Page 42 of Fatal Pattern

Tori’s gaze swept her bedroom. The clock, upside down on the floor, said it was only 10:14 p.m.

Numbness crept in from her fingertips. That neurological shutdown she recognized from her residency when the pressure became too much. Emotional anesthesia. Her body’s way of protecting her when everything spun beyond control.

She caught fragments of Kiara’s words through the phone. “. . . found what you were looking for . . .”

Blade’s eyes cut to Tori’s. “I’m at a scene right now.”

She noticed he didn’t mention her name. Didn’t explain where he was or what had happened. Just kept it vague. Professional distance.

Pull it together. The warrior persona slid back into place like armor. The terrified woman who’d hidden in the closet was gone. Dr. Tori Crew, behavioral analyst, had returned.

Blade checked his watch. “Yeah, that works. I’ll see you then.”

Tori realized he was about to ditch her. Leave her with the responding officers to process the scene while he went to meet his girlfriend.

But Blade hung up and turned to her.

She opened her mouth to give him an out. Tell him she’d be fine handling this alone. He should go. Be with Kiara.

Blade spoke first. “You up for seeing the Crew murder book tonight?”

She didn’t even think. “Yes.”

“Okay then,” Blade said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Blade unwrapped the bloody shirt from her arm. The cut ran three inches across her forearm. Not deep enough for stitches, but it would scar.

Two cuts now. One on her throat. One on her arm.

The stalker had marked her twice, but the second cut would be his last.

12

The gray fog pressed against Stryker like cotton batting, muffling everything. Everything except that steady beep . . . beep . . . beep that marked time in this nowhere place.

Stryker drifted. Consciousness without anchor. Without form. Just awareness. Floating in an endless void. Trapped in a place where memory had no shape and time held no meaning.

Something changed.

A dull pressure settled on his arm. Real. Immediate. The first concrete sensation he’d felt in . . . how long? Days? Weeks?

The pressure increased, fingers wrapping around his bicep.

Then the needle.

Cool metal pierced his skin, sliding deep into muscle. He tried to flinch. Tried to pull away. His body remained a prison. Unresponsive. Dead weight anchored to a bed he couldn’t see.

The helplessness crashed over him like a tide. Complete. Absolute. A mind trapped in flesh that no longer obeyed.

Pressure in his veins. The needle pinched as it moved. Pressure again.

“Last one.” A voice close to his ear.

The needle withdrew with a wet pop.

“Oops,” the voice said. “Sorry about that.”

What had gone wrong?