Face of Death

“I’m not trying to push you. I meant what I said—you don’t need to tell me about it,” Shelley said, taking a sip of hers black. “But you can. If you want.”

Zoe shrugged. How much to tell? She had not changed her mind about reserving the details, except perhaps for the therapist. But her issues were affecting her work, and Shelley deserved to know why. At least a little bit of why. “My mother was manipulative,” she said, simply. Best to leave out the part where she accused her of being the devil’s spawn. “My father was a bystander, at best. I was legally emancipated as a teenager.”

Shelley let out a low whistle. “It must have been bad, if you had to go that far to get away from them.”

Zoe shrugged again. She sipped at her coffee, feeling the slight discomfort from the heat, setting it carefully back down on the table. She was never good at talking about herself. The few times she had tried as a child, her mother had made it clear that the things she felt and saw were not normal.

“I hope I’m never like that,” Shelley sighed. “Or even close to it. I want to be a good mother. Of course, I’m not going to be at home as often as I could be. But I still want to do well.”

Zoe took in Shelley’s face, pensive and distracted. “You have children?”

“One.” Shelley smiled, her face coming to life with warmth. “My daughter.”

“What is her name?”

“Amelia. It was hard, going into training and then coming to work. I decided to change careers after I went on maternity leave. As much as I think I’ve found my calling, it was tough to leave her at home.”

“Your partner is looking after her?” Zoe asked.

“My mother. During the day, at least. My husband works in an office job, nine to five. He’s always there for her on the weekends.” Shelley sighed. “We need both the money from working.”

Zoe considered her for a long moment. She ducked her eyes back down to her cup. “I do not think you could be a bad parent,” she said at last. “You will never be anything like my mother.”

“Thank you.” Shelley smiled. The relief in her expression was palpable. “I needed to hear that.”

Zoe thought about Shelley’s little girl, and the fact that each of the victims had a mother once, and fought the urge to go back out into the night to continue the search for their killer. She would be no help to anyone if she didn’t get enough sleep to think clearly, enough nutrition to keep her body going. That was what was important tonight, while they had no real leads to speak of.

Somehow, knowing that Shelley was a mother, and that she cared greatly about her little family—enough to worry about it so much—made her rise higher in Zoe’s estimation. The empathy that she had for victims and their families was not an act. Shelley had genuine compassion in her. It was something Zoe wished she had more of. Perhaps Shelley was exactly the kind of partner she needed.

Especially if, tomorrow morning, she was going to have to face the family of another victim, and explain to them why she had not caught the killer.

CHAPTER TEN

Rubie faded back into consciousness, the world coming into focus again. Soil underneath her face. Grass, short and sharp blades, uncomfortable under her cheek. She moved her eyes, seeing the lights of the town in the distance, and then around her, the trees, rising dark and tall, blocking her view to the left and right.

She must have stumbled into the woods. She barely remembered. All she had been able to focus on was the blood, falling hot and wet in pools down her body.

How long had she been out? It was still dark, still cold, and she was still alive. She pressed her hand to her neck with the smallest of movements and found it still liquid. Not long, then. If she had been bleeding for a long time, she would be dead.

Rubie’s ears pricked at a sound nearby, and she instinctively slowed her breathing, making a conscious effort not to exhale loudly. The slower she breathed, the less the blood pulsed out of her neck. It was so deep, the air rushed through. She pressed her hand harder against the red-hot line of pain, trying to keep it all in.

Footsteps. It was his footsteps. Slow, cautious, one foot after another. Not blundering through the woods but moving carefully. Searching. Searching for her.

A wild spike of fear dizzied through her and she fought to keep her breathing under control, to stay as quiet as possible. He was getting closer, moving right toward her. Oh god, if he found her again. Oh god, it would be over.

Rubie held on tight to her neck, feeling stars in her vision every time her grip slipped and the wound eased open again, letting out another flood. Every part of her body wanted to give in to the waiting darkness, to go once again into the sweet unknowing of unconsciousness. But she knew. Rubie knew that if she went down again, she would never come back up.