“So, there’s no real correlation between them except for the symbol,” Flynn said. He was looking back and forth between the images closely, comparing them. “No match for location, method, type of woman—except that they’re both older. But the cops on the ground think the cases are linked.”
“Clearly, they are,” Zoe stated calmly, trying not to snap at him. “The symbol is a calling card. It marks them as being done by the same hand.”
“Hmm.” Flynn passed the photographs back, watching her tuck them away into the folder. “Hey, I heard you’ve been an agent for a long time.”
“I have ten years on you,” Zoe replied. She turned her head to look out her window. It would be excellent if Flynn would shut up. So long as she looked out there, and managed to ignore the glass of the window itself, she could focus on the white, fluffy nothingness of clouds. There were no numbers out there.
“You’ve had a lot of partners, too, right?” Flynn asked. “They told me about you when I was getting assigned.”
Zoe stiffened. If he asked her about Shelley, she would get up and walk to the front of the plane and pretend she was using the bathroom. She didn’t want to—such a tight space would be crowded with numbers, the tiny dimensions of a room shrunk down to the size of a cupboard—but it would be better than talking about that. No one ever wanted to discuss their biggest failures. Not when they were so recent and weighed so heavily.
“They said you were one of the best agents at solving these kind of complicated cases,” he said. He had shifted closer to her, almost imperceptibly. Almost, but not—not when you were counting the millimeters. “You’re some kind of savant, or something.”
“Am I?” Zoe asked flatly, not willing to rise to his bait.
“Seriously. They told me I’ll learn a lot from you.”
“Who is ‘they’?” Zoe asked, turning around to meet his gaze with sharp eyes. She wanted to know who had been talking about her behind her back—not that it would make much difference. The cocky smile on Flynn’s face faded and faltered, the muscles around his mouth twitching down by turns.
“Uh, just, everyone,” Flynn said, his voice uncertain now. He shifted back in the other direction again, returning to his original position. “So, I mean, we’ll probably solve the case really quick, right? You and me, working together? Maybe I can take lead and you can let me know if I miss anything.”
Zoe continued to stare at him for a moment, letting out only one small blink, and then turned back to stare out the window again.
She didn’t like him, this Aiden Flynn. He was cocky, maybe even more so than most of the new recruits. A rookie who hadn’t yet found his limitations. His background likely had something to do with it. It was doubtful that anyone had ever told him no.
She wasn’t interested in sharing anything with him, and especially not her abilities. Whether it was a blessing or a curse was something she had yet to square away within her own mind, but whatever it was, she wasn’t about to let this stranger hear about it. Not only was it not something she confided in anyone, ever, but it would have been an insult to Shelley’s memory. Only one partner in the whole of her career had ever made Zoe want to reveal her true self.
This arrogant young man with his silky hair and fitted suit was not going to be joining the list.
Which meant that Zoe now faced a battle on two fronts: not just to push through past the numbers that invaded everywhere her eyes turned, every sound her ears heard, so that she could solve the case, but also to keep him from knowing how she was doing it.
Zoe kept her eyes on the clouds, relishing this small bit of calm before it all began. This wasn’t going to be an easy case. She just hoped she could get it solved quickly, so she wouldn’t have to put up with this new partner for much longer.
CHAPTER SIX
Zoe pulled the seatbelt away from her neck again, holding onto it more firmly. She had to take several steadying breaths to calm her stomach. She had never been a fan of being a passenger—it always made her carsick—but it was even worse with the rookie driving. He took corners far too fast, and sped up straight roads even though he was in unfamiliar territory. Every time the GPS barked at him to take an exit, he had to perform a tight turn at breakneck speed just to make it. It was a wonder he hadn’t resorted to using the handbrake and drifting.
“Looks like this is it,” Flynn said, bending his neck to see ahead more easily. They were pulling up outside a sheriff’s station, the building quiet except for the few patrol cars parked outside and a single reporter in a downy coat.
Zoe took a deep breath of relief, finally letting go of the seatbelt. Even as they came to a stop, the pressure of it against her neck was enough to make her feel nauseous until she unbuckled it and let it go. The nausea combined with the headache that was still lingering at the edges of her consciousness, as well as the numbers crowding her vision, left Zoe feeling winded, unable to focus. She wanted to just sit, rest her head back against the seat, maybe sleep for a while—not that there was any chance of that.
The rookie was already opening his door and getting out, so Zoe begrudgingly followed suit. She couldn’t afford to lag behind, not with a partner who didn’t yet know what he was doing. She’d been partnered with rookies fresh out of training before. All they wanted to do was rush in and prove themselves, and they tended to be annoyingly procedural. Unwilling to bend from the precise structure they had been taught. That meant a headache for her, and a lot of arguing. Just exactly what she needed at a time like this.
She caught up with Flynn on the approach to the double doors of the squat, low, gray sheriff’s building. It was getting late in the day; a check of her watch showed her that it was past seven at night, and the sun had long since set. Artificial yellow light from security bulbs around the building kept it fully visible, with tiny flies and moths wobbling around each of them, dancing forward and back under the irresistible pull. The reporter, who was trying to warm his hands as he bounced up and down on his feet, watched them go in but didn’t call out.
A receptionist in a fleece jacket looked up as they entered, taking the end of a pen out of her mouth. “Hi, can I help you?” she asked. Zoe noted that she was wearing three earrings in each of her ears, and that her fingernails were two-inch-long plastic painted with a complex mottled pattern.
She opened her mouth to answer, but found another voice seemingly coming out of it. “We’re from the FBI,” Flynn said, raising his badge to show it. “We’re supposed to meet with the sheriff.”
The receptionist nodded disinterestedly and picked up the phone on her desk. She spoke a few words into it; Zoe was too busy counting the spirals in the desk phone’s cord to hear them. After putting the phone down, the receptionist put the pen back into her mouth and proceeded to ignore them, poring over something that lay flat on her desk, just out of sight.
Zoe turned impatiently under the fluorescent strip lights at the sound of footsteps. A door up ahead in the corridor opened, and a woman stepped through. She wore a brown sheriff’s uniform, complete with radios and gun tucked into her belt. Around fifty years old, she had slightly graying hair that had been dyed over, though the roots were showing through at least an inch long.