Jennifer Lynne is a homicide detective working on one of the most horrific serial killing cases New York has seen in the last decade. When she and her partner get a lead on the suspect, they catch him with his seventh victim. But things go south and...
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If I had to choose, my least favorite place on this planet would have to be prison. I mean, isn't it everyone's? And even though it comes with the territory of the job, I can't stand being inside this place. As soon as the metal gate clicks behind me, I practically burst into hives. My skin itches and it spreads up my arms and down my legs. It's like my body is aware of how boxed in I am.
We've done this walk a thousand times before, but a guard still guides us to a private room for our chat. The long corridor is a nauseating beige and the echo of our footsteps almost drowns out the buzzing in my head. To my right, Drake walks confidently, completely unaware of my claustrophobia. He doesn't even notice when I roll my shoulders back to ease the strain in my chest.
As we pass a row of cells, the inmates wait at the bars, their eyes on us. I imagine many of them wondering if we're here for them, to help or make things worse. But for some reason, I can feel their stares burning holes through me. They're worthless, I hear them whisper. No worth in their blood. A couple of them even let out wolf-whistles, which the guard in front of us turns and snaps at them before carrying on as if nothing happened.
Finally, he comes to a stop outside a series of doors. He waits for it to unlock, and then he holds it open for us. Drake ushers me in first. I've seen the inside of this room (and others like it) many times; its damp grey walls close in on the metal table with two chairs. A camera with a red light watches us from the upper corner.
I glance back at the guard. "That's new?" I point up at the camera.
He stares back blankly. "Yep. Just video though. No audio."
I nod thoughtfully as he leaves us to retrieve our suspect — well, not a suspect anymore.
Drake gets to work readjusting the room to our needs. He moves the chairs so they are opposite each other and he places the files from his briefcase onto our side. He even organizes the folders neatly.
"Oh," he says, looking over to me. "There was something that came up the other day when we looked into Jackson. We had interviewed him before."
"What?" My heart thumps in my ear. "When? How did we miss him?"
"After the first murder - Imogen Russell - we interviewed him. He was a coworker a couple of people pointed out." He sighs at his stack of papers. "Actually, they brought him up again - at least a couple of times. They said he was acting weirder and weirder, then he was fired. But they were turned away because he had no connection to the other victims."
I feel like the room is about to fall onto me. "Are you saying we could've ended his killings?"
He shakes his head. "No." He looks off at the wall. "We don't know what would've happened, but it doesn't matter." Drake meets my eyes. "We got him now."
After a minute, he says, "You can sit," gesturing to the only chair on this side of the table.
My lip curls. "Just because I'm the woman doesn't mean I should sit," I snap, the thought barely formed before it flies out of my mouth. Drake flinches so slightly I almost miss it. I glance away. "I'm good standing."
