The woman agent steps forward and opens a small evidence case. Foam-lined. Clinical. I already know what’s inside before she lifts it: a syringe. My glass syringe. Or the type I’m using. All of mine are accounted for. But they’re rare, and a good forensics accountant can figure out who’s selling them.
And who’s buying them. Me.
My jaw locks for half a second, but I force it to relax.
“This is identical to what the ME thinks is being used for the Hot-Shot Homicides,” she says, holding the hypodermic needle up between gloved fingers. “The killer uses a very specific barrel. Reinforced glass to prevent contamination during transport.”
Scarlett’s gaze flicks to me for some reason. I stare off into space, ignoring her.
Easy. Breathe. Stay still.
The male agent continues, “We’re asking medicalprofessors and students to be vigilant. The victims never live long enough to seek any kind of medical attention. It’s usually straight to the morgue. But there’s often a struggle. The killer might end up in your care with bruises and scratches.”
“And a vague story of how they got there,” the DEA agent adds.
Scarlett tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. That tiny line appears between her brows. It’s her thinking crease, and I’m already addicted to seeing it. I watch for it to know she’s paying attention to me. Or whatever the fuck I’m saying.
Now, she’s studying the syringe, though she has no reason to. There’s no possible way she’d make a connection to me.
“Do you have photos of the suspect?” a student wisely asks.
I think of the drone footage Trace had, and I brace for impact.
“No,” the woman answers. “Our working profile suggests a male suspect. He’s smart and avoids cameras.”
Thankfully, I have a guardian angel named Shane Quinlan who wipes them clean of my sins.
I keep my pulse steady as I’ve trained it to. But inside, I feel the quiet slide of inevitability.
That one day I’ll get caught. Now I know they’re circling closer. More of a reason to wind this down. Tell Harrow to figure out another way to get his justice or find some other ex-junkie with an axe to grind.
I can’t let my second chance collapse. I need to be there for my son.
“Professor?” the male agent prods me from my thoughts.
I blink. “Yes?”
“Anything you’d like to add?”
I smile, tight and polite with that academic curl on my lips. “Only that my students can always come to me with any concerns if they’re unsure or shy about calling the FBI.”
I scoff an inward laugh at the brilliance of that suggestion. Something I could shut down at the source.
Scarlett glances my way again, this time with concern in her eyes. Not suspicion. But I can’t allow any attention from her to soak into my bones. I’ll like it too much, and that’s dangerous.
When the agents shake my hand and finally step out, the tension in the room slowly evaporates. I push off the desk and return to the lectern.
“All right,” I say evenly, like my world didn’t just tilt. “Where were we?”
Scarlett’s eyes stay on me for a heartbeat longer with a flicker of something unsettled. I sense she’s thinking hard about how I acted around the agents.
I have to snap out of what just happened. “Let’s recap Vestri’s controversial paper on propofol,” I continue, voice steady even as my nerves rattle.
Back on track, the class settles down and begins taking notes again, when suddenly a siren blasts through the lecture hall. An ambulance siren.In the class?
Everyone jumps, and the roar cuts through me like a bone saw. Glancing at Scarlett, I see her eyes go wide. It’s coming from her phone. The entire class gawks at her as she fumbles, slapping the screen. Her cheeks flush as I see her mouthing tiny, mumbled curses under her breath.
My chest reacts before my brain does. “Turn off your phone,” I instruct, voice sharper than intended.