Page 50 of Fatal Pattern

Blade’s eyebrows shot up, but Tori ignored him. The peck had been pure impulse. Completely unlike her. Tori never gushed, never grabbed strangers, never let her emotions spill over like that. But something had shifted inside her. A flicker of life where emptiness used to live.

Blade directed Kiara to open another document, but Tori couldn’t pay attention. The world around her diffused. Revelation crashed through her like a tidal wave, washing away years of understanding about herself. All those Saturdays with Eugenio, driving through neighborhoods while Julio Iglesias crooned from the cassette player. The inexplicable pull she’d felt, the certainty that someone was out there waiting for her.

It hadn’t been her parents she’d been searching for.

It had been him. Her twin.

The psychology textbooks had called it phantom limb syndrome for twins. The persistent sense of incompleteness. The subconscious search for the other half of yourself. She’d studied it. Written papers on it. She just never imagined she was living it.

All those drives through Little San Juan, Coconut Grove, Coral Gables. Had she passed a dark-haired boy on a bicycle? Watched him skateboard past while she pressed her face to Eugenio’s passenger window, that phantom ache tugging at her chest?

What did he look like now? Did he have their father’s Greek features or their mother’s Korean bone structure? Did he search for her the way she’d searched for him, or had he moved on, built a life without the constant ache of something missing?

“Tori.” Blade’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. He’d moved back to his chair, and she hadn’t even noticed.

“Sorry.” She wiped her palms on her jeans. “I’m here. What does it say?”

“It’s Barclay’s report.” Kiara scrolled, her lips moving as she read. “It’s marked as a supplemental report. Filed after the initial investigation.”

The timestamp showed 11:47 p.m. Late. The kind of hour when someone filed paperwork they didn’t want scrutinized during regular business hours.

“Read it out loud,” she said. “Please. I don’t think I can focus.”

Because whatever Barclay had written in those late-night hours, whatever truth he’d buried in official language and police codes, it would explain why her twin had vanished from her life.

And maybe, finally, she’d understand how to find him.

“Subject: Supplemental Report—Double Homicide, 5486 Flores Drive,” Blade read, sounding 100 percent the homicide detective.

“Responding officers discovered two adult victims, both deceased from multiple stab wounds to the torso, neck, and head. Female victim, Ji-Yeon Crew, age thirty-eight, found in master bedroom. Male victim, Nikos Stavros Crew, age forty-one, also found in master bedroom.”

Tori’s chest tightened. Her parents’ names. Their ages. Numbers that reduced their lives to data points in a police file.

Blade continued, “Female child, age four, discovered unharmed in master bedroom closet. Child exhibited signs of severe trauma but no physical injuries.”

Kiara reared back in horror.

Tori tried to ignore it. Tried to keep herself from falling apart. “Keep going.”

“Male child, age four, located under bed in master bedroom. Subject was armed with kitchen knife and displayed violent, erratic behavior upon discovery. Child attacked responding officer. Considered a threat to his sister. Officer received wounds requiring multiple stitches. Child required physical restraint.”

The words hit like punches. Violent. Cross to the jaw. Erratic. Jab to the ribs. Threat to his sister. Uppercut that left her reeling.

“Due to the child’s aggressive state and the weapon recovered from his possession, preliminary assessment suggests the male subject may have been responsible for the deaths of both parents. Child has been remanded to psychiatric evaluation pending further investigation.”

Nausea reared its ugly head again. The detached way Barclay had reduced her four-year-old twin to a case study in childhood violence. A monster in footie pajamas. It made her sick. “No . . . that’s not—he was four years old. There’s no way—”

“Tori—”

“A four-year-old doesn’t commit double homicide!” Her voice cracked. “He was hiding. Just like me. He grabbed a knife because he was terrified.”

“Are you saying you remember?” Blade asked in a soft voice.

“No.” But an image popped in her mind anyway. A boy with dark hair and her father’s eyes, clutching a bloody knife. Her twin painted as a killer before he’d learned to tie his shoes.

The violation felt worse than the murders themselves. Someone had taken a traumatized child and twisted his survival instincts into evidence of guilt. Had branded him dangerous, unstable, a threat to the sister he’d never even had the chance to protect.

“Find the witness statements.” Her hands clenched into fists. “The psych evaluations. Everything Barclay filed after this report.”