What Can't Be Seen (Dr. Gretchen White, #2)

by Brianna Labuskes

The man lying next to Gretchen shifted, lifting up onto one elbow and scratching absently at the neatly manicured hair on his stomach. “Babe?” “Not your babe,” Gretchen gritted out as she sat up, her feet sinking into the plush carpet. “Don’t panic. I don’t remember your name, either.”

Detective Lauren Marconi’s fist paused, midknock, when Gretchen finally wrenched open the door. The woman maintained her unimpressed expression in the face of Gretchen’s nudity as well as her greeting that involved the most colorful combination of curse words in Gretchen’s vocabulary.

Gretchen’s hand found its way to Marconi’s throat. In the next minute Gretchen had Marconi against the wall, teeth bared, her blood hot and thrumming with the beloved and familiar rage that she so rarely let herself feel. The pounding was in her veins now. “You think you know me,” Gretchen whispered, white creeping in at the edges of her vision. “You think you’ve clipped my claws, little Bambi. But don’t forget what I am.” Marconi didn’t shrink beneath the implied threat, simply met Gretchen’s gaze with those light amber eyes of hers. When she answered, her tone was dry. “A nonviolent sociopath, if I remember correctly.”

Gretchen eyed the sleek stainless steel knives that sat next to her coffee maker, but the urge for caffeine had well and truly taken over any need to pierce Marconi through with a sharp object.

“Make your point or leave,” Gretchen said. “But you have until I finish this”—she gestured with the mug—“before I toss you out the window.” While the threat would have been more convincing had Gretchen lived in a penthouse instead of a converted town house, the salient part came through. Get out of my house, or nonviolent classification be damned.

“If you’re spending your vacation days on me, your life is even more pathetic than I’d guessed,” Gretchen said, hard and derisive. “And that was already a low bar to beat.” Marconi rolled her eyes and flipped Gretchen off, a gesture that had become familiar after working only one case together.

“What was that?” Marconi said, overloud. Gretchen winced as her hangover reared its head. “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your life spinning out of control.” “Please,” Gretchen purred, amused now. “You haven’t seen me out of control yet.” Marconi jerked her head toward the door, a subtle reminder that Gretchen had pinned her there earlier. Gretchen laughed. “The fact that you’ll have bruises instead of a gaping chest wound should tell you everything you need to know about my control.” A corner of Marconi’s lips twitched. “My hero.”

“Perhaps the first thing you should know is my family is fabulously wealthy,” Gretchen said. She’d gone for a refill of her Irish coffee, and Marconi still hadn’t said a word about it. At that statement, though, Marconi snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d bought that Porsche with your police consultant money.”

“Edith married Theodore White, who did his best to burn through the inheritance in the year between their wedding and his death,” Gretchen said. These were easy facts so far. It would get harder soon. “Did she kill him?” Marconi asked, her slightly raised brows the only noticeable hint of surprise. “Of course not,” Gretchen said with an exaggerated wink, pitching her voice to overly innocent. “She would have been charged if she had.” “Right,” Marconi responded, drawing out the word.

“Rowan was in and out of psychiatric facilities when she was a teenager,” Gretchen said. “I didn’t get the sense it was voluntary.” “There’s no shame in that,” Marconi protested, like Gretchen should have guessed she would. Gretchen rolled her eyes. “You’re talking to a psychologist with an antisocial personality disorder diagnosis. I know there’s no shame in that. Tell that to a woman who thinks being spotted in sweatpants is a crime worthy of disownment.”

“Speaking of siblings, you have one, don’t you? A sister.” Gretchen’s nails dug into the soft flesh of her palm, and she welcomed the pain. “Fran,” she managed, through a clenched jaw. “I take it your relationship wasn’t rosy?” Marconi asked in a voice far too gentle, far too understanding. It made Gretchen want to scratch either herself or Marconi until blood spilled onto the floor. She didn’t care whose it was. “Those inductive skills of yours are nearly Sherlockian,” Gretchen bit out, the tone too mean. But she couldn’t help it. Her brain wasn’t designed to truly factor in consequences.

The socially appropriate thing to say here was obvious, even to her, so she forced it out. Marconi was lucky she’d proven herself useful enough for this. “I’m sorry.” Marconi’s nose wrinkled. “That felt . . . wrong in so many ways.” Something within Gretchen relaxed, and she laughed genuinely for the first time in what felt like months. “Think of how it felt to say it.”

“What about your sister?” “Personality-wise, Fran’s the same as Bardot,” Gretchen said. “Her little clone. But no disorders.” Gretchen paused. “Though that seems unlikely given our family. So I’ll amend that to ‘none that I know of.’” “Is she still in the area?” “In Waltham, married with two point five perfect children,” Gretchen said. “Living off Bardot’s trust fund and whatever the bland potato she married does.” Marconi pulled out her notebook, jotted down God knew what. “I take it you’re not in contact?” “As last I checked, hell had not frozen over,” Gretchen said. “That would be no.”

“Girls who play Nancy Drew get murdered,” he said, his light tone contrasting with the loaded warning. “Yeah, well, girls get murdered for just being girls,” she said on a tired sigh, the fight going out of her, thinking not only of Jenny but of all the ones who came before and after her. So many. Why’d there always have to be so many murdered girls? “At least I’ll have known I tried.”

“Because, from what I’ve seen, despite the fact that you’re a sociopath, you still end up doing the right thing nine times out of ten anyway,” Marconi said. “Isn’t that almost more impressive than doing it because you’re born with the correct wiring?” “Maybe eight times out of ten,” Gretchen said to ease that damn flutter in her chest. “Sure. Eight out of ten,” Marconi said, some kind of annoyingly knowing smile lurking behind her voice. “Even seven out of ten puts you above average in my experience.” Gretchen didn’t have a clever reply, and Marconi grinned. “Oh, have I finally left you speechless?” She wasn’t proud of it, but Gretchen reverted to Marconi’s favored rude gesture as a response. “There’s that infamous wit,” Marconi quipped.

His ma had warned him about the way he’d get when he had a new obsession. “Focused,” she’d called it. His siblings hadn’t been as kind. “Creepy,” Brenna had said. “Psycho,” Mick had added. “Sinister.” That had been Saoirse. He hadn’t taken it too hard, because she fancied herself the smart one in the family and had been practicing for her SATs at the time.

“Oh,” Gretchen said. “You’re getting emotional on my behalf again.” It had happened before, and each time it did, it delighted Gretchen. Marconi slumped back in her seat, like her strings had been cut. “The nonreaction is freaking me out.” “You barely react when I threaten people with violence, and yet it’s the fact that I’m not about to kill someone that’s troubling you?” Gretchen checked. “Well when you put it like that, I sound—” “Let’s go with irrational, shall we?” Gretchen cut in.

“Are you trying to make me angry?” Gretchen asked, curious mostly. Marconi all but threw up her hands. “Yes.” Gretchen glanced over. “I could probably pop out a few tears if that would make you feel better.” Marconi flipped her off, and Gretchen laughed.

“I’m not going to wake up to news that Shaughnessy’s been killed in his sleep, am I?” The question surprised a laugh out of Gretchen. “If I ever killed Shaughnessy, it wouldn’t be in his sleep. It would be long, painful, and there would be some symbolism involved, without a doubt.” “I feel so reassured,” Marconi muttered, but then grabbed her bag and hauled herself out of the Porsche. “Just remember, I won’t help you hide this particular body.” “Oh,” Gretchen crooned. “But others?” “Depends on the cost-benefit ratio to me,” Marconi said, slamming the door behind her. Gretchen rolled down the window to shout, “We’ll make a proper sociopath out of you yet.”

Gretchen had never killed anyone. Not that she could remember, at least.

It was hard to make out anything more than a dark outline behind the curtains, but Gretchen saw Shaughnessy in her mind, moving through the rooms, putting some old record on the ancient vinyl player he kept next to his portable bar. Pouring himself something brown and medium priced because that was a splurge for the man. One time, Gretchen had bought him high-end Scotch for Christmas, and she thought it was the closest he’d come to ever crying in her presence.

Gretchen eyed Marconi, and after a beat of silence grudgingly tossed out, “Good work.” “Oho!” Marconi laughed. “Did that actually hurt for you to say? It looked like it hurt.”

“Did you participate in it?” Gretchen asked. Dr. Chen always seemed older than God, but she wasn’t sure of the exact date he’d been hired in Boston. “I did indeed,” Dr. Chen said, shucking off his gloves after giving the corpse’s flank a pat. “An honor of a lifetime, getting to work on that case, though I did not realize it at the time.” “Because of its connection to me?” Gretchen grinned. “Why else?” Dr. Chen tossed her an exaggerated wink. Marconi bit off an “Oh my god.” “Don’t mind her,” Gretchen said. “She has no appreciation for the dramatic.” Dr. Chen, who had been somewhat won over by Marconi in the past, swooned. “That will never do.” “Tell me about it,” Gretchen agreed. “I feel like I should be defending myself,” Marconi cut in. “But I really can’t argue with the facts.”

“Lachlan is not going to arrest you.” “Darling”—Gretchen revved the engine—“trust me when I say don’t bet on it.” Marconi’s eyes slid toward Gretchen and she grimaced. “Okay, yeah he might. But it could be worth it. If there are any inside rumors about Shaughnessy and Rowan’s case—he’ll have heard about them.” Gretchen sighed and pulled into traffic. “You’re paying my bail.”

“Well, let’s get this over with.” “Gibbs is not going to arrest you,” Marconi promised. Gretchen’s mood soured further. “You’ve talked to him about me.” “No, believe it or not, the world doesn’t revolve around you,” Marconi said with enough attitude that Gretchen actually believed her. “But he’s not an idiot. You haven’t done anything wrong, and you’ve solved more cases for the department than half the detectives on staff.” Gretchen slid her a look. “If you’re trying to butter me up with compliments, keep going, it’s working.”

He stared at her from behind his desk, unimpressed, because he was always unimpressed when he stared at her. Then his attention slipped behind her to Marconi. “Lauren.” He greeted her warmly, and Gretchen’s eyes widened. She shot Marconi a smug smile, but the woman brushed by her without comment. “And Dr. White,” Gibbs said, finally acknowledging her, his tone about ten degrees cooler than when he’d addressed Marconi. “To what do I owe this . . . pleasure?” “See,” Gretchen said beneath her breath to Marconi, who gave her a look Gretchen was realizing meant behave in Marconi-speak.

“You’re putting quite a bit of faith in a murderer,” Gibbs said quietly, as if Gretchen couldn’t hear. “Yes, because it’s sociopaths who have cornered the market on terrible behavior, clearly,” Gretchen said.

“Not exactly giving me reasons to trust you, though, are you, Dr. White,” Gibbs said. When people voluntarily used her honorific like that, they were usually mocking it. Gretchen wanted to stab him in the throat with the pen he had placed on his desk. She thought that might mean Marconi would stop working with her, though. So she refrained.

Gibbs studied them, and then everything about him sagged forward as if in defeat. “I’ll write you a pass for the archives. You won’t be able to take anything out under your name since you’re officially on vacation. Just . . . try to be subtle about it, okay? I don’t want this getting back to me.” Gretchen glanced at Marconi, and then said in a loud aside, “You must be fantastic in bed.” Marconi smiled, but it was more a baring of teeth than anything else. “And you wonder why he wants to arrest you.”

She trailed a finger over the labels. WHITE, ROWAN J. Gretchen hefted the box off the shelf and toted it back to where Marconi stood. “Don’t give me that face.” “I’m not going to stop Gibbs when he tries to arrest you for this,” Marconi said, but she was already straining to get a look at what Gretchen had grabbed. “The only way he finds out is if you tell,” Gretchen said, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. “And you know better than that, don’t you, darling?” Marconi eyed her. “Why do I have the feeling you just slid a razor blade against my neck?” “Oh good, that’s what I intended,” Gretchen said brightly, before flipping open Rowan’s file.

“My grandmother signed Rowan out from the station,” Gretchen said. “If Anders was torturing Rowan, Edith would have had to be in on it.” “That wouldn’t surprise me,” Marconi said, her eyes returning to Jennifer’s file. “The mothers are often abusers themselves.” “Oh, thank you, I’d never heard that very basic fact about serial killers while getting my doctorate in serial killers,” Gretchen drawled. Marconi looked up. “You can get a degree in serial killers?” “No, I was doing a”—she waved, and finished lamely—“bit.” “Bummer,” Marconi murmured, lips twitching as her attention slipped again. “That would be cool.”

“Lovely,” Marconi said. “So Jennifer Cross went to the same school as Rowan, disappeared a little over two weeks after Rowan was seen fleeing from the woods in her underthings. And she was found with the same cuts on her arms as Rowan.” “Who says ‘underthings’?” Gretchen asked, amused. “You really know how to focus on the important things,” Marconi said. “It’s that keen insight of yours.”

“I always had the feeling he was well off, too.” “What gave you the impression he was rich?” Shaughnessy asked. “He never hesitated at a cash register.” People like her hesitated. People who didn’t know if they had quite enough money, who calculated each purchase down to the penny to avoid embarrassment. Cal had never worried about that. Maybe that didn’t make him rich, but it made him comfortable.

There are four kinds of serial killers, Daniels had written in one of his messages. Thrill seekers, like Bonnie and Clyde. Then there were the mission-oriented ones, the ones who killed prostitutes or drug dealers because they thought they were ridding society of what they saw as vermin. Visionaries heard God talking to them and killed in his name. And finally there were those who sought power and control. Those were the perverts. The rapists who eventually graduated to more.

Pretty sure there are more types now

“You lied,” she finally said. Her voice no longer sounded distant in her own head, and she thanked the alcohol for that. Shaughnessy kept his eyes on his own drink. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve lied a lot.” The quiet admission made Gretchen want to hurl her glass at his face, watch it shatter his nose or, better yet, break into shards that sliced at the vulnerable tissue of his eyes. But she wanted the rest of the whiskey more than she wanted that. And he might have trouble answering should she actually go through with it. That goddamn cost-benefit ratio again.

“Finish this case with me,” Gretchen proposed. “And then you can take me to the gun range and use me as practice if you want.” “Discharging my weapon involves a lot of paperwork. And quite frankly—” She paused, dragging her eyes up and down Gretchen. “You’re not worth it.” “Touché.” The more verbal slaps Marconi dished out, the more they’d be back on even ground. Gretchen could live with the sting of them. “I’m sure you’ll think of creative ways to make me suffer.” A smirk tugged at Marconi’s lips, the first real flicker of emotion. “I’m holding you to that.”

“What about ones like Aileen Wuornos?” Marconi asked, and Gretchen nearly rolled her eyes. Aileen was the one every layman knew because of that movie with the beautiful actress who had been “courageous” enough to play an ugly character. “Aileen’s victims were her clients, ergo part of her life,” Gretchen said. “But more importantly, she was a high-level psychopath, with a score of thirty-two out of forty on the scale used to measure such things.” “That seems high,” Marconi said. “Ted Bundy’s score was thirty-nine,” Gretchen said, and then paused for effect before adding, “And mine is thirteen. If that gives you a range.” Marconi’s brows rose, but she only hummed a little, not commenting further.

“Why haven’t you told me in the years since? That seems like prime ammunition.” “That would involve talking with you,” Anders said with that casual cruelty of his. “A fate worse than death, let me assure you.” “Ouch. I think I’ll go cry into my huge piles of money,” Gretchen returned, and Marconi flicked her on the arm. Gretchen mouthed What? and Marconi gave her the serious eyes. “Right, back to Rowan. Did she hand me over right away? I thought she didn’t leave Boston until I was two.” “She might not have left the city, but she didn’t even hold you after you were born,” Anders said, and she knew he was trying to be deliberately hurtful. “And then spent those two years getting drunk and high and killing people, possibly.”

“You didn’t think any of this was relevant to Rowan’s murder investigation?” “Coincidences happen,” Anders said, a shrug in his voice. Like this hadn’t defined her entire life. “You were clearly the guilty party. Why dig up anything in the past? Plus it took care of the Rowan problem nicely.” If they’d been having the conversation in person, Gretchen was certain she would have pulled a sharp object on him already. Maybe her shears if she’d been carrying her big bag with her.

“Are we playing Strangers on a Train?” It was the only thing Tabby could think to say. Bardot hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe we are.”