Criminal Intent: Murder, Mayhem and... Battenberg?

Four

"I don't know my saints, but I definitely know my sinners." -Tara Kole, NCIS

It wasn't a bad day, nor a good one. It was more of a lazy day - you know the ones, where you just lounge around with nothing to do, where you lie in your pyjamas watching TV with a tub of cookie dough ice cream and a coffee.

It was a 'me' day.

After Isadora had called somebody to dispose of the russians corpse, she immediately changed into her pyjamas. Black, of course, the edges finished with a trim of gold. And her rabbit slippers. They were pink though. What? They're classy.

The house was empty. It was time.

She strolled into the lounge room, a look of mock innocence on her face as she made her way over to the large stereo, a sleek black - what did you expect? - in the corner of the room. The speaker system ran through the entire house, with speakers hidden in places you'd never expect.

A press of a button, and the music began to play, with Isadora singing along. It couldn't be said that Isadora was a good singer, because, well... she wasn't. She followed after her mother. Her mother, Cynthia, was tone-deaf. She couldn't hear the difference between two notes.

Isadora however could, and had a brilliant sense of rhythm, yet she could not sing. Yes, she was in tune some of the time, and her velvety voice was inviting, yet she missed quite a few notes and had a small pitch range.

"Oh, well imagine,

As I'm pacing the pews of a church corridor,

And I can't help but to hear, no I can't help but to hear an exchanging of words,

'What a beautiful wedding!' What a beautiful wedding says a bridesmaid to a waiter,

Yes, but what a shame, what a shame the poor groom's bride is a whore."

Isadora sings as she strolls through the empty corridors, the music never dying down. Her barefeet skimmed across the dark wooden floors as her even darker curls flew behind her. A smile was upon her face as her fingers brushed against the walls, building from a walk to a run.

Ah, running.

She enjoyed the short thrill she got from running. The burn in her legs, the wind in her face - look at me, I'm making this a cliché with this description of running. The point is - she liked it.

A silk night gown covered her body, reaching all the way to the floor, making it right near impossible to not trip, yet somehow she did it. Even in the most uncomfortable situations, Isadora always moved with an eerie elegance, a haunting gracefulness - like a ballerina.

She threw herself down on the sofa, hair tumbling down afterwards. With a small sigh, she began to trace the veins on her arm with her finger. The song still played, as if it were attempting to drown out the dark thoughts swirling in the criminal's mind.

A knock on the door. Isadora groaned.

She reluctantly pulled herself up, gun at the ready as she made her way to the door. Pressing a single button on a remote, her steps were silent, her eyes thinned.

Everytime the door was knocked, it meant danger for Isadora. She had always associated the sound with a threat, without actually knowing why. A childish thought, although she was only really a child.

A soft hand was placed on the door handle, and Isadora stared at the two silhouettes, distorted by the glass. She opened the door.

And the two figures jumped on her.