A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(2)

Zoe, open the door. Can’t stay in there forever, Zoe. And then that giggle, the sound of a man consumed by need.

She shuddered and shook her head. She was thirty-three years old, damn it. She wasn’t a child anymore. When would her memories release their hold on her?

Probably never. The past had a way of sinking its roots deep inside. She, of all people, should know that. How many of her subjects had been permanently scarred and changed by their own pasts?

She plodded into the bathroom, discarding her shirt and underwear on the floor behind her. The water of the shower cleared her head, helped her to shake loose the last threads of sleep. The shampoo bottle was empty. She filled it with some water to get the dregs and came up with nothing. She had used this trick yesterday—and three days ago. If she wanted shampoo, she’d have to buy some. She let the water caress her skin a bit more. Refreshed, she walked out of the shower, thinking, Add shampoo to shopping list. Add shampoo to shopping list. She rummaged through the clothes on the floor, finding nothing she wanted to wear. Opening the closet, she located a blue button-down shirt and black pants and put them on. Add shampoo to shopping list. She combed her auburn hair impatiently, stopping once the worst tangles were gone. Add shampoo to shopping list.

She plodded to the kitchen and switched on the light. Her eyes immediately focused on the king of the kitchen: the coffee machine. She walked over and picked up the jar of Colombian ground coffee that stood next to it. She never ran out of coffee, not since the debacle back in the summer of 2011. Two filters went in the machine to make it stronger. She needed an aggressive caffeine jolt to get her going in the morning. She put a small mountain of coffee inside the filters, then added a bit more. She poured the water on top and turned the machine on, watching the beautiful sight of coffee trickling into the pot.

While she waited for the liquid of life to brew, she walked to the shopping list on the fridge door and stared at it. There was something she had to add. Finally, she wrote down toilet paper. It was a safe bet; she was always running out of toilet paper. She returned to the machine and poured the coffee into her favorite, albeit chipped, white mug, ignoring the row of unused mugs on the shelf. They had been exiled from use for being too small or too large or having a thick lip or an uncomfortable grip. The coffee mug hall of shame.

She sipped the brew, inhaling as she did. She stood next to the machine, just drinking and enjoying the feeling of coffee spreading through her body, until the mug was empty.

One. Six more to go.

The brown envelope lay on the wooden kitchen table, the gray strip of cloth protruding from it. She had discarded it there the night before, as if trying to prove to herself that she didn’t care, that it didn’t matter anymore.

Now, in the darkness of early morning, it seemed like a stupid thing to have done. She picked up the envelope and walked over to her home office, where her desk was. She gathered her courage and opened the desk’s bottom drawer, the one that she almost always kept closed.

A small stack of similar envelopes lay inside. She shoved the newest envelope onto the pile, crumpled it, and slammed the drawer shut. She felt better. She walked back into the kitchen, her steps a bit lighter.

As the clutches of the nightmare faded, she realized she was starving. Here was the one good thing about waking up early: she had ample time to make herself some breakfast. She cracked two eggs into the frying pan, let them sizzle, put a piece of bread in the toaster. She decided she deserved a dollop of cream cheese on her plate as well. She smiled as she slid the eggs out of the frying pan and laid them gently on the plate. Both yolks remained unbroken. A win for Zoe Bentley. She cut the toast into triangles, then carefully dipped one of them in the round yellow yolk and bit into it.

Exquisite. How could a simple egg taste so good? And the thing to really go with this breakfast was a cup of coffee. She poured herself another one.

Two.

She glanced at her phone again. Five thirty. Still too early to go to work. But the thought of staying in this silent apartment, with the envelope lurking in the drawer, was unpleasant.

If I need to break this door, you’ll regret it, Zoe.

The hell with it. She could do some paperwork. Chief Mancuso would be happy.

She went downstairs and slid into her cherry-colored Ford Fiesta. She switched the engine on and put on Taylor Swift’s Red, fast-forwarding to “All Too Well.” Taylor’s voice and guitar filled the car’s small interior, soothing Zoe’s frayed nerves. She could always count on Taylor to make it all better.

The streets of Dale City were nearly empty. The sky was still dark, and a shade of dark blue signified the approaching sunrise. Zoe enjoyed the silence as she drove down Dale Boulevard. Maybe she should start waking up every day at four in the morning. She had the world to herself. Just her and the bastard trucker who cut in ahead of her, forcing her to slow down. Taylor’s song was now mixed with the torrent of curses that Zoe hurled into the open air, honking furiously. The trucker sped on.

She got on I-95 and drove south as Taylor switched to “22.” Zoe pressed the gas pedal, relishing the acceleration. She cranked up the volume and sang along, her head rocking slightly with the song’s cheerful beat. Life was pretty good after all. She’d make herself a third cup of coffee when she got to work, she decided. Those three cups should carry her until lunchtime. She got off on Fuller Road, the road signs to Quantico leading the way.

She parked her car in the nearly empty parking lot, a small smattering of other cars dotting her surroundings. A short walk, an ID card flipped at the entrance, two flights of stairs, and she was in her office. The silence of the entire floor was a bit disconcerting. The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit was hardly a noisy place even in the middle of the day, but she could usually hear agents talking in the corridor or the occasional hurried footsteps passing by her doorway. Today, it was all quiet except for the hum of the air-conditioning. She sat down in front of her computer, preparing herself mentally for the weekly report she knew Mancuso would demand as soon as she arrived. Zoe was required to turn in a weekly report every Monday, summarizing her previous week’s work. She typically handed it over on the following Friday, by which time Mancuso would have threatened to send her back to Boston. But today would be different. For once, she’d have the report ready on Thursday, only three days late, freeing her from this bureaucratic nightmare until next week. Zoe smiled as she started typing it in.