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  Diego, who had been silent, turned toward the other officers. “We need everyone to back up.” He motioned with his hands. “Tape off the entire farm. No one in or out except authorized personnel. Take Kenny down to the station and get the coroner out here.”

  He pulled a camera out of his bag and started taking pictures. Erica watched him carefully, trying to gauge his frame of mind. She needed the reassurance that his feelings echoed her own and she wasn’t reacting like some first-day rookie. Diego was normally happy, full of energy. But right now, his brown skin was pale and clammy. His lips had lost a bit of their color, and his eyes were rimmed red. He moved around the scene, snapping picture after picture.

  Erica chewed on her bottom lip, frustrated that her department wasn’t adequately equipped to deal with this type of scene. There were footprints all around the body. Most were probably from the officers, but a few could’ve been from the psycho who had dumped the poor woman here, a lonely and barren final resting place. She scanned the woman’s clothes and the area surrounding her, but there were no distinct dust or drag marks. He carried her to this location. Which also meant this wasn’t the murder site. Erica felt the woman’s pockets, looking for a wallet or anything that could help them identify her.

  “Her name is Claudia Ramos,” Diego said from behind her.

  Erica stood and looked at him. Diego was struggling to hold it together, just like her, but for different reasons. She had been relieved when she didn’t recognize the victim right away, but it hadn’t occurred to her the same wasn’t true for Diego.

  Diego took another picture. “Her father works as a groundskeeper at the high school.”

  Erica’s breath caught in her chest. She put a hand on his shoulder, and he took another picture.

  “She graduated three years ago. She’s pre-med at UC San Diego, full academic scholarship. She was home visiting for spring break. My wife and I ran into her and her father at the store last Saturday.”

  “I’m sorry.” Those two words weren’t good enough, not by a long shot, but she wasn’t sure what else to say. Diego had always been stable, rational, and focused. He was rarely off-kilter, and because of that, she wasn’t sure how to ease his pain.

  “Let’s just make sure we do everything right so we can catch this guy.” His eyes were filled with tears now. He put the camera back over his face and moved to the left, continuing to take pictures.

  “Agreed.”

  “And, Chance, I want to be the one who notifies the family.”

  “Okay, let’s finish up here and then we’ll head over.”

  Erica knew that notifying the family would be no easy task. Even when it was an accident, the loss of a loved one was a raw and emotional experience. This notification wouldn’t be like the others because they had no explanation, no leads, nothing. And even if they were able to walk into this family’s home and tell them they had all the information they needed, it wouldn’t be good enough, not when their daughter had been savagely murdered and dumped. To make matters worse, Diego knew these people, and their burden would become his own. Watching her partner, her friend, go through the pain of having to break the news to this family would be heartbreaking. She wished she could shield him from that pain; she wished she could shield them all. However, those weren’t the options in front of her now. All she could do was be there for him and find the bastard that did this.

  Erica had always loved the idea of being a police officer. She had naively believed that the world fell into nice, neat little categories. You could place any person into the good category or the bad. The justice system would handle the people who fell into the bad category and take care of everyone else. She had believed that if she did her job correctly, she would help keep bad things from happening to good people. But like most things in life, it wasn’t that simple.

  She had never considered how the evil would continue to seep into the good people, long after the immediate threat had been removed. The long-term damage done by an abusive parent clung to the affected child like a wet shirt. The victims of drunk-driving accidents didn’t stop at the accident. The suffering would trickle through the community, claiming victims emotionally.

  Of course, along with the bad, there were always glimmers of good. The troubled teenager she helped redirect after he was caught shoplifting from the grocery store. The several summers she had spent coaching kids in the Police Activities League. She had even spent two hours every Saturday her first two years on the force being called out to the Snyder property, just to check for intruders. As it turned out, Mrs. Snyder was just incredibly lonely and would call in because she wanted someone to chat with for a bit. Erica went every time, not because she believed an intruder would be there but because she thought it was the right thing to do for the elderly woman. If she needed someone to talk to that badly, Erica had no problem being that person.

  These moments of aid and community service were what Erica clung to, and she used them as a shield from the others. The others burrowed their way into her mind, changing not only her sleep patterns but the way she saw the world. Those moments were the broadcasters of the realization that you couldn’t save them all. The best you could do was to give the victims the first piece of the puzzle to help them start reassembling their lives. It wouldn’t be the life they had grown up wanting, it wouldn’t be what they pictured for themselves or their loved ones, but it would be a beginning. Erica, Diego, and everyone who wore a badge were the guardians of these pieces. The ones entrusted to retrieve them and return them to their rightful owners. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, forcing herself to focus. The young woman on the ground deserved nothing but her best.

  Chapter Two

  Lucy sat in the bullpen, listening to her colleagues pitch ideas to their editor. Each of them was tossing out concepts with the intention of impressing their boss. There were two ways a story ended up in a newspaper. The first was a tip from the public. An editor received an unfathomable amount of calls and emails from the public on any given day. They sorted through those reports and weeded out the stories that needed to be followed up on, separating those events from the rest. Lucy had decided long ago she would never want that responsibility for any salary. In general, the public was a fickle and demanding group. Their interests and willingness to make almost any event into headline news wasn’t something she wanted on her shoulders. The second way a story came to fruition was because a reporter had found a lead into something of interest. They pitched the ideas to the editor and got the go-ahead. Choosing a story to follow was what Lucy preferred. She liked having the ability to go in the direction she saw fit, and it was a privilege she had earned in her years with this paper and before, from her time in the field. She had earned her stripes, so to say.

  One of the interns rushed in, carrying a cup of coffee balanced on top of a stack of files. A chair backed into him, causing the coffee to spill all over the floor and the editor. The intern ducked behind the chair, presumably to clean up the spill. Lucy thought back to a day she had also been cleaning up a spill.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Erica stood over her as Lucy tried to sop up the splattered soda with a rag she had found on the garage workbench.

  “Your grandpa’s going to be so mad at us. He keeps this place perfect.”

  Erica knelt next to her. She put her hand on top of hers to stop her movements. “He’ll just say not to cry over spilled milk.”

  Lucy had a response ready because she knew exactly what Erica was going to say. But now, she couldn’t force her mouth to form the words. Not with Erica’s hand on top of her own. Her hand tingled in a way it never had before. It felt like someone had lightly kissed her where it rested. It hadn’t done that when Troy had held her hand, and she hadn’t felt the rush of warmth she felt now when Shaun had kissed her, either.

  She pulled her hand back, worried it would transfer to Erica somehow and she would know what she was feeling. When she finally met Erica’s crystal blue eyes, she saw
it. Erica had felt it too, the simplest of connections, the softest of touches, that somehow changed everything. Lucy didn’t know what it meant. She couldn’t find the words to describe the warm sensation bubbling up in her belly, making her want to giggle. She moved closer to Erica not knowing anything except that she wanted, needed, to be near her.

  Erica stood, shoving her hands in her pockets, swaying back and forth, staring at the ground. Her shaggy blond hair fell in her face, momentarily blocking her eyes. “Want to go watch TRL?”

  “Lucy.”

  Lucy heard her name and pulled herself back into the moment. She looked around the room, unsure who had been trying to get her attention. Blank looks coming from several faces around the table met her gaze.

  “Where are you on the Shrine trial?”

  Oh, that’s right, this is my life. “It’ll be on your desk by five.”

  Her editor nodded and moved on unceremoniously. In her early days, Lucy had covered international affairs, the war in the Middle East, and other military areas. Now she was on the crime beat, and lucky for her, there was never a shortage of material in San Diego.

  Lucy looked outside. Clouds moved at a leisurely pace across the pale blue sky. It would be a perfect day to go to the beach. It wouldn’t be painfully crowded yet, the way San Diego beaches often were when the weather started to heat up. There was still a chill in the air, left over from the changing seasons. By this afternoon, the temperature would be tipping close to the mid-seventies. She could take off the rest of the day, call Grayson, and have him and Holly meet her down at Mission Beach. When was the last time she blew off work? Never. Obviously.

  Those thoughts were interrupted by her editor’s voice once again. “Rodriguez?”

  Jesus, pay attention. “Yeah, boss?”

  “Want to take the lead on the Syrian refugee crisis?”

  No, she did not want to take the lead on the Syrian refugee crisis. She had been very explicit when she came to work for this paper that she would no longer be covering international affairs. She had spent seven years in the bowels of the war in the Middle East, and she had no intention of going back, physically or emotionally. Luckily for her, there were reporters sitting around her who had career ambitions that eclipsed her own on the subject. She shook her head.

  A recent college grad immediately raised his hand. “I’ll take it.”

  Her editor slid the file across the table, and he enthusiastically grabbed it and started flipping through the papers. She remembered when she was like that, fearless with a touch of optimism that hadn’t been squelched by the problems of the real world. She almost envied his naivety. But that was the age-old tale of irony, not realizing in the moment your vulnerability or your fragile nature. You just charge in thinking nothing can touch you. That is, until the day something does, changing your life, and every decision you make after will always be in the shadow of that moment.

  Lucy had already experienced three destiny markers that had changed her life forever and often thought how frustrating it was not knowing their significance at the time. Sure, one was obvious, but the others, she hadn’t felt the effect of until long after they had passed. The first was when she had discovered journalism in her freshman year of college. She hadn’t known it was her calling until she’d felt the rush of her first story being published in her college’s newspaper. In that one instant she’d been hooked, and she never looked back. She had immediately changed her major from business to journalism. Seeing her name in headlines still gave her the same rush she had felt the first time.

  Another was the day she couldn’t bear to go back to the war-ravaged Middle East. The decision hadn’t been premeditated, and in fact, she didn’t realize she had made it until she had arrived at the airport. Lucy felt her heart rate pick up at the memory of that day. She practiced the breathing techniques she had learned in therapy, pushing the thoughts back down and out of her current train of thought. She had gotten better at it over the years, and now she could go weeks, sometimes months, without having to invoke the practice.

  “Rodriguez, you’re from Clearbrook, right?” her editor asked.

  “Clearbrook, California?”

  He looked confused. She wasn’t on her game today, and he knew it. “Yeah, up near San Francisco.”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “A UC San Diego student was killed up there two days ago. Find out what’s going on.”

  Someone was killed in Clearbrook? What the hell? “You got it, boss.”

  Her editor stood, signaling the end of their meeting. Everyone else in the room followed suit, filing out the doors and heading to their assigned tasks.

  Lucy hurried to her desk and pulled up the website for the local newspaper. Nothing was there, but that made sense. It only released a weekly periodical. If it happened two days ago, nothing would be in print yet. She checked social media accounts for UC San Diego and found the “In Memoriam” messages from student after student, detailing their remorse. Claudia Ramos seemed to have the world at her fingertips, and by all accounts she was bright, funny, and beautiful. What a waste.

  Lucy scrolled through the messages until she found one where the person had changed their profile picture to one of her and the victim in a friendly embrace. Lucy wanted to talk to someone who knew the victim personally. She sent a message requesting a phone call.

  While she waited for a response, she pulled up the website for Clearbrook High School and looked through their online yearbooks. It only took a few searches to find Claudia. The things people were saying weren’t exaggerated by any means. She was salutatorian of her class, class treasurer, she took part in yearbook, leadership, and played two varsity sports. She printed the information out and continued looking.

  Lucy let the mouse hover over another archive, her graduating class from thirteen years ago. She didn’t need to open the file because she knew what was in those pages. Those old photos and somewhat recognizable names were nothing but a reminder of what and who she had given up. What she had given up was her third destiny marker. The choice she had made that night had impacted every single day since then and would continue to for the remainder of her life. Lucy couldn’t deal with that right now, and her nerves wouldn’t allow it. She closed the page and checked to see if the young woman had responded. Surprisingly, there was already a message along with a phone number.

  Chapter Three

  He sat on the couch to admire his work. This one had been much easier than the last. No scratching or screaming. All it had taken was sleight of hand, a quick slip of a bit of extra liquid into a drink. Now she was his and his alone. The knowledge was invigorating, intoxicating, and addicting. Now was the hard part. He had to wait for her to wake up. He hated waiting, hated having to temper his excitement while the drug worked through their systems. But what else was he supposed to do? She needed to be awake to enjoy it, and he wasn’t a monster; he wouldn’t touch her without her knowledge. No, that’s not what he was about at all.

  He had known he wanted her from the first time he saw her. It was like the planets had aligned, bringing her in for a simple salad and a diet soda just when he was there to appreciate all she was. Luckily, she had been the only patron that day, and by the time she stumbled outside to get in her car, feeling sick, it wasn’t much work to grab her. After all, she was destined to be with him, so he was just taking what was already his.

  Her eyes fluttered, indicating she was waking up. He watched the terror eclipse her face as she started to realize what had happened. She tried moving her arms and hands, but it wouldn’t do her any good. Zip ties and duct tape were essential tools in his bag; he had learned his lesson. Her eyes bulged when she tried to scream against the tape, and the fear he saw warmed his chest.

  He walked over and put his hand on her head. “Shh. It’s okay, no one can hear you, and you’ll want to save your strength.”

  She moved to get away from his hand, trying to pull her body along the dirt floor. The attempt would be futile, but i
t didn’t matter. He wanted her to have hope, a will to live. The longer she was willing to fight, the longer he could keep her. And he wanted to keep her.

  “Let me know I can trust you and I’ll give you some water. How long that takes is up to you.”

  The girl continued to try to scream as she dragged her legs across the dirt floor. She didn’t understand there was nowhere to go, but she would. This was one of his favorite aspects of Rohypnol, or as it was known on the streets, a roofie. It rendered its victim paralyzed, and even when they started to come to, it was hard to control the muscles and the mind. It had the strength of ten Valium and was ridiculously easy to get. He would pre-mix it with a bit of water, dissolving the contents, and then pour it into whoever’s drink he determined worthy. Sure, it was difficult for her to move around now, but it was for her own good. If she had complete control of her faculties, she would try to fight back, possibly escape, and that wouldn’t end well for her. No, this was for her own good, protection from herself.

  “I’m going to give you some time to think about it.” He touched her again and leaned down to kiss the top of her head, now that she had finally halted her movements toward the staircase. She bucked, knocking him in the lip, leaving a twinge of copper in his mouth. He pressed his fists into his side, fighting the urge to smack her across the face. He tamped down his anger, wanting her to realize the depths of his kindness. She would realize soon enough that her life was a gift he was bestowing on her, simply out of his desire to have her in his world. That ability to keep the desire alive rested purely on her willingness to be a grateful and willing participant.

  He walked up the staircase to a metal door. “That’s your one freebie.” He turned off the light and locked the door behind him. She would come around, there was no doubt in his mind. And if she didn’t, he would just find a new one and start over. The result would be her fault, not his. She was the one making things difficult on herself.