Face of Murder

And that had been the most relieving, most incredible, moment of Zoe’s life. A weight lifted from her shoulders. A light turned on in front of her eyes.

She wasn’t evil. She wasn’t even bad.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that she could be amazing.

Dr. Applewhite had never judged, never thought badly of Zoe for the things she could do. Instead, she had praised her, been amazed at her skills. She had always wanted to know more. Not because Zoe was a test subject—her study of synesthesia had come after they met, not before—but because she could do something that normal people could not do.

Dr. Applewhite had called it a superpower, not a curse.

From then on, Zoe had had the one thing she had always wanted. Support. Someone to lean on. Someone she could fully and honestly be herself around. Dr. Applewhite never reacted with shock or revulsion when Zoe could tell her the precise angle of a chair leg and how much it needed to be adjusted by to be fixed, or weigh her with her eyes.

She had fully embraced Zoe and all that she could do, for who she honestly was. Finally, Zoe had found someone in whom her trust was not misplaced.

And now there was Shelley.

Telling Shelley her secret had been easier, much easier than the first time. Zoe had the advantage of years of life experience, and years of support from someone who did not turn away. She also had the pressure of her job, of a case that needed to be solved in order to save lives. Though the trepidation had been there, Zoe had been able to push past it and tell Shelley the truth.

Like Dr. Applewhite before her, Shelley had been open and accepting. Had called it a gift.

Back then, Zoe had been happy that she had decided to come clean. She had felt that it improved their relationship, made it easier for Zoe to do her job. But now?

The doubts were creeping in. For all the acceptance that Shelley had shown, she was not as careful with the truth as Zoe had asked her to be. Telling the Special Agent in Charge that she was “good with math” was too close for comfort. Now the nagging, the difference in opinion about how the job should be done, chasing down pointless leads instead of trusting Zoe’s focus.

Dr. Applewhite had been a supportive face, but also a kindred spirit. She believed in the cause the same way that Zoe did. Saving lives, helping people, fighting injustice—that was what Dr. Applewhite did all day long in her continued studies of conditions like Zoe’s own. She understood how important it was that Zoe’s secret never became knowledge amongst her superiors.

Shelley did not share that understanding. Which made Zoe wonder what else she did not share. What else separated them, alongside the few things that they had in common? They were apart in age, in family status, even in their approach to people. What if telling Shelley her darkest secret had been a mistake?

In the end, it was that thought, not the equations, that kept Zoe up all night. Without the FBI, she had nothing. No purpose to her life. What if telling Shelley about the numbers was the thing that was ultimately going to end her career—and take away her reason for being?

CHAPTER TEN

He was waiting in the parking lot at the hospital, waiting for it to slowly empty out.

The doctor would come out soon. He needed to see the doctor. Needed to make the doctor pay.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his refuge. His hiding place. Like a hunter. Waiting for a deer to come along that he could shoot.

Not a deer. Too cute, too nice. Something savage and wild.

He would eat the—deer for dinner.

Deer, deer… what was… what was he thinking about?

The doctor.

His eyes were trained on the exit, the entrance, the window, the—what do you call it? He waited for a familiar sight. Someone that he recognized. A refuge that he had seen before, because he looked it up, looked it up on purpose.

No, not just anyone. The doctor had to pay. He was going to smash the doctor’s head in like he did the others. The blood and brains spilling out over his fingers like—snakes. Like? The snakes out like brains over blood fingers. Like that. Yes, like that.

He cut himself off with a memory, a gasp of fear still that always came when he thought about it. The cr—the bad thing. The thing that had ruined everything, that flooded into his mind with such clarity he wanted to wail for it to stop.