Page 45 of Fatal Pattern

The girl’s head lifted from his shoulder. Her dark eyes found the female EMT standing in the doorway. A woman with graying hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and the kind of calmness that came from years of emergency calls.

“Hi there, sweetheart.” The EMT stepped forward, hands visible. “My name’s Carol. I’m going to take really good care of you, okay?”

The girl looked between Stryker and Carol, processing. Then she nodded.

The transfer happened with surprising ease. Carol lifted the girl from Stryker’s arms like she’d done this ten thousand times with her own children, cradling her with practiced efficiency.

“We’ll be right outside,” Carol said, already moving toward the door. “Take your time in here.”

The girl didn’t protest. Didn’t scream. Just let herself be carried away from the nightmare behind her.

Stryker watched them disappear through the front door, then hurried to where Damien stood blocking the other first responders.

“There might be someone else here,” he said. “The girl asked about Nikos.”

Damien’s eyes flicked around the living room like he expected to see someone standing there among the furniture. “We searched everywhere, man. Top to bottom.”

“Not under the beds.”

The words hung for a beat. Then Damien turned without another word, heading toward the children’s rooms.

Stryker moved in the opposite direction, back toward the master bedroom. He unsnapped his holster but left the weapon seated.

The bedroom felt smaller now, the metallic smell of blood thicker. Stryker stepped carefully around the dark pools spreading across the hardwood, positioning himself on the far side of the bed, the only patch of floor not yet pooling blood.

He crouched down, fingers gripping the dust ruffle.

It was then he heard it. A small, hitched breath. A tiny, almost inaudible whimper from the darkness beneath the bed.

He lifted the fabric.

The smell of urine hit him first. Then his eyes adjusted to the shadows. Two dark eyes stared back at him, wide with a terror that went beyond tears.

A boy. The same dark hair, the same eyes as the girl.

Dark hair was matted to his forehead. Blood streaked his cheek like war paint. More blood, dark and drying, coated his small hand and the handle of the kitchen knife clutched in his fist.

13

Crime scene techs moved through Tori’s space, gathering evidence like ants dismantling a picnic. Blade positioned himself against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching the paramedic work on Tori’s forearm.

Paul Something-or-other. Clean-shaven, broad shoulders, the kind of easy smile that probably worked on most women.

“You’re lucky,” Paul said, dabbing medical adhesive along the wound’s edges. “Clean cut, no nerve damage. Should heal without much scarring.”

Tori sat perfectly still on the couch, her black hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, fresh shirt and jeans replacing the blood-stained clothes from earlier. She’d rebuilt her armor fast.

“Good thing I’m not planning a hand modeling career,” she said.

Paul chuckled. “With hands like these? You’d make a fortune.”

The flirtation hit Blade like a slap, and his teeth clenched. The reaction made no sense. He had Kiara. Tori was his friend, nothing more. But watching this stranger touch her arm, seeing him lean closer than necessary, it triggered something primitive and protective.

Paul sealed the wound, his fingers trailing across Tori’s wrist in a gesture that stretched well past medical necessity. “You’ll want to keep this dry for forty-eight hours. No showers, just careful washing around the edges.”

“I’ll manage.”

“I’m sure you will.” Paul’s smile widened. “But if you need someone to check the bandage tomorrow—”