The unspoken words shimmered around her, golden threads of need and desire. She needed to get a handle on these nascent emotions, and quickly. Riley wasn’t thinking about champagne and roses and candlelight every time he bedded her, she knew that. Of course, Riley didn’t see the glorious colors dancing around his words, either.

“I got called in. There’s been an incident in Georgetown.”

The golden threads dissipated with a pop and something like fear skittered up her back. She didn’t recognize the sensation right away. She hadn’t been afraid in a very long time.

“Anything I can do?” she said, careful to stay neutral.

Riley’s voice cracked a bit. “I’m comin’ over. You sit tight.”

Riley was from Texas, and no matter what, when he was upset, or tired, or drunk, little bits of an accent floated through his teeth, tripping off his tongue in blues and reds, like the flag.

The quivery, uncontrolled feeling coursed through her again. It was fear, she thought—deep, abiding, acrid and horrible. It filled her nostrils and played along the edges of her skin. “Riley. Tell me right now. What’s happened?”

His great gusting sigh scared her even more. Riley was a rock. Nothing rattled him.

She already knew what he was going to say, felt herself sliding out of the chair, to the cold concrete patio, as if being closer to the earth would help cushion the blow.

“It’s Amanda, Robin. She’s been killed.”

The stark word danced around her, sharp needles poking and prodding.

Killed. Killed. Killed.

You knew you should have helped her. Why didn’t you swallow your pride and call?

She’s dead, and it’s your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

“That’s not possible,” she whispered.

But it was true. She could feel the emptiness in the world. The spot that housed her sister, always tangible and reachable, was gone.

She dropped the phone, didn’t hear Riley say, “I’ll be there in five minutes. You stay put.”

Amanda.

Mandy.

Gone.

Black. Black and gray, swirling, choking, drawing her down, the words covering her like a scratchy blanket, drawing tighter, suffocating.

It is your fault, Robin.

Chapter 4

Georgetown

DARREN FLETCHER PULLED up to the crime scene with the remnants of a hurried to-go cup of coffee in his hand. He parked, drained the cup, grimacing—the coffee had gone cold, and bitter with it—and waited for the caffeine to hit his system so he wouldn’t yawn in front of his team. It didn’t work; he felt a jaw-cracking one coming on. Ducked his head down, let it overtake him. He’d been asleep when the call came.

The yawn made him feel better. More alert. He dropped the coffee cup into the drink holder and got out of the car.

Every crime scene was the same. There were the usual crowds of neighbors clustered together along the sidewalk. Yellow crime scene tape was wound around the stop sign at the corner of O and Wisconsin, effectively blocking traffic from driving down the street. He expected the same was true at the other end of the block. Nodded to himself. They were handling things well.

A patrol officer held the clipboard, standing relaxed against a tree. He straightened when he saw Fletcher.

“Evening, sir. Got us a mess.”

“So I hear. Who’s on it?”

“Detective Hart’s talking to the witnesses right now.” He gestured down the sidewalk, where Fletcher’s old partner and now lead detective stood by a pair of girls, both tearstained and rumpled. “Dude’s girlfriend found them. They’re pretty shook up.”

“I bet. Thanks, Hernandez.”

Fletcher signed in, went down the stairs. He could smell the blood before he saw it. When he stepped through the hall into the main room, with all the crime scene lights burning brightly, the blood seemed chaotic in its motion, streams and spatters of red going everywhere.

He sighed. A long night ahead for his team.

They all knew Fletcher liked to look at things by himself. Two crime scene techs saw him come in and melted away, allowing their boss a clean scene to walk through.

One said in passing, “Watch the blood in the hall. It’s pretty thick as you go into the bedroom.”

Fletcher nodded his thanks and walked through by himself once, placing things. The tech was right. The blood was thick and smeary, almost as if the body had been dragged into the bedroom from the living room.

As he entered the master, he saw a woman’s body leaning against the bed, arms by her sides, a crumpled marionette. Her skin was blue; milky, slitted eyes stared at nothing. Skids of blood stained the carpet, the bed, the walls. Life’s blood, clearly. A six-inch blade lay quietly on the comforter, next to a small, dirty-white plastic tent with a green light inside to designate a significant piece of evidence, and the number seven written on it.

Crime scene markers.

There was another green-lit one on the dresser, perched next to a piece of paper.

He’d been told this was a murder-suicide. Here was the murder.

The suicide was not present for his own party. He’d been transported to George Washington University Hospital, in extreme distress.

The crime scene was messy, unwieldy, complicated. Not the worst he’d ever seen, but bad enough. It would take a week to sort through all the blood. And with two victims, it would cost him a mint. He couldn’t help but see the dollar signs—he had a budget now, new responsibilities. He needed to keep control of things. And DNA testing was expensive. A necessary evil, of course, but pricey all the same.

The note was on the dresser, a page ripped from a notebook, written in a slanting hand, the letters blocked, like an architect’s script, but leaning heavily to the right, as if the building plans attached to it were sliding down a hill.

You made me do this.

He left it there, made his way out of the apartment, up the stairs, breathing deeply of the city air, happy to let its gassy stink clear his sinuses of the reek of death. Spared a quick glance at the tall back windows of the house one street over. Samantha Owens lived there, and he was surprised she wasn’t over here already, marching around, giving orders. Of course, she wasn’t a part of his world, not really, just an interesting bystander who brought him the strangest cases.

He liked the idea of her working for the FBI. She needed the challenge.

The lights in her bedroom were dark. He shook off thoughts of his friend. He needed to attend to his witnesses before they were useless.

Emma and Cameron were their names. Both undergrad students at Georgetown. Both highly intoxicated still, though scared into some semblance of sobriety. Underage, too, of course, which meant trouble for whoever was serving them tonight, but he didn’t spare more than a moment’s thought to that issue. Not his problem.

The taller of the two was standing by the squad car, her arms wrapped around her body as if she could hold herself together. He imagined she’d never seen anything like this. It would scar her for life. And the other one—prettier, softer, but...less, somehow, than her friend—was well on her way to being medicated by the EMTs. The horror of violent death took people differently. Some freaked out, some got quiet. Some enjoyed the ruckus, found ways to make it all about them. Others shook, and were never right again.

Hart nodded to him as he approached. He looked as tired as Fletcher felt.

“Hey, boss. This is Emma Johnson. She found the victims. Cameron Saint, her friend. They came to visit Mr. Cattafi this evening and found them.” He gestured back toward the house.

The girl Hart had identified as Emma kept glancing at the house. Her voice was soft, hurting. “Is Tommy going to make it?”

Fletcher could smell the liquor on her breath. She’d been crying; her eyes were red and puffy. “I don’t know, ma’am. Can you run me through your night? Tell me what happened?”