Page 52 of Dirty Valentine
Don’t be ridiculous,I told myself.It’s just a cat.
But Judith’s words echoed in my memory:She’s still here.
I forced my attention back to our victim’s body, completing the internal examination with methodical thoroughness.Her organs showed no signs of disease or toxicity, confirming that violence alone had ended her life.Someone had beaten her, shot her, and then taken time to carve a message into her flesh.The progression suggested ritual rather than simple murder.
The lab’s climate control system cycled on with a mechanical sigh, and the sudden rush of air made the victim’s hair flutter slightly.For one heart-stopping moment, it looked like she was trying to lift her head.
I jerked backward, my pulse spiking with primitive fear.She’s dead,I reminded myself.It’s just air circulation.
But my hands shook as I began suturing the incision closed.The familiar task should have been calming, yet every stitch felt like binding more than just flesh.The silence pressed against me, broken only by the storm’s assault on the building and the steady hum of machinery.
When I glanced at the security monitors again, the black cat was gone.
I checked every camera feed, scanning the empty parking areas and tree lines for any sign of movement.Nothing.The animal had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving only wind-driven rain and dancing shadows.
The rational part of my mind insisted it had simply run for shelter when the storm worsened.Cats were smart that way—they didn’t sit in downpours for hours just to unnerve forensic pathologists.But the primitive part of my brain, the part that remembered humanity’s superstitious past, whispered different explanations.
I finished the autopsy after one in the morning, sealing the last evidence bag and updating my digital notes.Our Jane Doe had died violently, likely incapacitated by blunt force trauma to the head before being transported elsewhere.The defensive wounds told the story of someone who’d regained consciousness and fought back with everything she had—probably when her attacker opened a trunk or moved her to the final location.The skin cells and blood under her fingernails meant she’d wounded whoever killed her.
A single gunshot to the heart had ended her life, followed by the deliberate carving of a symbol into her flesh.Her killer was strong enough to overpower a fighting woman and organized enough to transport and dump her body where it would be discovered.But beyond those facts, the physical evidence couldn’t tell me who or why.
Just as I was preparing to transfer the body to cold storage, the fingerprint scanner chimed with results.The match confirmed what we’d suspected.
Dr.Victoria Mills, age forty-seven.Licensed physician.King George County resident.
The missing doctor whose car had been spotted at the cemetery.The woman whose house had been ransacked.The descendant of Rachel Mills, whose grave had been marked with the stone circle.
I was gathering my things when the security system made a sound I’d never heard before—a low electronic whine that seemed to emanate from the steel door’s locking mechanism.The LED panel flickered between green and red, as if the system couldn’t decide whether the lab was secure or compromised.
On the monitors, I watched shadows move across the empty parking lot in patterns that didn’t quite match the swaying trees.The motion was too fluid, too purposeful.Someone could be out there, circling the building with predatory patience.
The lock mechanism whined again, and this time the sound was accompanied by a softclickthat made my pulse spike.In the sudden silence that followed, I could hear my own heartbeat hammering against my ribs.
I stared at the monitors, searching for whatever had triggered the security system.The cameras showed nothing but storm and darkness, yet something had approached the building.Something that didn’t register clearly on visual surveillance but had somehow interfaced with our security network.
That’s when I realized the steel door was opening.
A shadow filled the threshold—the silhouette of a man, tall and broad shouldered, backlit by the hallway lights above.Every instinct screamed at me to run, but there was nowhere to go.The lab that had always been my sanctuary had become a trap, and someone had just walked into it with me.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
“Jaye.”
The sound of my name, spoken in that familiar baritone, dissolved the terror that had wrapped around me like ice.Jack materialized from the shadows beyond the doorway, and the sight of him—rumpled shirt, hair mussed from the rain, those steady blue eyes focused entirely on me—made something tight in my chest finally release.
“Thank God.”My voice came out breathless, shaky.“You scared the daylights out of me.”
“Sorry.”He hurried down the stairs and crossed to me in three quick strides, kissing me on the top of the head.“The storm knocked out the main power grid for about thirty seconds.When it came back online, the security system had to run through its full reboot cycle before I could access the lower level.”
The relief was so profound it left me dizzy.Of course.The electronic whining, those flashing lights—it had all been circuits and programming, not some otherworldly presence.My rational mind reasserted itself, embarrassed by how completely I’d let fear take control.
“I blame the pregnancy hormones,” I said.“How’s Judith?”
Jack’s expression darkened.“She’s heavily sedated now, but when she was lucid enough to talk, I managed to piece together fragments of what happened.”He rubbed his face with both hands, the gesture of a man who’d heard too much human horror for one night.“Most of it was rambling, but certain words kept coming up—Bridget Ashworth, ancestors, land, trust.”
“Someone came to her house?”
“That’s what I gathered.She kept saying they knew things—her family history.”Jack’s voice dropped.“Then she said something about blood ties and revenge.
