Page 44 of Fatal Pattern

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer.

Damien appeared in the closet doorway, his face grim. He nodded toward the bedroom. “Hey man, we need to do something.”

He didn’t have to say anything else. In minutes, this house would explode with activity. Paramedics, crime scene techs, detectives, the coroner. Radios crackling, cameras flashing, men and women shouting across a house that should have been filled with Saturday morning cartoons and pancake breakfasts.

The little girl didn’t need to see any of that.

Stryker shifted, angling himself to face her more directly. He kept his voice soft, steady. “Sweetie, your daddy and mommy are hurt, and they need some help.”

Her head lifted a fraction. Just enough that he caught a glimpse of dark eyes beneath the curtain of hair.

Progress.

“Some very nice people are coming to help them,” he continued. “But they need lots of room to work. They have big bags with special tools, and they need to move around without bumping into anyone.”

She turned her face toward him. Not fully, but enough that he could see her profile.

“These helpers are really good at fixing people who are hurt,” he said. “But while they work, we need to go somewhere quiet where we won’t get in their way. Does that sound okay?”

Her eyes met his for the first time. Wide. Dark. Still glazed with shock but present. Aware.

She nodded.

The simple gesture sent relief flooding through his chest. She was still in there. Still reachable.

Stryker swiveled until he could squat in front of her, bringing himself down to her eye level. “Would it be okay if I picked you up and carried you out? I promise I’ll be very careful.”

For a moment, she just stared at him. Weighing. Deciding.

Then she lifted her arms.

The trust in that gesture nearly undid him. This little girl, who had just lived through only God knew what, was willing to let a stranger carry her to safety.

He scooped her up, and she was impossibly light. His duty belt weighed more than she did. All sharp elbows and bird-thin shoulders, like she might disappear if he held her too tightly.

“I need you to keep your eyes closed, okay?” He placed his hand on the back of her head, guiding her face into his shoulder. “Just like you’re playing hide-and-seek. Keep them closed tight until I tell you it’s safe to open them.”

She buried her face against his uniform shirt, fingers gripping the fabric.

Stryker positioned his other hand over her eyes, creating a double barrier. No matter what, she wouldn’t see the blood. Wouldn’t see her father’s still form on the bedroom floor. Wouldn’t carry those images with her for the rest of her life.

He stood, cradling her against his sternum, and moved toward the closet entrance.

Just before they crossed the threshold, she whispered against his shoulder. So quiet he almost missed it.

“What about Nikos?”

The question stopped him cold. Nikos. A name. A person.

The empty crib.

The paramedics came through the front door ready to save lives. Damien pushed past him, moving to intercept them.

“Hold up,” Damien said. “This is an active crime scene. We need to preserve evidence before you start tracking through here.”

Stryker adjusted his grip on the little girl. The paramedics had protocols for this. They’d know how to handle a traumatized child without making things worse.

“Sweetie,” he said, “there’s a nice lady here who’s going to take you to the ambulance. She needs to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere.”