Face of Death

Zoe came in through the door with a sigh of relief. A loud mewing from the kitchen, and the appearance of Euler with his tail held high in the air, told her that she was not the only one happy that she was home.

She dropped her overnight bag in the hall, promising herself that she would deal with it later. The first thing was to feed the cats, then herself, then shower. And possibly sleep for the next twenty-four hours.

After pouring out the cat food into bowls, Zoe scratched Pythagoras behind the ear until he batted her hand away with an impatient paw, eager to eat uninterrupted. She rested back on her heels, watching them for a moment.

Even if her cats only wanted her for her ability to provide food, at least she was not still persona non grata elsewhere. Far from being the failure her superiors had warned her against, Zoe’s methods had been vindicated. Aisha Sparks had experienced mild symptoms from both the sedative she was given and the gas leak, but she had only needed to stay overnight in the hospital for observation. She had been discharged before Shelley and Zoe had finished tying up loose ends and gotten themselves back on a plane.

With the evidence that the killer really had targeted the fair, and it was only the forensic mistake of assuming the color of his car that got in the way, it was now clear to everyone that Zoe had been on the right path. The latest call from the Chief had been quite the opposite from the last—high praise and congratulations. She was being described as a brilliant agent with deductive powers beyond that of the norm in internal conversations, and the press was already having a field day with the killer’s mental problems. The rumors would go away, as would the praise. There was always another case.

But something had been different this time. Something had changed inside her, something seismic. She had never before compared herself directly to a serial killer, found so many things in common. Zoe had emerged from that stronger, her own belief in herself having survived the storm. She was a good person. Even her mother’s voice still screaming in the back of her head could not change that.

Part of the victory she felt must surely have come from the other first of this case: the first agent to figure out her abilities and not run a mile. Others had never even asked about them. They just got spooked and walked away, unable to deal with Zoe’s idiosyncrasies and the fact that she was always the quickest to solve the case. Shelley was different. Zoe could feel already the difference it made. The confidence that had grown in her.

Maybe if she’d confided in Shelley sooner, Zoe would have been able to stop the pattern earlier and save more lives. That was her one regret.

She left the cats alone and stood, sifting through her freezer to pull out something easy to shove in the oven. She winced at the pull in her arm as she extended it slightly too far, feeling the catch of her new stitches. That was going to take some getting used to. The doctor had warned her that she might be in line for a nasty scar, given the amount of time she had left before getting it seen to.

Zoe made her way over to the familiar frame of her computer, firing it up. At least typing was not going to put any particular strain on the wound. As her dinner cooked, she logged into her email account, checking for updates.

There was a message, actually, buried under the ten junk emails and the usual official requests that she report for Bureau counseling after having fired her weapon. It was not one that she had expected. The property lawyer, John, who had sat through that uncomfortable date what now felt like months ago, filled up on the breadbasket, and wished her well at the end of the night with no promise of a follow-up. She had not expected to hear from him ever again, in fact, yet there was his name, thrown up by the same dating site he had contacted her through in the first place.

Hi Zoe, hope you’re well. I keep thinking about our date. I was a bit dull, distracted by a case if I’m honest. Will you give me a second chance?

Zoe thought it over, one ear listening for the ding of the oven timer as she examined his message several times. How strange. There she thought that she had been the one to mess up the date, and he was thinking the same thing. Maybe they were both fifty percent to blame. She would even take ninety-eight, because that was better than one hundred.

The ten-point font blinked at her until she turned with determination and picked up her cell and dialed a number. It rang four times before the line crackled into a clearer sound.

“Hello?”

Zoe blinked. She had almost not expected an answer. “Hello, is this Dr. Lauren Monk?”

“Yes, speaking. How can I help?”