With Visions of Red (Broken Bonds, #1)

by Trisha Wolfe

When I first met Detective Quinn on assignment two years ago, it was my first high-profile case. We did this song and dance then. I know his opinion on criminal profiling. And I also know that it was the combined effort of both the Arlington County PD and the Virginia State General Investigation Section that brought in the offender.

This man is very territorial, though. He won’t acknowledge outside help, but at least he isn’t so stubborn that he down right refuses to take it.

I see it in his eyes, even now; he thinks I fucked up somehow. That I was demoted and my blunder buried by bureaucratic bullshit. But I’m not so special that I’d warrant that kind of elite treatment. I have no friends in high enough places to pull something like that off.

However, from Quinn’s perspective, why else would a person in my field willingly stray from the path that leads to the FBI?

Those reasons border on my personal life, and they’re none of...

Just because I’m used to the scorn of the department, doesn’t mean I’m a pushover.

One thing about Quinn: he keeps my guard up. I never have time to relax into my job. As if that would even be possible. I’ve been with the ACPD for seven months, and still, it’s like I just started yesterday.

“You’re cranky, you know that?” I glare at him. “Maybe you need more fiber in your diet.” Or your ass needs to get laid. I also keep that to myself. I need to take it easy on the guy. His wife did just leave him a few months back. Just one of the many perks of our job: romantic relationships rarely make it.

“I’d miss this too much. It’s so gratifying working with detectives who not only put my work into question, but my wardrobe, too.”

“You don’t want to hear what really I think.” Averting my gaze, I look down at my paperwork. “It’s all just conjecture, anyway, until I get some facts. Like whether she was sexually assaulted.” “Humor me,” he says. Huffing, I glance up at him. We’ve done this so many times before. “I’m thinking this is premeditated murder. The work of a sadist. And I’m thinking the boyfriend might be innocent. At least, of this.”

He plays the tough, grumpy cop well, but there’s a good guy buried under that stiff exterior who wants to catch all the bad guys. And he’ll probably never admit to needing my advice, but I wouldn’t still be in this department if he didn’t.

He’s seen more pain and suffering than the average person, been up against some of the most vicious criminals, and the dentist scares the man.

His hands shaking—adrenaline pumping—as he searched her wardrobe until he found the dress he first saw her in while he stalked her. The one that drew his attention to her; the fantasy he’d been visualizing, rehearsing over and over, that didn’t have a face until that moment.

Something about this dress drew him in—it’s his selection process, why he chose her, and possibly even a clue to his past victims. As practiced as the scene was, this might’ve been his first kill—but there’s likely a trail of crimes he’s left in his wake. And if this was his first, any mistakes he made he’ll quickly correct. He’ll become even more difficult to catch.

This wasn’t a crime of passion, or a revenge killing. This was too calculated. Planned. Carefully executed. A fantasy realized.

I reach into my pocket and take out my packet of gum. I stopped smoking a few years back, but the gum habit stuck. I crave the idea of smoking. Having something to do while I’m working, looking through crime scene images. It always helped me not get pulled in too closely—a smoky barrier between the killer and me—while I delved into his world.

Staring at the photo of the victim with her legs spread and ankles bound, I envision the perpetrator kneeling behind her—degrading her. This position humiliated her, and he was her god. Towering over her, he was all-powerful, and that power intoxicated him. But he didn’t allow the adrenaline rush to overtake him.

No, he was calm, methodical, in control. Only his victim’s suffering was what he desired. He’s nothing like the weak woman below him. The slut. The whore. She deserves to be stripped bare, her flesh on display for him. S...

The perpetrator is above average intelligence. Mid-twenties to mid-thirties. And like Quinn scoffed at, he probably has an extensive porn collection centering on bondage and demeaning women.

The fact that the UNSUB knew he had time to commit his crime in her home, with no interruption, means he was most likely watching her for a while. It could also mean someone who knew her personally—like the boyfriend. But I build on the facts, not the suspect.

I grab the photo of the victim and hold it up, studying it once more. My vision flickers, and the room fades away, replaced by nearly bare white walls. My senses prickle. My skin heats. I can feel the rope tied around my ankles. The coarse threads rubbing against my skin. Smell his sweat...

Envisioning this scene from the victim’s perspective is too dangerous. I know this. Shutting my computer off, I swear under my breath. It’s been too long since my last trip. Since I first glimpsed the victim, I knew this case would get to me. I need to go. Tonight.

There is more to this kind of specific torture the victim endured—the method the perpetrator used to damage her fingers. But my thoughts aren’t going to be voiced or recorded in that profile until I know more. It could be a sick coincidence. Or maybe the perpetrator stumbled over the torture technique during his online searches. It might have intrigued him. Excited him. For a sadist, inserting needles under the nails is a vicious deed.

The Blood Countess. On my mission to understand, to compartmentalize, how a human can commit such acts of violence, I came across Elizabeth Bathory, a Hungarian Countess from the sixteenth century. I wanted to understand what kind of energy, hatred, fear was needed to torture and kill over two hundred young girls.

She became my rule, the bar by which I measure, as she is the ultimate testament in human cruelty. What we are capable of, and by some degree, what I might even be capable of.

It’s just human nature and a touch of psychology, really. I once thought if I could unravel the mystery around her, I could understand what happened to me. Why it happened. And how someone could fall so far into the darkness they only ex...

Bathory is my ultimate intrigue as a profiler, yes, but also ...

The fact our newest perpetrator emulated her technique is interesting—but that’s as far as I can allow my brain to process it. A ...

I watch her. Since her first visit to The Lair months ago, I’ve been watching. Just watching. And she watches, too.

I assumed she was a voyeur. Only here to feed some curiosity, or feast on the sight of flesh and violence. But the longer I watch, the more I see it in her jade eyes. She’s hungry.

How she even got through the front door, I don’t know. Julian must have been feeling charitable that first night. Maybe thinking the same as me—that she was just wanting to settle s...

She hasn’t been back for a while. Maybe two weeks. And I’m like a hunter stalking my prey, needing to get a long, lustful gaze at my conquest. Although, truth be told, I have no intention of making a move on her. She’s too perfect. I just want to marvel, to watch as she watches, taking in her labored breaths. Her fingers clamped tightly around her flute of champagne.

I lean my shoulder against the wall and fold my arms over my chest and black T-shirt, letting my gaze travel over the room until it locks on to her.

Okay, fine. I’ve asked about her. Even against my better judgment and Julian’s unwelcome probing into my life.

So many tempting beauties occupy this scene, and though I’ve played with my fair share, and it was satisfying on a carnal level, I’ve never been entranced the way I am when I watch her.

If she welcomes his advance, I’m going to lose my shit. I won’t be able to stand here and watch someone else give her what I know she needs. Fuck him. He hasn’t watched her for months; he hasn’t logged away countless hours discovering what she yearns for.

And he sure as shit doesn’t know that she doesn’t want to be touched. But I do—and I’m two seconds away from breaking his hand.

I keep watching, regardless. If she’s ready to play, finally, I’ll make sure she’s safe. I’ll watch over her, protect her. She’s shaking her head, trying to get away from him. She’s rattled. He’s not what sh...

The guy touches her again, this time on her waist. He’s leaning over her, trying to persuade her to join him. He grips her around one thin wrist and forcefully pulls her against him. That’s breaking the rules, fucker. I’m storming toward him before Onyx can alert the bouncer.

“She said no.” Towering over the guy, I bring all of my six-foot self forward, a dominant shadow cast over him. I haven’t touched him. Yet. But my fists are locked, every muscle corded tight.

The guy—who’s wearing a dark-gray business suit—straightens his back to bring himself fully before me. “She wants it. She’s just shy.” He glances down at her. “Needs a little persuading.” Hot breaths saw in and out of my nose. “The lady wants to watch. No means no, asshole. In any establishment, but especially here.” Hiking my thumb over my shoulder, I say, “I think you’ve played enough for tonight.”

There’s always a bad apple, and it just looks like one found you.”

She’s my temple and I’m her slave, willing to kneel before her on command.

The desire to follow her thrums through me with vicious abandon. I close my eyes, slip my hand into my pocket, and caress the rough cord of rope to drive away the coldness encasing me in my own dark, hollow space. She will understand soon there’s no reason to hide from me, no reason to be ashamed. I understand her; I appreciate her fear more than any other soul. Soothed, I open my eyes. I won’t be able to wait until she appears next in my world before I see her again.

Based on the vic’s rigorous schedule and almost OCD-like qualities, she didn’t leave much room for a social life. Her daily routine was mapped out like clockwork. Like my life, really.

Nor did the trip to the BDSM club help to sate my thirst—but hearing his voice, his tempting words… A pang hits my chest and hitches my breathing. I push the unwanted thoughts deeper, past my subconscious where they belong.

The fact that the best ME I know—a woman who’s seen damn near everything—is shocked by this kill send a ripple of apprehension down my spine. But maybe it’s a lead for our victim. If the perpetrator used a rare weapon, maybe he’s used it before. It could show up on another radar out there.

“Colt, these detectives want to ask you about the other night. It’s about what happened to Piper.” His words trail off, becoming a distant noise as a loud whoosh fills my ears. My breath catches in my throat, my heartbeat pulses in my veins, blood careening painfully against my arteries. The room feels as if it’s folding in around me. The moment our eyes connect, I’m caught. My immediate reaction is to leave, run. Get out right now.

But his stone-blue gaze ensnares me. No escape.

My skin flushes with heat, and I lick my lips, my voice lost. The bartender from The Lair. The one who’s been watching me in the voyeur room. Who pours my pink champagne, who knows my secret. The one who thinks he’s spying on me…whi...