"Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down."

-         unknown

  *****

 

Detective Scott was a middle-aged man who wore a crooked tie, crooked glasses, and a crooked smile.

 Upon watching him approach, Jill was briefly reminded of the lyrics of a children's rhyme. The smile that emerged from the thought was inappropriate, but welcome.

 Standing against the cold metal of the black and white sedan idling on the curb of the San Francisco Airport Arrivals level, battling the chill of a late foggy San Francisco evening in a large black coat that did nothing to protect her stocking clad knees and calves, Jill Bernhardt decided she would take her humor any place she could get it.

 Her boss, Acting District Attorney Denise Kwan, who up until that moment had been staring straight ahead and ignoring her completely, quite obviously did not feel the same way. "What's so funny?"

 Jill shifted her head to offer a sidelong glance. The profile of Denise was closed in and expressionless. It was aggravating that she was actually curious as to what it was Denise was thinking.

 "Nothing," she said. Denise frowned, unsatisfied, but the approach of Detective Scott, who extended a hand forward as he struggled with his shoulder bag, saved Jill from any further explanations.

 "Ms. Kwon? Ms. Bernhardt?" His grip was firm, but his palm was sandpaper rough. Jill let go quickly, but offered him the same obligatory smile Denise gave him. "Derek Scott." He nodded slightly. "Thank you for meeting me." 

 "It's our pleasure," Jill answered, firmly and sincerely. "I wish it were under different circumstances."

 Derek Scott's dark eyes were stormy with regret. "Me too." 

 Denise cleared her throat, eyes narrowing at Jill's in unspoken warning before she nodded to the car. "If you please. Let's get you to the hotel. We have an early start."

 "Of course!" Detective Scott shrugged off his shoulder bag and headed for the open trunk, leaving Jill with Denise's dark brown eyes studying her with the attention and scrutiny of a district attorney.

 "What?" she asked, immediately defensive.

 "If you can't do this-"

 The shiver of irritation that rippled up her spine was automatic and instinctive. "Denise, we've already had this argument. I'm sticking to this guy like glue."

 "Not without my authorization you aren't."

 Posture stiff, Jill could only glare. She knew damn well that she had no business being anywhere near this guy, for the very reason they hadn't let Lindsay even speak to Detective Scott after his initial call.  Emotional investment meant the urge to meddle – and one misstep, one wrong move, would spell mistrial or worse.

 The fabulous world of the judicial system.

 But it said something, meant something that Denise, hard-nosed and so by-the-book, also knew it and still had allowed it. Allowed her to be by her side.

 Determined to be anything but the confused woman she had been the last few months, Jill would not, COULD not, read into the minute softening of Denise' dark orbs, the flash of something unidentifiable before a loud, resigned breath exhaled in a foggy cloud from the perfect outline of Denise's lips.

 "If you do anything to disrupt this case-"

 "What makes you think I would?" Eyes locked again, dark and intense, before Jill ducked her head, breaking the stare and heading for the door of the police cruiser, held open by Detective Derek Scott.

 After a moment, Denise followed, attempting to look as dignified as someone could look edging into the seat of a police cruiser and insisting that the larger Detective Scott ride shotgun.

 When, thanks to the tight fit, Denise's palm inadvertently ghosted against Jill's fingers, and just as quickly darted away, Jill kept her jaw locked and her eyes on the front of the cruiser, where Officer Thomson sat waiting, bored and obviously ticked with getting the short straw and pulling chauffer duty.

 "I'm sorry Inspector Boxer couldn't be here in person," Denise said, obstinately to fill the silence as the cruiser pulled away from the curb. "But her special status on this case as both a witness and a victim dictates that we keep her as far away from Pete Raynor as possible. Particularly as we build our case for the upcoming trial."

 Derek Scott pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, expression grim as he glanced back at them. "From the case file, sounds like you got enough to put him away for a long time."

 "Not if we're looking for a death penalty," answered Denise. The acerbic tint that edged the words was surprising. A quick glance from Jill revealed nothing but the best poker face from Denise, who kept her attention on Detective Scott.

 "Going all the way, are you?" Detective Scott asked.

 "The man is a monster." Through the rearview mirror, Derek sought Jill out, studied her.

 "You'll understand if we take this conviction personally," Denise said, drawing attention away from Jill, voice level and firm. "He's victimized not just women, but colleagues. Friends."

 The word brought with it an unintentional smirk to Jill's lips, bittersweet and poignant. Her eyes flickered to the space between them, palms resting just millimeters apart.

 As if she read Jill's mind, Denise's fingers floated away, back into the safety of her own lap.

 "Well, if Raynor is the guy behind my homicides, then you've got yourself three more bodies to add to the list."

 Three more bodies. Three more victims.

 A rapidly evolving cycle with more and more spokes spinning in place, twisting them into knots and biting at them all, running them over, hitting them in every vulnerable place.

God, when would it end?

 "Honestly," she managed. "I almost wish there wasn't."

 The words floated into pregnant pause, with a soundtrack of a revving engine and the sparkling ripples of moonlit waves as the car speeded toward the bridge.

 "Can't say I agree," Detective Scott said. "Pete Raynor is one sick mother fucker."  His tone was resigned as he gazed out the window, eyes on the scenery as it passed by them. He didn't wait for them to respond before he rumbled on, "But he isn't the only one out there. It'd be nice to get this guy locked up nice and tight so I can start finding the next monster."

******

 

Anne Campbell was a light sleeper. It was the reason why she bargained for the bedroom on the first floor, won it away from both Diana and Christy with both pleas and the bribe of doing the extra chore of the dishes twice a week.

 It wasn't that Anne was antisocial. It was just that she really liked to sleep. Tucked away in the bedroom just beyond the stairs, she could just close her eyes and not worry about jolting awake at any little sound: exercise tapes or the Killers or gabbing on cell phones or even the click-clacking of a keyboard.

 An entire floor underneath her two roommates, she didn't hear a thing until Moxie, her German Shepherd mutt mix, began to growl.

 Eyes blinking open, torn from sleep, Anne blindly began to reach in the dark for the fur of her dog, trying to scruff her into quiet.

 "Moxie," she whispered. "Shh-"

 But then there was a bang – loud enough to shake the room, cause the ceiling to vibrate above her.

 Anne jumped, heart spiking in her chest, glancing up as Moxie's low, warning growl became a rough bark.

 And then she heard the screams.

 Upstairs. Painful, desperate, terrified screams that drove deep into her heart and suddenly paralyzed her.

 Her eyes wildly searched the ceiling, panting for breath and gripping to her dog's collar.

 And then the screaming just stopped.

 Fumbling for the side of bed, Anne's trembling fingers finally found the cool metal of her bat, used on good days for softball.

 Hands gripped tight around the handle, so afraid she feared she might faint, Anne pressed her bare feet on the floor and edged toward the doorway.

 It could have been a prank. Diana and Christy always loved to mess with her, and if it were a prank, she would fucking kill them –

 After she made sure they were okay.

 She got to the door, opened it, and then the thunderous pounding of boots on the stairs came so fast she could only watch as a dark figure burst down the landing and headed straight for the open window.

 He never saw her.

 Heart racing, Anne dropped the bat, racing toward the stairs and sprinting up.

 Swinging into Diana's room, she skidded into wetness, sticking to her bare feet.

 Fumbling for the light, she glanced down, and discovered blood, seeping around her toes, a trail leading to the mutilated, distorted form of Diana.

 Her hand went to her mouth, the nausea causing her to wretch. "Oh, God," she managed. "CHRISTY! Call 911!" Christy!"

 She whirled, stumbling toward the room across the hall.

 "Christy!"

 Christy lay sprawled across her bed, eyes wide and unseeing, slashed across her face, dripping in blood.

******

ACT 1

The teapot whistled, cutting through the darkened early morning silence with a blast of steam.  Cindy Thomas turned the knob of the stove quickly, shutting off the heat and the resulting sound as quickly as it had come.

 For her girlfriend, sleep did not come easily. It hadn't come easily for either of them as of late, but the events of the past few months had turned Lindsay Boxer into a legitimate insomniac.

 The moments, precious and few, when Cindy could feel her lover's rhythmic breathing against her neck, nose buried deep in Cindy's red-haired nape and arms circled around her tightly, signals of a deep, dreamless sleep, were to be cherished.

 Nothing, not even a recurring nightmare that chased Cindy from sleep with a hitched breath, a furiously beating heart and a chill off her sweating body, would move her to disturb Lindsay's slumber. 

 With a dancer's ease, and none of her usual clumsiness, Cindy slipped out of Lindsay's arms and found refuge in a heap of organic mint leaves steeping in a mug, a pile of papers on her kitchen table, and a border collie snoring softly on the tile by her feet. 

 Sometimes it amazed her how alike she and Lindsay could be. At first glance, first impression, they were polar opposites – the epitome of the 'opposites attract' theory. But lurking inside each was the same drive to obsess, the mind that constantly worked, never rested, not even in sleep.

 And Cindy knew that floating in each of their heads was one name: Pete Raynor.

 Rubbing at the tight muscles that cramped her neck, she raised the mug to her lips and inhaled the peppermint, letting it drift into her nostrils and seep into her soul.

 A small sound, a shuffle, caused her eyes to open, fall upon a sleepy Inspector with disheveled dark hair, a jersey and bare feet, leaning against the doorway.

 With a sigh of defeat, Cindy let her hand fall to the table. "It was the whistle, wasn't it?"

 A small curve drifted across Lindsay's lips, an intoxicatingly sexy sight. "Actually it was the smell."

 Cindy glanced down at the tea and grimaced. "Sorry."

 "S'okay. It smells good." Lindsay's voice was rough with sleep, but she still came further into the kitchen. "You don't happen to have some coffee brewing, do you?"

 "'Fraid not," she answered sympathetically. "You'll have to make do with my weeds."

 Lindsay's nose wrinkled as she said begrudgingly. "There enough water for two?"

 Cindy nodded, offering Lindsay a smile as the other woman passed by, hand caressing her shoulder on the way for the kettle.

 Cindy kept her eyes on the table, busying herself with gingerly sipping the too hot tea, hearing the sounds of cabinets opening and closing, the tinkle of glass.

 "You're up early."

 Cindy allowed a small, bittersweet smile at hearing the seemingly innocent comment. Months as Inspector Boxer's friend and lover had given her fluency when it came to the language of Lindsay. She knew damn well when Lindsay was starting a line of questioning as opposed to an actual conversation.

 "I couldn't sleep," she responded, answering the unspoken question. "Just a lot of… dreams."

 There was a beat of silence, and suddenly a mug was placed beside Cindy's, and long fingers pressed into her tight shoulders. The contact on her stiff muscles was a balm, and Cindy exhaled helplessly, eyes closing as her head fell back against the form of her beloved.

 "You mean nightmares," Lindsay murmured, digits digging deep into the tissue, causing a hitch of breath that was from both pain and pleasure.  "You should have woken me."

"And ruin the first good night's sleep you've had in a week? Please."

 Fingers paused, then resumed, as Cindy felt the body behind her shift and a hot mouth skid along her jaw to press against her cheek. When Lindsay's arms came around her, she pressed her own hands on top, holding her lover tightly against her.

 "It's because he came in last night, isn't it." Lindsay murmured.

 "Don't." Cindy's fingers tightened around Lindsay's wrists. "We promised we wouldn't talk about it."

A heavy sigh fell against her neck. "Cindy-"

 "We promised Jill and Claire." It was a promise she was struggling hard to keep. The motion to keep Pete Raynor out of their conversations while Jill shepherded Detective Scott was well-meant, based out of fear that it would push Lindsay and Cindy back into the most traumatic experiences of their lives.  And while Cindy had agreed with it, at least for Lindsay's sake, privately, she thought it unfair. 

 Pete was their own personal boogeyman, the recurring nightmare that would resurface at any given moment. It seemed that any time any of them came close to feeling safe again, there he was, their own private monster, stalking them not only in the waking hours but in their dreams as well.

 Maybe on paper they had no business being anywhere near him. True, any contact at all would be giving Pete Raynor's defense team (Pete Raynor himself) the perfect opportunity to spout corruption, and even possibly dig up the cloudiness of Lindsay's father's reputation and use it against them. But they had been in that bastard's house. A house he had built especially for Lindsay, invading her childhood and innocence and trying to pervert even that, drugging her in an attempt to bring her over to his own distorted world.

 A press of lips against the corner of her mouth broke Cindy out of her daze. She blinked, eyes refocusing as she realized she had drifted, retreated dangerously into her own mind, her own thoughts, at just the mention of Pete Raynor.

 God, maybe Jill and Claire had a point.

 Eyes brimming dangerously, she slipped digits under Lindsay's, bringing them together against her mouth, pressing kisses to both sets of knuckles and letting her head fall back into the reassuring strength of her lover.

 Lindsay seemed to understand, because her next words weren't a push to discuss Pete or the nightmare that had robbed Cindy of her sleep, but instead a quiet, husk that asked if the papers in front of Cindy were the lease agreement.

 Cindy pressed another kiss to Lindsay's hand in appreciation before letting her go.

 "That's it," she said, hand on her chin as Lindsay settled down next to her, long slender fingers edging around her steaming cup of steeping tea, dark eyes reading through the fine print.

 "So we're really doing this." Lindsay said, after a moment.

 Cindy grinned affectionately. "Don’t tell me you're getting cold feet now."

 Lindsay tossed her a glance, with narrowed eyes and her Texan smirk, in just the way that had captured Cindy's heart so effortlessly the first day she met her. "Please. Like you could get rid of me that easy."

 Cindy arched a brow in challenge. "All it would take was maybe a week of not unclogging the shower drain. Then victory would be mine."

 The mention of her pet peeve raised like a battle flag, Lindsay gave a most indignant snort. "I still can't believe you insisted the first few times that was me. It's not like I can't tell the difference between red and brown." She reached forward to tug on one of Cindy's curls playfully.

 Ducking the touch, Cindy laughed, ready to respond when a burst of sound cut through the air, coming from the direction of the counter, where Lindsay's phone danced in vibration.

 "The Bat-signal.”

 Lindsay met her glance with an apologetic smile, and rose off the table, leaning forward to offer her a kiss before heading for it. "Boxer."

 Cindy looked down at the lease. It would have to wait.

 "I'll be right there." The phone clicked shut. "Think I can get that tea to go?"

 Another 5AM murder.

 Despite the circumstances, Cindy couldn't complain. Petty household chores aside, a distraction was still a distraction, and it was sorely needed.

 "As long as you let me meet you there."

 Brown eyes met in challenge, before Lindsay nodded slightly and headed for the door. "Take Martha out and you've got a deal." At the mention of her name, Martha's ears perked, head rising and tail wagging against the tile.

 A moment later, Cindy heard an addendum added from somewhere in the living room.

 "But your ass is staying behind the yellow line!" 

 Cindy glanced down at the pet and offered her a pat. "Well, it's progress," she told her. "At least now I get to follow her in plain sight."

******

 

To thank God she had been just handed a double homicide seemed enough to buy her a one-way ticket to hell.

 If she hadn't been going there already.

 Then again, Lindsay thought as she inspected a smear of blood on the wall beside the stairs, this wasn't much better.

 "Took you long enough."

 Glancing up, she discovered Warren Jacobi, wearing his trenchcoat and a grim smile.

 "Morning," she said.

 "Good morning to you, too," he cracked, motioning with his head toward the doors. "You ready for this?"

 "Depends on what you've got for me."

 Jacobi handed her a pair of plastic gloves.

 "At approximately 3:15AM this morning, 9-1-1 received a call from an Anne Campbell," he said, flipping open his small notebook to recheck the facts. "She has the downstairs bedroom." He nodded toward the back of the house, just left of the staircase. "Woke up when her dog started growling. She heard screaming. Went to check on things just in time to see a dark figure running down the stairs and exiting out of that window." Lindsay frowned, stepping carefully off the first step and toward the shattered window. "The killer never saw her. Unfortunately, she didn't see much of him either."

 Hands on her hips, she turned, eyes narrowing to the almost hidden alcove. "Still. Lucky girl."

 "You have no idea." The voice that interjected belonged to that of Claire, mouth twisted in a pained grimace as she waited at the top of the stairs. 

 The look in Claire's eyes nurtured an uneasy feeling. It was bad then. "They both upstairs?"

 "Yeap," Jacobi affirmed. "Diana Gibson and Christina Lopez."

 "And where's the witness now?" 

 "She was nearly catatonic when the ambulance came, trying to give the one with a slashed throat CPR. They've got her outside, gave her something to calm her down."

 Lindsay glanced at him. "How do you feel about interviewing her while I go have a look upstairs?"

 "Enjoy yourself," he said, and shook his head in disgust. "This is plain sick, Lindsay."

 Claire's morose dark eyes that stayed with her until she joined her at the top of the stairs silently agreed.

 "That bad, huh?"

 "Oh this was personal," Claire sighed. "Whoever it was that slashed these girls obviously did it to cut them to pieces. Care to see? Mind the blood splatter."

 Only in their line of work would that be considered friendly conversation.

 Lindsay's half amused head shake stalled the minute she followed Claire into the first room.

 "Holy Christ on a cracker. This looks like a scene from Dexter."

 Blood congealed on the floor, puddled around the corpse of a girl who couldn't have been older than twenty. Her eyes were wide, frozen in death in the terror that she experienced in the last moments of her life.  Littering her body were punctures and gashes, over her face, her chest, her arms and even her hands.

 Claire pressed in against Lindsay and carefully squeezed her elbow in silent support.

 With a swallow, Lindsay straightened her posture and forced herself to notice the details, remove herself from the horror in favor of painting an accurate picture of what had happened. 

"He sliced her fingers. She was fighting him off." She glanced at Claire. "It's a him, right?"

 "Judging by the angle and the force behind these blows?" Claire nodded. "That or an Amazon on steroids."

 "So he came in, killed this one first." Turning on a booted heel, she stepped carefully out of the room and followed the marked spots of blood, the smear of it on the door. "And then went after the other one." In the second bedroom was another horrific mutilation, this time a young Latina.

 "He was quick. But he was thorough. He probably didn't even know about the bedroom downstairs or Anne Campbell might have gotten it, too." 

 "Lucky for her," Lindsay breathed, kneeling down beside the body to study the victim’s face. "And for us. We have a witness."

 Claire was quiet for a moment, kneeling beside her, before she asked with forced ease. "Where's Cindy? Sleeping through this I hope."

 Eyes still on the body, Lindsay shook her head. "She was awake when I got the call. Made a promise to stay outside the yellow line."

 "Did she, now?"

 "I fully expect her to break in any minute." She shot Claire a small smile. "You can say 'hi' then."

 "She was awake at 5AM this morning?" Claire always did notice the details, and though this was neither the time nor the place, Lindsay found herself unable to evade the unspoken question. 

 "She's having nightmares."  Exhaling a troubled breath, Lindsay glanced up in silent plea. "I don't know how to help. Or make them stop. She didn't even wake me up, said I needed the sleep."

 Claire's lips pressed together in contemplation and sympathy. "You'll get each other through this. We'll help you." The words were meant to soothe, and they did, but for what seemed like the umpteenth time, Lindsay wished for the strength and certainty that Claire seemed to exude so easily. "And in the meantime, maybe you could both use this distraction. Channel some of those sleepless nights into finding justice for these poor girls."

 Lindsay nodded, but unable to help herself, asked, "Heard from Jill?"

 After a momentary pause, Claire rolled her eyes and slapped a hand on her friend’s shoulder. "Nice try. Let's go, Columbo."

******

 

Regulated to the waiting room of the penitentiary, prohibited from entering the room with Denise and Detective Scott, Jill could not complain.

 Despite her determination to see this through, if only for Lindsay, her unchecked emotions and rampant fear of Pete Raynor, serial killer, were still in danger of overwhelming her.  Her last encounter with Raynor had left her both shaken and somehow triumphant, but even so, Jill didn't have the strength or the gumption to get cocky. She understood her flaws better than anyone, and when Denise drew the line, told her to wait outside, stay away, she had not argued.

 Whatever the complications between them, Denise had proven herself trustworthy. Action upon action had cemented that fact: in how Denise had worked tirelessly to save her when she had been taken by the Hallelujah Man, in every time Denise bent the rules to catch one of their killers, in even the smallest hint of consideration she had taken when she had approached Lindsay after Pete revealed he had murdered her step-father-

 No matter what the issues were between them personally, Jill knew she could trust her to act in both her own and Lindsay's best interests.

 That certain truth left Denise in a place that was somehow shifting in Jill's mind. Before she could place her as her bitch of a boss, and leave it at that. Now, Denise was eternally occupying her thoughts, not just in work matters, but in her personal – fantasies and erotic dreams that were completely inappropriate, not only because she knew it was the worst possible idea to get involved with her boss, but because she was in a relationship with an amazing, beautiful woman who deserved better.

And God, it was idiotic. It was idiotic because she was in a penitentiary, brooding and mooning about Denise Kwon of all people.

 Pushing out of her chair, Jill sighed raggedly and stepped toward the wall, eyes on the posters and memos that asked visitors to check-in any suspicious items, warned about improper behavior, and stated visiting hours.

 When her phone beeped with a text, she was grateful.

 The text from Maggie was short and concise, informing her that Lindsay (or 'Tex', as her Inspector girlfriend preferred to call her) and Jacobi had just been assigned a double homicide that, at first glance, appeared so violent and senseless that murmurs around the homicide unit were already whispering 'serial killer'.

 To already bandy about that moniker when the crime scene was still fresh meant two things: one, the crime had been particularly brutal, and two, there seemed to be next to no leads.

 Neither were good.

 "A little early in the morning to be playing gossip, isn't it?"

 Despite the fact that she had been doing absolutely nothing wrong, Jill still flushed, lowering the cell phone as Denise approached.

 "That's not exactly what I was doing," she corrected, not bothering to toss another barb Denise's way. "It can't be over already. Did Pete refuse to talk?" 

 Denise's posture was stiff, her expression strange. "Not exactly."

 Jill frowned. "What is it?" When Denise hesitated and glanced away, Jill felt her heart clench inside of her. "Denise, now you're scaring me."

 Denise stared at her and, suddenly her expression shifted. "I'm sorry," she said, and the words were said so sincerely they filled Jill with something close to dread. "But I think you need to come with me."

******

 

"Don't tell me you're actually playing by the rules."

 The rotating lights of a police cruiser played over the kind face of Warren Jacobi as he stepped toward the yellow tape and a shivering reporter.

 Cindy smiled. "It's too early to do anything else." When his brow rose, she sighed and relented. "Plus, I promised Lindsay I'd be good. Just this once."

 "Mmhmm." He studied her, before uttering a resigned sigh, reaching over and lifting the tape himself, motioning her through it. "Get in here."

 Not one to question her sudden good luck, Cindy moved quickly. "Thanks."

 "Don't mention it. Especially to Lindsay. She'll think I've gone soft."

 Cindy had never thought the gruff older cop had ever been all that hard, but she nodded just the same.

 "You? Never."

 "Damn straight." The grin they shared was warm and friendly, before a sobbing brunette held in the arms of another woman caught her eye.

 "Is that the third roommate?"

 Jacobi's glance seemed surprised, and then resigned. "Did Lindsay tell you or did you bat those brown eyes to get it from Cho?"

 "I have no idea what you're talking about."

 The chuckle he uttered was amused and disbelieving. "With that look, you could take over the world, you know that?"

 She shrugged nonchalantly. "Be lucky I only use my powers for good."

 "I think we're all lucky for that." Soft pressure at her elbow caused her to turn into Claire, who offered her a welcome kiss on the cheek. She smelled of chemicals and perfume.  "Hey, sweetie. I was wondering what side of the tape I'd find you on."

 When Cindy glanced at Jacobi, he immediately raised his hands in surrender. "She looked cold!"

 "It's so much warmer on this side?"

 "Actually feels colder," Cindy said, glancing again at the sobbing girl. "It's bad, isn't it?"

 Claire's smile stalled, and instead of answering, she simply wrapped her arm around Cindy’s shoulders and reeled her in. "Yeah," she answered. "It's bad. But there is good news. We have a print from a smear of blood he left on the staircase."

 "His?"

 "Probably one of the victim's," Claire corrected. "But the print is most definitely his."

 "I got you something else." Jacobi nodded toward the window as he pulled out a plastic baggie. Inside were three cigarette butts. "Found these outside the window. Had a tech mark the areas and take pictures before he collected them."

 "So… DNA?" Cindy asked, taking the bag and inspecting the butts.

 "Gold," Claire answered, eyes dancing slightly as she took the bag. "If we work hard enough."

******

 

Peeling off the plastic gloves, Lindsay's steps felt heavy as she moved down the porch and into the madness of the outside world.

 She searched the borders of the yellow tape looking for a flash of red, a pale face, but it was Jacobi that caught her eye first.

 "Quite the funhouse in there, isn't it?"

 She nodded morosely, glancing back toward the townhouse. "Tell me she saw something."

 "What she saw was a dark figure and a whole lotta nothing," Jacobi answered grimly. "According to her, he was between 5'11" and 6'3", no idea on race, hair color, she thought he was wearing jeans…"

 "Alright, I get it." Lindsay closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose for one soldiering moment. "Okay. If he went for Diana first, then he maybe she was who he was after and Christina just got in the way. Is the witness working on a list of possible suspects?"

 Jacobi nodded. "Should have it for us by the end of day." He fell silent for a moment, before he stepped in closer, voice lower. "Heard anything from Bernhardt?"

 Lindsay stiffened, and with a clenched jaw, shook her head. "Been banned from talking to her until Scott's out of town." He uttered a low, sympathetic whistle. "And yes, it's driving me insane."

 "Don't blame you." He pressed his lips together. "Let me know if you want me to try and find anything."

 She glanced at him, amused. "What, you wanna spy for me now?"

 "Just being a partner, Linds." A surge of affection floated through her, and she clapped her hand on his shoulder companionably.

 "Thanks, but I think we've got our hands full."

 "You aren't kidding."

 Lindsay glanced at the crowd, noting the friend comforting the witness, the crowd that had gathered, and finally landing on a redhead who was nowhere near the yellow tape.

 Catching her eye, Cindy waved.

 "How the hell did she duck the tape?"

 Glancing in the direction of Lindsay's glare, Jacobi let out a low whistle. "No idea."

 Her eyes slid immediately to her partner. "You totally let her in, didn't you?"

 "It's the big brown eyes," he said immediately. "They're dangerous."

 "Careful, partner," she said, amused despite herself. "That one's spoken for."

 "Hey, I know my limits."

 Their eyes met, held in warm regard, before Jacobi stepped to the side and let her go, boots crunching in the gravel as she made her way to her girlfriend. 

 "Don't look at me like that," Cindy said, shaking her head at the expression on Lindsay's face. "I can't help it if people think I'm cute and give me special privileges."

 "But you can exploit it?"

 "Hell yes. I get all sorts of perks that way."

 The self-assurance was supposed to be irritating, instead of damned adorable. "Oh really?" Lindsay's arms crossed. "Such as?"

 "A hot girlfriend who's fantastic in bed, for one."

 Blatant flattery. Lindsay grinned affectionately, until the crowd began to murmur behind them. Glancing back to the house, she saw the bodies, cased up in blue coroner bags, being moved carefully down the stairs.

 "I heard Claire got a print." All amused inflection was gone in the face of the sober reminder of their purpose here.

 "Yeah." Lindsay nodded grimly. "Maybe we'll get lucky and get something in the database. Until then?"

 "You need suspects." Cindy shouldered her bag. Dark shadows under eyes were cleverly concealed with make-up, but they were there, evidence of her lack of sleep. "I'll have their life stories for you in an hour."

 To suggest to Cindy to take a break, get some sleep, would be an insult. Still, the urge to do so was so prevalent; she bit the inside of her cheek. "Thanks."

 "They were just sleeping, Lindsay. They went to sleep thinking they were safe, and then woke up to a monster." Cindy's brown eyes caught hers, searching.

 The chill that she had kept at bay now spread inside of her, tightening the muscles of her body, resulting in an irresistible urge to touch Cindy. She succumbed, a reassuring palm on the small of her back, fingers curling to smooth a knuckle up her spine. "I know." 

 The corners of Cindy's mouth crimped. "Do you think we'll ever get used to this?"

 Dark brown eyes settled for just a moment on red hued curls, an inquisitive, gorgeous face, and an expression that was both wise and naïve. The ever-enchanting enigma of Cindy Thomas; evolved from potential witness to acquaintance to friend to the love of Lindsay's life.

 With an objective eye, Lindsay could very well concede that the last few months, the last year even, had been the worst of her life. The stench of death permeated around them, clung to them with the fear and nightmares of the torture they had all endured.

 Cindy, bright-eyed and eager-to-please, had been pulled into this consuming orbit of kidnappings, serial killers, tortured friends and events so horrifying every single one of them carried the scars.

 And yet, the single emotion that broke though every hint of darkness was just simple happiness.

 It was foreign and frightening and fascinating, but Lindsay Boxer knew better than to question it.

 Her look to her lover was bittersweet and unabashedly sentimental. "God, I hope not," she answered, voice gravel rough.

 Cindy's smile, imperfect and impossibly beautiful, would never stop taking her breath away.

 At that moment, hidden away at a crime scene splattered with the remains of the less fortunate, Lindsay's epiphany was that she was damn lucky.

******

 Years of abuse and solitude had given Jill an expertise when it came to building walls. Mentally fortifying herself, distancing herself from emotion and keeping herself impenetrable to her weaknesses had been a key to her own survival.

 Standing at the door, eyes fixed on the doorknob, Jill fought frantically to bring back that instinct.

 "Jill." The sound of her name brought her to awareness. She realized that her own breath was coming out in shallow pants, her posture had tightened. Her eyes met with Denise's, and the other woman moved even closer. "Just open the door and do your job."

 There was only firm authority. No sympathy. Not anymore.

 Jill was grateful for it. Weakness wasn't what she needed.

 Inhaling deeply, she closed her hand around the knob and turned, pushing forward. Just as she did, she felt the slight push from Denise, a lingering touch on her elbow that could have been unintentional.

 Inside the room, a chair squeaked, and Jill looked past Detective Scott to the crystal clear eyes of Pete Raynor.

 Her heart throbbed, breath catching in her throat, but she kept moving, coming into the room with a tight jaw and glittering eyes.

 Pete smiled widely, showing off his perfect white teeth, greeting her like she was an old friend. "Jill!"

 Behind her, Denise clicked the door shut. Jill fought to keep the claustrophobic panic from flooding her. Her eyes remained focused on Raynor. "Pete."

 "It's good to see you."

 Jill was in no mood to indulge his playful civilities. Her eyes moved to Detective Scott's. "Tell me about the deal."

 Scott sat in his chair, glanced back at the killer, and removed his glasses. "Mr. Raynor –"

 "The papers say you're going for the death penalty," Pete interrupted. "That's a little rude, don't you think? Considering all we've been through?"

 Perfectly still, she eyed with him perfect contempt. "Tell me about the deal." 

 His teeth glinted when his smile widened. "Detective Scott has a couple of unsolved murders he'd like my help with. Wants me to give him a location of the bodies. Crazy, isn't it? You kill a couple people and suddenly the whole world wants to pin every little crime on you."

 "Imagine that."

 "It's rude, is what it is," Pete said, speaking only to her, as if they were having a chat over coffee. "But I'm a nice guy. I'm willing to help out, if I can."

 "And how would you do that?"

 He studied her, leaned back in his chair, the cuffs on his hands clanking as he exhaled in contentment. "It's easy. I confess. Tell you where the bodies are to each and every person you haven't found yet, which may or may not include your stepfather and Mr. Scott's missing persons. In return, you take that death penalty off the table."

 She hated her own weakness, the chink on her wall that let him see the flash of pained emotion that crossed her face. He swallowed it like manna from heaven.

 "What's the catch?" Denise’s voice was curt.

 Pete's eyes never left hers. "What makes you think there'd be a catch?"

 "Raynor. Spit it out or we walk out of there. All of us."

 His smile stalled, eyes hardening as he flickered briefly from Jill to glare at Denise.

 "The catch," he mimicked, arms crossing over his chest. "Is that I confess to Lindsay. Just Lindsay. Only Lindsay." His dark gaze locked hard with Jill. "Always Lindsay."

******

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