With Ties That Bind Page 3

  “Sounds like a personal ad,” Carson interrupts.

  And then there’s that. My eyes flick up and pin him with a glare. He clears his throat and rocks back on his heels, sinking his hands into his slack pockets. “Sorry,” he says. “Too soon?”

  With a heavy exhale, I relax my shoulders. “No. I’m just a little on edge today. It’s fine. Make all the jokes you want at the victim’s expense.”

  My slight doesn’t faze him, and he nods as I look back down at the report.

  I continue going over the victim’s basic information, content that Carson has no interest in prying into my personal affairs. He just assumes—as everyone does—that my on edge remark is due to my being here, in the lab where I was abducted. Not to mention having been bound and tortured. Possibly even raped…though no one has outright asked.

  And yes, I’m still feeling quite on edge for all those reasons, but today, it’s a little worse. Because Quinn was a witness to my appalling behavior last night. I’ve been waiting for him to make an appearance all morning to inquire about the vic—just waiting to see his downturned mouth, the sad, weighty slope of his shoulders, the judgment in his hazel eyes as they refuse to meet mine.

  I don’t know why it should bother me what Quinn thinks, but it does. I actually don’t care if the whole department—Carson included—gossips behind my back. Speculating about how it’s perfectly normal for someone who just suffered a traumatic event to act out in a completely abnormal way. How do they even know it’s abnormal?

  Maybe I’ve always drank myself into a blackout and digested concentrated aphrodisiacs. What if I’ve always had issues getting sexually aroused and needed to get pass-the-fuck-out drunk in order to let loose and have some fun? They don’t know me. Not on that level.

  My internal rant stops abruptly as Carson says, “Jesus, Avery. You all right?” He steps around the slab to stand beside me. “You look pale. We can do this later—”

  “I’m fine. Just tired.” I attempt a smile, but I can feel how awkward it is on my wobbly lips. Out of habit that is of late, I cover my mouth with my hand. “Let’s just get through this.”

  “All right. Your call.” He gives me another close inspection, his head tilted in that concerned way, before he aims his gaze on the vic.

  The fact that I’m so out of sorts that I triggered Carson’s notice isn’t good. To anyone else, it’s probably more than obvious that I’m way off my game. I should’ve called in sick, but Avery Johnson—the Avery Johnson before the abduction—does not take sick days. I need to focus on work. I just have to push through it until it all clicks back into place.

  It has to.

  Blowing out a long breath, I pull it together. “Despite the numerous contusions and lacerations covering her face and body, COD was exsanguination due to a puncture in her abdomen that resulted in liver damage.” I set the clipboard down and slip on a pair of gloves. “PAT—”

  “What’s that?” Carson interrupts.

  “Penetrating abdominal trauma,” I say as I peel back the white sheet to display the injury. “Sharp force trauma on the left side of her abdomen. The object was small and thin.”

  “A knife?”

  I shake my head. “Hard to say. Possibly. It’s obvious that she was attacked. Bruising to her forearms suggests defensive wounds. The contusion below her right eye was in the stages of healing. She’d sustained a battering a few times over.” I swallow past the bile rising to my throat.

  “I swabbed the wound and sent it out for analysis,” I continue. “And I’m running a tox screen to cover all the bases. Waiting on results now.”

  Carson nods. “It’s possible the person delivering the punches is someone different than the perp who inflicted the killing blow. Any way you can distinguish the difference between her defensive wounds and the antemortem bruising?”

  Damn. How did I not think of that? I look up at Carson and frown. “Yes. I’ll get a complete workup on that next.” Glancing down at the vic, I tilt my head. “She suffered a slow and painful death. Her injury could’ve easily been treated.”

  A low hum fills the lab as silence builds. Then: “How long did she suffer?”

  “A week…maybe longer. The darkened skin along her abdomen developed days ago.”

  “She might’ve assumed it was bruises from the attack. Maybe she’d gotten used to the sight of them. The pain.”

  I shake my head. “There’s no evidence she was struck in her midsection. No. This is from her abdominal cavity filling with blood. She probably suffered hypovolemic shock and inflammation due to blood pooling. She ran a fever. She groaned in pain. She held her stomach and winced at any sudden move. And she wasn’t alone. Someone watched her die.”

  “Avery.”

  Carson’s somber tone draws my attention. I look up to see the unsaid question in his eyes. “We don’t know that she was tortured,” he says.

  I nod once. “But we do know she was abused.”

  The air thickens, a heavy weight of apprehension settles between us.

  “I’ll get the toxicology results to you soon,” I say, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “By this afternoon. I’ll have more definitive answers for you and Quinn then.”

  I turn away and begin jotting notes on my form, my back to Carson. He accepts the curt dismissal and heads toward the swing doors, but says on his way out, “It will get easier.”

  My eyes close. A tremor spasms my hand, and the pen drags down the middle of the page. I look down and study the jagged ink trail as the flapping of the doors echoes through the room.

  Easier. With time, everything becomes easier. Our senses dull. Our memory fades. Our pain becomes not as sharp. Then we’re not so aware of the displacement we feel in our own lives; how we no longer fit.

  Sure. With time, it got easier for Sadie. So easy, in fact, that she justified taking a life with hardly any confliction. Maybe I should’ve waited for the dulling of time to wipe me void of conscience before I stamped my name on that COD report. Instead, all my wounds remain fresh and unhealed, my guilt a wave of saltwater rushing over.

  * * *

  “Do you know how I’ll break you?” His words slither into my ear, his breath hot against my face. “It’s a slow and laborious process. Not unlike how our Sadie herself was broken. In the end, you’ll crave my touch.”

  The soft pads of his fingers graze me through the sheer material of my underwear. I yank back, my muffled cry gagged by the tape covering my mouth.

  His arm slips around my waist, hauling my back against his solid form. Gloved fingers splay against my skin with clinical precision. Everything about him is cold and sterile. “Yes. You’ll crave my tender touch…because the alternative is so much worse.”

  A bang rouses me awake with a start. I’m off the cot and through the office door, my heart stuttering in my chest. Quinn and Carson stand in the middle of the lab, Carson hunched over as he picks up a steel brain pan from the floor.

  “Sorry,” Quinn says, nodding toward the other detective. “The rookie is still acquiring his sleuthing skills.” He gives Carson a hard glare before his hazel eyes settle on me.

  I look away, finding my phone in my pocket to check the time: 7:35. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I just laid down for a minute.”

  Quinn shrugs. “You’ve been heading up the lab on your own today.”

  It’s not a question, or an accusation. It’s an assessment. I am tired due to the fact that it’s a bank holiday and most of my colleagues and interns took half the day off. I didn’t want to spend another day in front of the TV. Or sitting alone in the mocking silence. I’d rather be at work, with the dead. At least in their company, I feel a kinship.

  We’re both numb.

  “I still should’ve gotten you over my findings earlier.” I tug out a pair of gloves and switch on the overhead projection screen. An illuminated image of the vic’s torso displays. “I’m still examining the trace I found in the wound, but as you can see here”—I point to the
puncture mark—“the tear in the liver isn’t consistent with a knife. The bruising and perimortem inflammation around her midsection prevented me from determining the exact shape and size of the injury. But the liver still retains the shape.”

  I bring out the bin containing the damaged organ and place it on the autopsy table.

  Quinn moves closer to inspect. “The weapon used was round.”

  “Like a pen, or pencil,” I note.

  His gaze sweeps over the projected X-ray, then lands on me. “The perp attacked her with a pen?”

  I shrug. “Possibly. Or it could’ve been an accident.”

  Carson interjects. “Everything about her circumstance indicates this was no accident.”

  I agree, for the most part, but… “The injury could’ve been obtained during a struggle. She may’ve landed on the object either during or after the assault. There’s no way to know for sure.”

  “Either way,” Quinn says, coming around the autopsy cart toward me. “The vic died as a result. We’re looking for a perp.”

  I nod slowly. “I’ll see if I can narrow down likely objects. Find the weapon, and I’m sure you’ll find your perp.”

  My gaze holds his a moment too long, and before I can turn away, he says, “Carson, get the techs to dig up the vic’s most recent contacts. I want a full report on her job, boyfriends, friends, shopping habits. I’ll meet you at the dumpsite in an hour.”

  From my peripheral, I glimpse the hike of Carson’s eyebrows. But he doesn’t question his orders. “Right,” Carson says. “I’m on it. Meet up in an hour.” Then he tucks away his black notepad—the same kind Quinn carries—and exits the lab.

  I lick my lips, conscious of the fact I forgot to reapply concealer, as Quinn’s penetrating detective gaze borders on invasive. “Something else you need, detective?” I ask, forcing myself to blink in what I hope is a natural way.

  His shoulders rise and fall in an easy shrug. “We should talk about last night.”

  An ache pulses at my temples. “Nothing to talk about. I got a little drunk, but that’s not a crime. Is it?”

  “No,” he says, taking another step closer. “But I am curious about the baggie.” He pulls an evidence bag from his pocket. Inside is the remnants of my most recent cocktail.

  I yank my gloves off and shove them into my lab coat pockets. “I guess I should thank you for coming to me instead of pressing charges.” Then I reconsider the evidence bag. “Unless that’s why you’re here. To arrest me.”

  His features contort, his expression incensed. “I’m not one to pry, Avery. But when my lead M.E. is waving drugs around in public—”

  “It’s not drugs,” I correct. “At least, not the kind you’re assuming.”

  He visibly relaxes, if only a fraction. “Then why don’t you clarify.”

  I brace my hands on the edge of the autopsy cart. “Because it’s none of your business.”

  “Are you still seeing a therapist?”

  His question throws me. “What?”

  “You’re required to see an in-house counselor. It’s a condition of your remittance.” He steps closer. I push away from the cart. “You’re not a cop, but you are a part of the team. If any one of my guys went through what you did…” he trails off. “Let’s just say, I look out for my own. And I consider you one of mine.”

  His words sink past my defenses. For a moment, I feel the press of his concern, his burden. I’m hit with the memory of the calloused roughness of his hand as it held mine, the contrasting tenderness of his touch. It strips me of my anger, and my body feels weak. Like it’s taking all my strength just to stand.

  “I stopped seeing her,” I say. “The therapist. It wasn’t helping.”

  “And you started self medicating,” he concludes.

  And like that, my defenses go up. Before Quinn is anything to me—friend, ally, colleague—he’s first a cop. I know that it was more than his duty to help rescue me—that the whole precinct felt my abduction on a personal level—but I lost that connection to them down in the hell pit of that boat.

  I lost the part of myself that fought the good fight. What Quinn and I had in common. I no longer see the world as he does; in black and white. Good guys and bad. Right and absolute wrong. I’m lost somewhere in the murky shades. For that alone, he can’t reach me. No matter how far he extends the branch.

  There’s only one person I know that understands me on this new plane of suffering. And when I look at her now, I glimpse the monstrous, distorted reflection of myself. It’s painful—but it’s brutal honesty.

  I don’t blame Sadie. Rather, in some completely fucked up way, I loathe her for revealing this side of myself. I think she realizes that. Because the moment I stepped foot in the precinct, she took her overdue vacation time. Every day of it. Something so out of character for her.

  Maybe she’s giving me time to…adjust. Or she’s afraid that I’m not strong enough to carry the weight of this secret—that I’ll break. But the truth is, I was already broken. Framing a shellfish for Wells’ death was just a result of the damage. I can’t blame Sadie for my actions.

  I would do it again.

  And faced with the choice, I believe I would be the one to end his life.

  “I’ve seen that look before,” Quinn says.

  Shaken out of my reverie, I lift my gaze to his. Find his hazel eyes studying me. I’m very aware of the look I’m projecting this second, but I say, “What look?”

  Quinn leans against the wall and laces his arms over his broad chest. “That stubborn one. Bonds had that same look in the hospital when we were waiting to hear on your condition. It’s one that says no matter how hard I present my case, your mind is already made up.”

  I ease out a shaky breath past trembling lips. “How is Sadie?” I turn around, making myself busy with replacing the vic’s liver in the wall locker. Hoping he takes the bait and changes the subject.

  “Still on leave,” he says. His voice grows closer, causing my hands to slick with sweat. I take out my gloves and force them on. “But you know that. You two are close. I’m sure she’s already told you the same thing I am now.”

  In an instant, Quinn has me turned to face him, his strong hands anchored to my arms. “That whatever you’re going through—something I know I have no right to even imagine—you need help, Avery. You can’t hide from it, and no amount of alcohol or drugs can make it vanish.”

  I try to pull out of his grip, but his hold is solid. I’m desperate to be away from his shrewd gaze. “You don’t know your partner as well as you think, Quinn. And you know nothing about me or what I’m going through.” Finally, I tear out of his hold as the shock of my words seizes him.

  “You said something to that effect last night.”

  Backing away, I put even more distance between us. “Then you should probably hear me clearly by now. I don’t need a hero to swoop in and save me. And I’m pretty sure Sadie doesn't, either. Besides, she’s found someone, Quinn. You need to let it go.”

  My accusation hits him like a slap across the face, and for a second, regret tears through me. “Right,” he recovers quickly. “You must think I’m pretty transparent.”

  I shrug, my body and mind exhausted. “Next time you come here, keep focused on the job.”

  “You called me last night, remember?” His eyebrows hike.

  “You’re right—I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

  My harsh declaration hangs heavily in the lab as I turn my back to Quinn. I can still feel his penetrating stare as I push through the double doors. I force my feet to keep going. If I don’t get enough distance between us, I’ll turn back, and I’m not strong enough to keep up this front with Quinn much longer.

  4

  The Job

  Quinn

  Keep focused on the job. Damn straight I am.

  I’m tired of being on edge around the trim in my department. Fucking women.

  Avery’s given me permission to let it go—and so that’s what I�
��m doing. She’s a big girl. She knows better than anyone what she needs. And she’s made it clear that I can’t help. No surprise there. I’m just relieved I’m off the hook.

  Now I can get back to doing what I do best.

  I steer toward the crime scene where yellow tape marks off the Dumpster on the alley side of 11th Street. The fact that the perp chose a fucking Dumpster as the body dumpsite ratchets up my annoyance. It’s unimaginative.

  As I park, I observe the area. It’s a high-end type atmosphere. The Dumpster is shared by a couple of restaurants and one bar. The bar, or lounge, is a swanky lawyer joint set amid the Courthouse Metro District.

  I can read a lot into the perp just by his selection process—or lack of process—of the dumpsite, but I can’t deny that I’m missing Sadie’s extra observant insight into the perp’s behavior right about now.

  I scroll through my contacts until I come up on her name. She left specific instructions to contact her with anything imperative. My thumb hovers over her name, ready to put that into effect, but Avery’s accusation bleeds into my conscience. Dammit.

  Instead, I click off the screen and climb out of my Crown Vic, shaking off my moment of weakness.

  That’s all it is. Weakness. There’s nothing about this case that the department can’t handle. That I can’t handle. Until I decide my next move, I need to get used to working without a partner.

  I spot Carson talking to a waitress near the dumpsite. Yeah, he’s working the case all right. Working that waitress with the short skirt real well.

  I clear my throat as I sidle up beside him.

  His back visibly straightens. “Thank you for your time, Melody.”

  The girl tosses her head, clearing the bright pink and red streaks of hair from her eyes, then stubs out her cigarette with the toe of her boot. “Yeah, no problem. Like I said, I’m not sticking around here much longer. Hope you catch the creep.”