Chapter Two

Adele

PRESENT DAY

The elevator slides open with a soft ding, ushering me onto the Forensics Floor of the Boston DA's office. Flickering fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow on the empty corridor.

Outside, rain pelts heavily against the windows, transforming the cityscape into a gray, watery blur. I'd cycled to work this morning, so there was no avoiding the deluge.

I quickly shed my raincoat, hang it in the cloakroom, then undo my ponytail and shake out my thick red curls to dry. Then I start heading down the corridor and toward the glass double doors.

Halfway through, my sneakers slip on a wet patch on the polished blue linoleum. Flailing wildly, I catch myself at the last second and manage to remain upright, but I end up landing awkwardly on my right foot.

My stiff right hip protests with a sharp twinge, and I wince.

"Shit," I mutter, eyeing the puddle someone tracked in. I slip a hand inside the waistband of my boot-cut jeans and quickly rub the knot of tense muscle beneath the jagged scar on my right hip.

I blame the stupid dream for this. It's the same nightmare I've had since I was five. The one with the masked gunman, the acrid smoke, the coppery taste of blood, and my mother's screams fading to silence.

Having the dream meant I overslept. Oversleeping meant missing my morning walk. Not walking meant my hip would stiffen up, making me more clumsy and likely to stumble.

Thinking I might need an exorcist to get rid of that particular nightmare for good, I adjust my messenger bag strap and carefully navigate the treacherous floor, making a mental note to inform housekeeping that the newest way to die is currently gathering on the corridor of the Forensics floor.

The quiet hum of equipment and a faint chemical smell greet me as I push open the heavy glass double doors, take a deep breath, and steel myself for another day of office politics and ethical tightropes. The pressure to make evidence fit into a certain narrative is sometimes simply too great not to cave under.

As I reach up to take my lab coat from the rack by the door, I hear the familiar drawl of Tim Carter, my coworker.

"You're late for our coffee date, darling. It's already cold."

Without turning around from the dual monitors on his desk, Tim hands me a cardboard cup of coffee. He must have seen my reflection through his screens.

I give my usual noncommittal thanks. Every day for the past six months, Tim has had a cup of coffee waiting for me as soon as I step into the office. I've taken it, politely said ‘thank you', and never once told him that I don't drink coffee.

Tim finally turns around on his ergonomic chair, his striking blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. "Anytime. Are you alright, Addy?" He eyes my damp clothes, and unease settles in my stomach as his gaze lingers on me.

I nod. "Yeah, I'm good, thanks Tim." Tim has since stopped asking me out, after I turned him down a few dozen times, but his blatant hopeful interest is always written all over him.

"Doug is asking for you," Tim gives me a meaningful look.

I groan. My pain-in-the-ass boss and Monday mornings never seem to get along. It's like he waits for the start of the week to unload some bullshit on me, setting a nice tone for a shitty week.

"Of course he is," I smile sweetly. Doug Harrison may be the head of forensics, but Tim and I typically run the show. We're both up for promotion, something that should make us rivals, but Tim obviously wants me more than he wants the position, so I don't think he'd mind if I got the promotion.

"He's in a meeting with one of the prosecutors of the Martelli case, but I'm sure he'll find you soon enough since your office is right next to his."

Inconveniently so, I think to myself, bracing for whatever Monday morning surprise Doug has in store for me.

"Thanks, Tim," I force a smile and take the office sludge, knowing it's going down the drain. But it's easier than explaining and letting Tim see another piece of me. Only Dante knows how coffee drags me back to those endless nights of pain, the aroma of caffeine almost as strong as the antiseptic on floors and surfaces.

I didn't realize just how much coffee was consumed in hospitals.

Coffee meant pain. A wound dressing, another surgery, another round of physio. Even now, years later, my leg throbs at the memory.

I feel Tim's eyes on me as I walk away, more conscious than ever of my slight limp. Tim is brilliant, kind, supportive, and from a solid home. He's easy on the eyes as well with his blond surfer good looks and lean muscled frame.

He was an avid follower of my anonymous blog before I confessed to being the author. Although he ended up ratting me out to everyone else in the office, I forgave him, chalking it up to overexcitement.

The bottom line is, on paper, he's the type of guy I should date. A dependable friend who respects me and is interested in more than my looks.

So why can't I give him the answer he wants?

Because I know there's no point in trying. He's nothing like Dante, who hit me like a potent drug. Dark, dangerous, toxic. And so fucking exciting, I'm still withdrawing after two years.

As I weave through the maze of desks and equipment, I notice some of my coworkers huddled around the compact electron microscope, appearing to be brainstorming a difficult case, but their hushed chatter stops as soon as I'm within earshot.

Typical. They're probably talking about my blog again and the few million reasons why it's in bad taste to be running it. Nothing I haven't heard before. Although I think my dissection of the 1947 Black Dahlia murder might have been a little too intense, even for people who analyze blood spatters for a living.

"You'll get over it guys," I mutter under my breath.

I'd started an anonymous blog in my college sophomore year on a whim. It was my way to explore the darkness that fascinated me, to give voice to the thoughts I couldn't share with anyone else. And now it's exciting to share them with five thousand followers twice a month.

I reach my office at the far end of the room and drop my bag onto my desk, accidentally jostling the huge pile of papers, which then knocks over the small photo frame tucked face-down behind them, sending it clattering to the floor.

My breath huffs with annoyance as I snatch up the photo frame and throw it straight into the bin Then I march to the break room to dump the cold coffee down the sink. I'm feeling more settled when I return to my desk and power on my computer.

In less than a minute, however, I find myself diving into the trash and fishing out the frame. I carefully replace it on its usual corner on my desk, my throat tightening as I glance at the photo.

It's one of Dad and me at my college graduation, six weeks after my twenty-first birthday.

Six weeks after the night I went to Chicago.

I examine Dad's rare-toothed smile and the pride gleaming in his eyes as he hugs me tightly to his side. No one looking at the photo would ever guess that my father hadn't said one word to me in six weeks.

And now I haven't spoken to him in two.

Hot, angry tears spring to my eyes, but I shake them off, determined not to dwell this morning.

As my computer whirs to life, I glance furtively around the lab to see my colleagues still huddled around the same spot. Perfect.

I open an incognito browser window and quickly navigate to my blog. The familiar black background with crimson text fills my screen, and I feel a small thrill of excitement.

"The Scarlett Holmes Blog," the header proclaims. Not the most original title, but it's become my sanctuary. I scroll through, checking for new comments. A notification catches my eye—someone's left a detailed response to my latest post. I make a mental note to read it thoroughly during my lunch break, then close the page and begin my work for the day.

I'm deep into scrutinizing a particularly puzzling fiber analysis when the door to my boss's office opens, allowing the voices of my boss and Jim Pearson, one of the prosecuting attorneys, to cut through my concentration.

"We need that fiber sample yesterday, Doug," Jim hisses, his nasal voice sharp with frustration. "This entire case hinges on it."

"I know that," Doug replies, his tone tight. "But it was an honest mistake. A human error. However, what you're asking us to do is a deliberate breach of the rules. Jim, we can't just—"

"Can't just what? Do your job? Clean up your mess?" Jim cuts him off harshly. "Tommy Martelli's defense team are dirty, slimy bastards. We need to meet them on the mat for this. Otherwise, we'll lose the case, and you know that motherfucker deserves to rot in prison."

My boss's tone gets testy. "Okay, Jim. I really can't get involved here. We're neutral—"

"Spare me the sanctimonious bullshit, Doug, and clean up your fucking mess. I've already spoken to my contact in Chicago. They'll hand over the sample once we give them a positive ID. There'll be no memos, no paper trail. We do this under the radar. I want to see that smug defense team choke on their latest ruse."

Chicago. The word hits me like a sucker punch, and suddenly I'm not in the lab anymore. I'm back in that restaurant, the smell of gunpowder in my nostrils, Dante's eyes cold and predatory as he stood over the bodies. My stomach lurches, and I grip the edge of my desk, willing the memory away.

Doug's sigh of resignation comes through again. "Tim Carter is a Boy Scout. He can't pull this off."

"No, but the woman will. What's her name . . ." he trails off as if trying to recall. "O'Shea. Let O'Shea do it. I hear she's the brains around this place, yet she's hardly seen." Jim's parting jibe as he walks off roots me to the chair.

What the hell?

They're planning something shady, and my name has just come up as the prime candidate to carry out the operation. I'm not sure whether to be pleased or insulted by it.

I try to go back to work, but I'm too distracted, and I find myself counting down the seconds until—

Right on schedule, Doug's moon-like face pokes through my office door. "O'Shea. Nice of you to finally turn up to work. My office, right now." He leaves, fully expecting me to follow.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I already know what's coming, but still, my hands shake with dread. I stand, square my shoulders, and ignore the twinge in my hip.

Doug's small, cluttered office smells of stale coffee and cheap cologne. He's seated behind his desk, a steaming mug in his hand. To my surprise, he gestures to an identical mug on the corner of his desk.

"Have a seat. Coffee?"

I eye the mug suspiciously. Doug Harrison offering me coffee? This can't be good. "No, thanks," I say cautiously, settling into the chair across from him.

Doug leans back, his chair creaking under his weight. "You're one of our best analysts, Addy. Sharp, thorough, discreet." He pauses, his gaze boring into me. "That's why I need you for a . . . delicate situation."

My stomach tightens. "Doug, if this is about what I overheard—"

"Then you know you're going to Chicago," he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. Chicago. The city I swore I'd never return to. I swallow hard, fighting to keep my voice steady. "But I'm in the middle of the Oscar case. Surely someone else can—"

"This takes priority," Harrison cuts me off again. "Jim Pearson has us by the throat. Apparently, some fool in Chicago mixed things up, and we didn't realize until too late. We need that fiber sample, or our jobs are on the line."

I open my mouth to protest again, but Harrison's next words stop me cold. "You're in line for team leader, and this move could be a big shove in that direction, O'Shea."

The implication is clear. Do this, or kiss my promotion goodbye. I'm being backed into a corner, and we both know it.

As he outlines the details, my mind races. An off-the-books evidence retrieval? The ethical implications alone are staggering. But beneath my professional concerns, a more personal dread is building. Chicago means the possibility of encountering Dante.

But what are the odds of running into him on a same-day return trip to Chicago? It's not as if he's the city's gatekeeper or something.

I take a deep breath, then ask, "When do I leave?" I hate how defeated my voice sounds.

A smile spreads across Harrison's face, smug and satisfied. "ASAP. The lab in Chicago is expecting you as of noon today."

Today. The word echoes in my head, panic rising in my chest. It's too soon. I'm not prepared—not for the trip, not for Chicago, and not for the possibility of . . .

"Doug," I try one last time, "the procedural issues alone—"

"Have been taken care of," Doug interrupts smoothly. "As you overheard, this comes from the top. It's already been arranged."

And just like that, I'm trapped. The weight of inevitability settles on my shoulders, heavy and suffocating. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"Excellent," Harrison says, leaning back in his chair. "I'll have Sarah book your flights. You'll be back tonight."

I stand on shaky legs, my hip protesting the sudden movement. As I turn to leave, Harrison calls out, "Oh, and Addy? Discretion is key here. I'm sure I don't need to remind you of the sensitive nature of this assignment."

I meet his gaze, the thinly veiled threat in his words not lost on me. "Of course not," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel.

As I walk back to my desk, the lab blurs around me. The hum of equipment, the chatter of my colleagues—it all fades into background noise. All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart, a desperate rhythm that seems to echo one word over and over:

Dante.

Dante.

Dante.