unsolved ≫ jake peralta

I. A NEW ASSIGNMENT

Ivy woke up to the sound of screaming.

Only after reaching for the gun she kept in her bedside drawer did she realize that the screams were remnants of a dream. Fragments of trauma that had haunted her sleep since she was a little girl.

She looked over at her alarm clock, seeing that it was only half past four in the morning. There was no use in trying to fall back asleep. Her nightmares would make sure of that. If she was already awake, she might as well stay that way. There were only twenty four hours in a day, and Ivy Auden liked to milk them for all they were worth.

She turned off her alarm, making sure it wouldn't go off when it hit the time she'd set it for the night before. She wasn't sure why she even bothered setting it anymore. She hadn't woken up with the alarm since college. She supposed it was a force of habit.

Slipping the gun back into its hiding spot, she got out of bed and stretched, wondering if other women her age hid guns in their bedside tables. Probably not, but then again, not everyone her age worked for the FBI.

She picked out some clothes, a variation of the same pantsuit she wore every day. Gray trousers, a matching blazer, and a white button-down blouse. She got in the shower, where she let the steaming water permeate her skin until it turned a bright red. She lathered her legs with shaving cream as flashes of her dream radiated through her brain.

A woman laid dead on a sofa, blood circling her head like a halo. Two bullet wounds, one in her chest, one in her temple. The first had missed all major organs. If not for the second, she would have lived.

The woman's own gun had been used in the attack. The security cameras were down that day. There was no clear motive. Nothing but straws for the helpless detectives to grasp at.

So. Much. Blood.

For a second, the blood materialized in Ivy's real world, mixing with the soap and water in her shower drain. Then, she realized it wasn't a figment of her imagination.

"Shit!"

She set down her razor, inspecting the cut on her leg. The razor's blades had slipped over her skin in such a way that they'd sliced the back of her knee. She flushed it with water before hopping out of the shower, pressing a tissue to it as she stumbled around her bathroom for a bandage. Locating one, she placed it over the cut, letting out a string of curses as it immediately fell off, not sticking to her damp skin. She tried again, drying the area before applying a second bandage.

She dressed and smoothed some mousse into her dark locks, before wrapping her hair in a towel. Ivy considered hair dryers to be a waste of money, especially when they did something nature could do in a little more time.

She went back to her room, strapping her work pistol to her belt. She clipped her ID badge to her lapel, then went to the kitchen where she turned on her coffee maker and popped a bagel into the toaster. She scrolled through her phone, idly scanning the numerous emails that were already in her inbox.

After eating her breakfast, she packed a lunch and grabbed her keys. She wasn't supposed to be in the office until eight, but the extra time would give her some much-valued silence that her coworkers never afforded her.

Ivy's therapist told her she had an unhealthy attachment to her job. Ivy disagreed.

She loved her job. It was what kept her going day to day. She didn't have a significant other, or kids, or pets. She wasn't especially good at keeping friends, and her parents and siblings were out in California.