Any smile she could get was a win these days. Though everything in the apartment seemed pleasant on the surface there was definitely some tension simmering just below. Ryan had asked for Hannah’s permission first before broaching the idea of living together with Jessie. While the request was thoughtful, Jessie sensed that Hannah had consented more out of politeness than any genuine excitement.
It was clear that Hannah wanted her to be happy. But she also obviously didn’t love sharing a two-bedroom apartment with an affectionate couple, especially when both of them were law enforcement professionals.
As Jessie considered this, Hannah walked over, pulled the tarts out of the oven and, without a word, dropped the tiniest one, which was also a bit charred, on the wet counter next to Jessie.
“Enjoy,” she muttered.
“Thanks,” Jessie said, choosing to focus on the offer of dessert rather than the manner in which it was delivered.
Sometimes Hannah’s mild resentment came out in the form of passive-aggressive teenage jabs or, in this case, burned pear tarts. Sometimes it manifested through sullen silence. It wasn’t constant but it emerged often enough to be noticeable. Her green eyes would turn stormy, her tall frame would get slouchy, and her sandy blonde hair would suddenly be tied back in a severe, disdainful ponytail.
The circumstances weren’t ideal for Jessie and Ryan either, neither of whom felt they could really let loose romantically with a seventeen-year-old in a bedroom just across the living room. They’d been living together in this configuration for less than a month, but it was already becoming clear that a conversation about their future living situation was inevitable.
“With all the security you have here, maybe we could invest in some bedroom soundproofing,” was the only quip Ryan had made on the matter.
And then there was the other thing, the one that hung over everything. Was Hannah Dorsey stable? Jessie had recently assumed custody of the half-sister she previously didn’t know existed, having discovered her only after their shared serial killer father murdered Hannah’s adoptive parents, and then another killer named Bolton Crutchfield had slaughtered her foster parents, kidnapped Hannah, and tried to indoctrinate her into becoming like him. It was a lot for anyone to recover from, much less someone in her junior year of high school.
“Please be careful with that knife,” she said as Hannah carelessly used it to scrape the remaining tarts off the parchment paper on the tray.
“Thanks, Mom,” Hannah muttered under her breath as she continued to use the blade like a scrub brush.
Jessie sighed without responding. The sight of her half-sister holding a long, serrated knife was disconcerting. Even as she tried to create a safe environment, she worried that perhaps some homicidal residue had been implanted in the girl. Had she secretly developed a blood lust after seeing the cruel power that violence offered those who embraced it? Was there some germ of murderousness that had somehow been passed down to her from her father? And if so, did Jessie have it too?
It was a question she’d brooded over for months. She addressed it with her therapist, Dr. Janice Lemmon, who had also been seeing Hannah. It was something she’d even asked her mentor, famed criminal profiler Garland Moses, to investigate. But no one could offer her anything definitive about Hannah’s nature, just as she couldn’t seem to discern a firm answer about her own character.
Most of the time Hannah just seemed like a regular teenage girl, with all the expected moods and hormones. But considering the trauma she’d suffered in recent months, sometimes even being “regular” seemed suspicious.
Jessie shook her head, trying to rattle the thoughts out of her brain. Right now, things were decent. Her sister had made dessert, even if she gave her the burned one. Everyone was being nice. Jessie was supposed to return to desk work next week and hopefully to full duty as a criminal profiler the week after that. Things were progressing.
Yes, it was frustrating to watch Ryan leave each morning, headed out to LAPD’s Central Station, where they both worked. But she’d be joining him soon. Then she could return to the world she loved, where she got to catch killers by delving into their minds.
For half a second, the troubling nature of “loving” that world jumped out at her. But she swallowed the concern quickly, along with a bite of Hannah’s excellent pear tart. Even slightly singed, it was delicious. As they were all finishing dessert, Ryan’s cell phone rang. Even before he looked at it, everyone knew what it was about. At this hour, it was almost certainly a case.
“Hello?” Ryan answered.
He listened quietly for almost a minute. Jessie could barely make out the voice on the other end of the line. But based on the raspy, unhurried style, she was sure she knew who it was.
“Garland?’ she asked when Ryan hung up.
“Yep,” he said, nodding as he stood up and began gathering his things. “He’s handling a case in Manhattan Beach and thinks it’s a fit for HSS. He wants my help.”
“Manhattan Beach?” Jessie pressed. “That’s a little out of our jurisdiction, isn’t it?”
“Apparently the victim’s husband is a big-time downtown oil executive. He’s heard of Garland and specifically requested him. He’s supposedly a major asshole so the local cops are happy to play second fiddle to LAPD on this one.”
“Sounds like fun,” Jessie said.
“That’s the weird thing,” Ryan said, addressing not her but Hannah as he threw on his sports jacket and gun belt. “Most people would say that sarcastically. But your sister genuinely means it. She’s jealous that she can’t come along. It’s a sickness.”
He was right, in more ways than one.
CHAPTER THREE
Garland Moses felt guilty.
He’d been driving fast, trying to get to the crime scene as quickly as possible. As he drove west along Manhattan Beach Boulevard toward the ocean, he crested the top of the hill just as the last remnants of the setting sun cast a pinkish-orange glow over the beach town and beyond it, the Pacific Ocean.
Something about the sight loosened the tight ball of anticipation in his chest. Most people knew him as the crusty veteran profiler who rarely showed any emotion, much less something like awe. But alone in his car, he was free to gawk at the sight of surfers silhouetted against the crimson sun, with sailboats as their background. But even as he marveled at the postcard scene, the guilt started to creep in, telling him he wasn’t here to appreciate the view. He was here on business.
Still, as he drove down the last stretch of road before it dead-ended at the pier, he glanced jealously at the crowds of people wandering the streets in summer attire. Though it was approaching 8 p.m., he still wore his unofficial uniform, a worn-out gray sport coat and a dull, off-white dress shirt. Normally he also added a sweater vest, but on this hot day that was too much even for him. He did, however, wear his traditional, faded navy slacks and badly scuffed brown loafers. The whole get-up was like a costume, designed to make suspects and witnesses let down their guard around the elderly, seemingly absentminded gentleman asking them personal questions.
He turned right on Ocean Drive, just a block from the beach. It was more of an alley than a street and he had to weave in and out of sloppily parked cars to get to the address he’d been given. When he arrived, he parked in a loading zone, put his LAPD placard on the dashboard, and got out.