Page 3 of Blossoming Dahlia

She was pale, and her face was pinched, even asleep, her cheeks sunken from lack of nutrition. There were bruises on her arms and legs, some faded, and some newer. I knew they’d checkher out at the hospital, run a tox screen, blood panels, probably a CT to check for internal damage. Physical damage was only half the problem though, it wasn’t just physical scars she’d carry.

“You go with them, I’ll oversee the crime scene techs here. I’ll meet you at the hospital when we’re finished,” Hunter instructed, eyeing me curiously. I frowned at him, confused by this change in procedure.

“Shouldn’t you be there? She might wake up,” I replied immediately, shoving my hands in my pockets. Hunter handled the people aspect of the job, while I dealt with the paperwork, that was how it always worked. Sometimes I sat in on the interviews, or participated in the interrogations, but I never led them. I wasn’t good with people, or maybe they weren’t good with me, whatever the case may be, he usually dealt with this part. I solved the puzzle in the background, and Hunter dumbed it down and explained it to the people around us.

“We still need to find Curing, I can’t manage that from the hospital,” he told me, which felt like a lie. I’d seen this guy manage SWAT and local PD in a tactical assault while taking fire and hiding behind a dumpster. “Plus, if she does wake up, she’s our best bet for some quick answers. You can interview her, try to pry out any details she might have that will lead us to this asshole.” I couldn’t argue with that, at least not quick enough to change anything. The EMTs were already taking her upstairs, and Hunter gave me a final look that left no room for discussion. I gave him a half-hearted wave and ran up the stairs to catch up with the EMTs. I stopped by the car on the way and grabbed my bag before I hopped into the back of the ambulance, bracing as we took off toward the hospital.

Chapter three

Asher

Iknew without a doubt that this was Dahlia Porter, but without any identification, the hospital had to admit her as a Jane Doe until we could verify who she was. Ms. Porter was still unconscious, and they started her on an IV in the ambulance because she was severely dehydrated. Once she was in a private room, I waited behind the curtain while nurses cut off the dress she’d been wearing, and a couple of techs bagged everything as evidence. They also took her shoes and got a hair sample, as well as scraping from under her fingernails. I listened as the nurses murmured to each other, their voices floating over the thin curtain wall.

“-look at the wounds here, they’re fresh, and they look deep.”

“She’ll have scarring, we should get plastics in to take a look.”

The intercom on the phone buzzed as they paged someone else to come in. I peaked around the corner to check on the techs. They had a gown on Ms. Porter to cover her thin frame—she was lying on her side as they examined her back. Lacerations coveredher middle and lower back, some were clearly made recently while others looked almost healed. I grimaced and waved one of the techs over, reminding them to take pictures of the wounds before they were patched up. One of them had finally cut the collar off of her neck, and I picked it up in the evidence bag, examining it through the plastic.

“Nasty bit of handiwork,” someone commented, and I looked over to the technician at my right, who was cataloging the evidence.

“It’s homemade?” I asked, taking a closer look. I’d never had a dog, so I was not familiar with shock collars, but this thing looked more like a homemade IED than something you’d put on an animal.

“It looks like they took pieces from a taser and rigged it to a shock collar. Same concept but a bigger bite.” I grimaced and set the device back down on the table. It always astounded me, the lengths that some people would go to just to fulfill their own twisted desires. I walked back behind the curtain and checked my phone. Hunter and a team of officers had gone to Curing’s workplace and a couple of frequented spots, but so far there was no trace of him. We had an A.P.B. out and his face would be splashed on every news channel at 6 p.m. tonight. We weren’t releasing any information about Ms. Porter just yet, not until we could verify her identity.

“Agent Cross?” I glanced behind me, and a nurse waved me over.

“It’s Doctor actually, I’m not an agent,” I told her casually, ignoring her look of confusion. Sure I had a gun, a badge, and a partner who screamed FBI out of every pore, but I was just a behavioral analyst who worked for the FBI, so I didn’t get the snazzy title. “What do you need?”

“Our plastic surgeon is coming to do a consult once he’s out of surgery, in the meantime we’re going to bandage her up and lether rest. Does your team have all the pictures they need?” she asked, glancing at the duo standing by the evidence tray. The one with the camera had already turned it off, which I assumed meant they were finished for now.

“They’re done,” I replied and stepped back to get out of their way. The techs wheeled the evidence out to the waiting officers, and once the nurses were finished with the bandages, they also headed out of the room. I followed them, wanting to check in with the officer who was still there.

“Has a shift been assigned to stand watch here?” I asked, and he nodded, leaning against the wall. “If you need to leave your post for any reason, knock on the door and let me know alright?” He grimaced at me, and it was only after I said it that I realized this probably wasn’t his first time guarding someone. “I’m Dr. Cross,” I offered, trying again. “You can call me Asher.” I waited a beat, and he grunted an acknowledgement, looking me up and down briefly.Right, okay then. I sighed and let myself back into the room, shutting the door quietly behind me.

I took a seat near the bed so I could watch the door and keep an eye on Ms. Porter, and I grabbed my bag off the floor, rooting around until I found my notebook and a pen. I started to scribble my notes from today on a new page, preferring to document as much as I could while it was still fresh in my mind. At least it was fairly quiet in here, aside from the hum of the devices set up behind the bed and the occasional voice over the intercom.

Every half hour or so a nurse popped in to check Ms. Porter’s IV and make a note on her chart. So far she hadn’t moved or woken up, and I was starting to get a little concerned that she had some head trauma we had missed. Hunter checked in a few times, letting me know their progress. The News had finally aired the story, so Curing would be forced to go to ground now. I didn’t envy the officers manning those phone lines tonight. Everyone and their dog would be calling in to say that theydefinitely saw Steve Curing shopping for canned peas at the supermarket in some small town in Wyoming. Rarely, if ever, did we get anything useful on those tip lines, most of it was just an outlet for lonely or crazy people.

I scratched my chin with the pen idly as I started off into space. Where would Curing go now, what would be his next step? He was meticulous, every detail was exact, every step planned out just so. He would be furious that we stole away his latest doll, untethered without his collection of clothes and the videos he’d been saving of the women he hurt. Would he run, give up, or try to finish things with Ms. Porter? I doubted he would give up, he profiled as someone who would choose suicide by cop over jail. This wasn’t about the notoriety for him, this was about his own twisted game. He’d want to finish the game, it would itch under his skin until it ate away any rational thought. He’d do something stupid, he would make a mistake, and that was how we’d catch him.

Chapter four

Dahlia

My heartbeat sounded funny in my ears, wait, was I normally able to hear my heart beating? Why was it so loud? And why did it sound like a car backing up? My head felt funny; not funny like the drugs in my food, funny like… high? Was I on painkillers? I blinked my eyes open, squinting up at an unfamiliar fluorescent light, and the beeping increased in speed as I began to panic.

Where the fuck was I?

I have had enough of waking up in strange places for one lifetime, and it was really starting to piss me off. I looked down at my hands, one of which had a tube sticking out of it, and the little gadget on my finger that monitored my heart. I forced myself to breathe deeply, realizing that, yet again, I had been changed in my sleep, only this time it was a flimsy hospital gown.

Am I in the hospital?

The curtains across the side of the room suggested that yes, I was, as did the array of machines beeping behind me. Buthow had I gotten here? The events of… yesterday? were a haze, and my thoughts were moving too sluggishly to dredge up the memories.Am I free? Am I safe now?I glanced around the room, looking for dangers, and my heart stuttered when I noticed a shape in the chair nearby. It looked like a man, but he wasn’t one that I recognized. He seemed to be asleep right now, his tall frame barely fitting in the chair he was camped out in, his messy hair flopping down over his eyes, obscuring my view of his face.

Every instinct in my brain was telling me to run, right now while I had the chance. I didn’t know why I was here, but I had to get out, find a phone, and call Amanda. She’d know what to do. Slipping my legs out of the sheets, I edged off the bed until my feet touched the floor. I grabbed the pole holding my IV bag and used it for support, and I pulled off the sensor on my finger, tossing it on the bed. Immediately the machine began blaring that my heart had stopped beating, and I flinched as it startled the man in the chair, his eyes opening with a look of pure panic.

I took my chances and rushed for the door, wincing as the muscles in my back refused to obey my commands. He beat me to it, holding his hands up either to catch me or stop me. I looked around for a weapon, but unless he was deathly allergic to jello cups I was shit out of luck. “You should sit down before you pull your stitches out,” he told me, and boy was it weirdly amazing to hear another person’s voice again. He reached for his pocket, and I stepped back defensively, but he only pulled out a badge, holding it out for me to see. “I’m Dr. Asher Cross, I’m with the FBI. You’re safe.”

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