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She paused, hand gripping the phone tighter. "I'm at the hospital. The doctors... they think Joslyn’s condition is too precarious to predict. She hasn’t spoken again. They don’t seem to think she’ll get better for a long time, if at all.”
"Shit, Red," Jake responded after a pause. "I'm sorry." The concern in his voice was palpable, even over the phone. "Stay strong, Red. I'll see you soon." His words carried the weight of a promise, a reminder that she wasn't alone in this.
"Thanks, Jake," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside. She pressed the 'end call' button and slipped the phone into her pocket. Her hand lingered there, clutching the fabric as if it could somehow anchor her to the moment of support he had given her.
She stood still in the hospital hallway, the bustling sounds around her fading into a low hum. Fiona closed her eyes for a brief second, allowing herself the luxury of feeling grateful for Jake. He had seen her at her worst, her moments of doubt and fear, yet he was always there, steadfast.
When she opened her eyes, she took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill her lungs. The gratitude she felt towards Jake mingled with her resolve. Fiona knew she had to pull herself together; there was work to be done, and Joslyn would have wanted her to carry on.
With a final glance back at the door leading to Joslyn's room, Fiona made her way to the exit. Her gait was purposeful, each step taking her further from the place of uncertainty and closer to the familiar realm of her investigative work. As an FBI agent, clarity and order were her allies, and she clung to them now as she navigated through the throngs of people in the hospital.
The sliding doors parted, and she stepped out into the world again, the morning sun bright. Fiona didn't look back. Instead, she focused on the path ahead. With Jake by her side and the memory of Joslyn's voice fueling her determination, she knew what she had to do.
As she walked toward her car, the crisp winter air felt like a balm, clearing her mind. Fiona slid behind the wheel, her hands steady on the steering wheel. The engine came to life with a purr, a sound that spoke of movement and progress. She pulled out of the parking lot, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Dr. Keller had been right—Joslyn wouldn’t want Fiona to wait around. If there was another case, then someone else was in danger, and Fiona had a job to do.
CHAPTER TWO
Jake strode down the sterile FBI corridor, his footsteps purposeful and echoing slightly off the polished floors. The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows that flickered with his passing. He was eager for distraction, a new case to immerse himself in, something to pull his mind from the tangled web of events from the last week.
His ex-girlfriend, Lauren, a chapter closed with the finality after she had her baby and it looked nothing like him, but like the other man she had been with. Lauren’s baby wasn’t Jake’s. It was a relief, but had left a void he hadn't expected. His thoughts drifted to Fiona and the image of her tenderly caring for Joslyn, her sister whose silence had finally broken after a decade of absence. The yearning for a family of his own gnawed at him—a future with Fiona—yet the timing was wrong. They were not ready.
The urgency of work beckoned, promising solace in duty. He reached Chief Whittaker's office and rapped sharply on the door, his knuckles rapping out his impatience.
"Come in," bellowed a voice from within, weighty with authority.
Jake pushed the door open and stepped inside. Chief Whittaker sat behind his desk, a fortress of paperwork and responsibility, his handlebar mustache twitching as he glanced up.
"Morning, Chief," Jake said, his tone even, betraying none of the turmoil within.
"Morning, Tucker," Whittaker replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Sit down."
Jake noted the empty chair beside him, Fiona's usual spot. "Red's not in yet?" he asked, an undercurrent of concern threading through the words.
"Should be any minute now," the chief said, dismissing the inquiry with a wave of his hand. "Got something big on our hands."
Jake nodded, taking a seat. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, ready to dive into whatever the chief had in store. Work was the anchor he needed right now, and he was more than willing to cast away from the shores of his personal life to lose himself in the depths of a new investigation.
Whittaker extended a manila folder across the desk. The words were clipped, "Jamie Lin, 31."
Jake's fingers brushed against the file, the touch like static as he opened it. Inside, a life reduced to official reports and glossy prints of a final, brutal scene. Jamie Lin's dark eyes stared up from the photos, her lifeless body sprawled on the kitchen floor. Sunlight streamed through a window, casting an eerie glow on the blood that pooled around her.
A familiar coldness settled in Jake's chest. He'd seen this before—not just in the field, but in the cradle of his own past. His mother's face flashed in his mind, lying in their kitchen, throat slit, her blood a stark contrast against the tile. He had been fifteen. The memory jolted through him, raw and uninvited. The man who killed Jake's mother had never been caught, but that had pushed him to become an FBI agent, breaking the trend of firefighters in his family. His mother had been one, too, a hero.
Jake swallowed hard, forcing the ghost back into the shadows of his mind. He said nothing.
"Lin isn't the first," Whittaker continued, unaware of the private storm raging inside Jake.
Another file landed with a soft thud next to the first. Lena Chase, 29, another woman, another kitchen painted in shades of crimson despair. Jake flipped it open. The similarities were glaring—another throat cut, another life stolen where comfort should have been found.
"Both left to bleed out," Jake murmured, his voice steady despite the tremor of rekindled grief.
"Identical M.O.," Whittaker confirmed. His eyes stayed on Jake, missing nothing.
The chief waited for a reaction, perhaps a sign of weakness, but Jake was an agent trained to compartmentalize, to lock away personal demons behind a facade of professionalism. He focused on the details, on the patterns emerging from the chaos. Two women, two lives brutally ended within the sanctity of their homes, within a week of each other.
"Any connections between them?" Jake asked, his brain now latching onto the puzzle, seeking the thread that bound these victims together.
"Well, they were both young women, and both physically fit—Jamie was a martial artist, with Lena was a bodybuilder by profession." Whittaker leaned back, his chair creaking under the shift. "But they didn’t seem to know each other, at least not at first glance. I have a feeling that's where you come in."
