Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
This man, this “forensic” tech, is Jack Cox
The man Kane believes isn’t the killer.
Chapter Seven
I don’t know if Jack Cox is a serial killer, but I do know that he’s more comfortable with this particular dead body than Jay, who works for Kane. But this realization, at least where Jay is concerned, doesn’t surprise me any more than DoorDash bringing my order cold and rifled through. It’s just expected and accepted to the point that even I, Lilah fucking Love-Mendez, tip the driver to fuck me over.
At least I get something to eat with DoorDash.
I’m no fool, nor blind to the fact that Kane chose Jay to work with me because he thought Jay couldn’t fuck him over.
Jay has an obvious lack of real exposure to Kane’s dirty deeds. He’s exposed, just not eyes wide open exposed, and neither am I. Obviously, and despite a vow otherwise, that’s how Kane intends to keep it as well. That’s in the air, the battle brewing between us. Kane knows I can’t extract water from a rock, and a lack of knowledge equals Jay being a rock. Okay, not a rock, I decide as I glance at his greenish skin tone, which proves what I already knew. Killing someone, even seeing a dead body, is not the same as watching a dead, naked body become the center of attention for an entire team of law enforcement.
There’s something rather gruesome about it, at least until you learn how to separate yourself from the scene.
“Do not throw up inside my crime scene,” I order.
He stiffens. “I’m not going to throw up.”
I smirk. “Of course not. You’re a badass bitch, right?”
“Bitch?” he demands.
“Little bitch,” I assure him because everyone knows a guy hates to be called a “little bitch” before I cross the room and join John and Jack, which would be cute if they weren’t both fucking up my crime scene.
I kneel beside the body, carefully avoiding the outline of blood—aware that the victim is a tall man, early twenties, with dark hair and blood dripping from his mouth. He’s on the thin side, with stab wounds to his chest. The kind of wounds that don’t happen without force behind them, and certainly don’t cause bleeding from the mouth.
All of this processes, yes, but my gaze is level with Jack’s stare. “Jack Cox,” I greet, and it’s not a question.
“You came,” he says, pride glowing from him like a damn halo. His eyes are pale blue, like an angel, and there’s a goofy innocent quality about him that rings hollow and untrue. “I knew you would,” he says.
Because he’s been studying me.
And yet, he knows so little.
“I’m an FBI agent,” I say, stating the obvious by intent. “You are not an agent, nor are you a detective. Why are you currently talking to my ME as if you were?”
John’s eyes go wide and he glances from me to Jack. “You’re not a detective?”
“Forensics,” Jack replies. “I told you that.”
“You said—”
There’s a low male curse from the doorway and Jack’s gaze lifts before he pops to his feet. “Detective, I can explain—”
I push to my feet and rotate to find the man I assume to be Marco Rollins stepping in front of me. I say assume because I didn’t actually meet him in person before shutting him out of the last case.
“Agent Love,” he greets. “Or is it Mendez now?”
Marco is a tall, dark, mid-thirties guy, with a goatee and an attitude as the accessories to his slacks, pressed shirt, and tie. “Depends on the time of the month, but you can call me Special Agent Love because that’s about as scary a version of me you can tolerate. As it is, you didn’t want to call me in on this case. I can’t imagine how you’d feel if I were a Mendez.”
“I’m not afraid of your new husband.”
“Just me? I think that might be a compliment, Detective Rollins, and while I appreciate that, they really don’t go far with me.”
“Neither does hard work, apparently. You shut me out.”
“And that decision was less personal than your panties that are presently in a wad. I hope they’re at least a pretty color.”
He dirties up his expression with a grumpy look, thrumming fingers in the air as if he’s typing. It’s strange. It’s also his way of not screaming or punching me. Since I hate loud noises and I don’t want to make my first day back on the job the day I shoot someone else, I’ll let him have his little air piano. Jack chooses that moment to try to back away. That’s when Marco’s gaze shoots to him as if he just realized he’s in the room.
“Go do your job,” Marco snaps. “And we will have words back at the station.”
Jack nods agreeably and quickly turns away, grabbing a dusting kit and moving to the nightstand.