”s technology, and fingerprint tech are my favorites.” She became immediately animated and her formerly stoic expression lightened. ”Do you like Guns N” Roses?” She pointed to my shirt that barely peeked out from under my jacket.

”Uh—yes.” I blinked as I tried to keep up with the speed of her topic jumps. ”Yeah. For sure.”

”Right on.” She smiled then glanced at Ainsley. ”I can help them.”

”Good.” Ainsley grinned and gave Clem”s shoulder a squeeze. ”They”re working on case file six-twelve-thirty-fifty. Okay?”

”Affirmative.” Clem swung around to her computer and began typing at a heated speed. ”I”ll requisition the files to be brought up to me for tomorrow.” She looked over her shoulder, right at me and said, ”You can meet me at nine sharp.”

”Okay.” I smirked and glanced at Zay. ”Cool?”

”Not him,” piped Clem despite the fact she returned her attention to the sleek monitor in front of her. ”Just you.”

”Well then.” I couldn”t hold back the laugh that made it to my lips. ”Nine it is.”

Ainsley snickered behind her hand as she waved us toward the door. ”C”mon. Clem has work to do.”

”I”m so confused right now.” Zay walked with us out of the lab wearing an expression of bewilderment.

I shook my head and followed Ainsley out without bothering to ponder the situation further.