2

It’s early, 6:00 p.m., when I swing into the garage underneath my apartment block and park my Buick in my assigned spot. My apartment is in Alexandria, which is perfect because it’s halfway between DC and Quantico.

I purposefully load up my left arm with my handbag and the grocery bag from the trunk so my right hand is free. Free to lock the car, press the elevator button, open the door…and get my gun. A girl’s got to be prepared, right?

The slight heels on my ankle boots make a clipping noise on the concrete as I walk to the elevator. I press the up button and wait, scanning the garage and looking for anything or anyone out of place. Garages and parking lots are the most likely places for a woman to be raped if the perpetrator is a stranger. I flick my eyes to the display—the elevator’s on the fifteenth floor and moving down at a snail’s pace. When it finally arrives and the doors open I let out a breath that I barely realized I was holding.

The elevator glides effortlessly to the third floor and the doors open with the usual ping. The hallways of my apartment block are painted a blue-gray, with teal-colored tiles on the floor—carpet would be too messy for winter, when everyone’s shoes are covered in snow. Coming from Australia, I’d never lived in a city with snow before, and last year was my first white Christmas. Or as they’d say here, my first real winter.

I walk down the hall to my apartment, number 310, flipping through my keys as I go. I use a color-coded system: the top lock is the red key, then the yellow key, then the green key, just like a traffic light. Once I’ve unlocked all three, I turn the handle and shuffle into my apartment, quickly unloading everything onto the kitchen counter and drawing my gun so I can check the apartment. The sad thing is, I used to do this even before the Slasher case.

After checking my one-bedroom apartment thoroughly, I’m satisfied that I’m alone. I reholster my gun and take in the emptiness around me. I sigh, thinking about the recent departure of a fellow profiler who’d been more than just a friend. They say you should never mix business with pleasure, but I thought we had something special. And we did, until that case ruined it all. Can trust, once broken, ever be rebuilt? He said he hadn’t asked for the transfer to the Philadelphia field office, but I wasn’t so sure. And his comment that “it might be good to have a break for a while” didn’t do anything to allay my suspicion. Maybe I should face facts—despite the amazing beginning, things hadn’t really been working.

I push him out of my mind and start on dinner. Within half an hour I’m eating grilled salmon with a couscous salad and sipping a glass of wine from a freshly opened bottle of Semillon. Normally I prefer red, but with fish, white is better.

I eat in silence, taking a few sips of wine in between mouthfuls. I top up my glass and twirl it from the stem, gazing at the liquid as it swirls. I certainly won’t finish the bottle; in fact, I can’t. Except when we’re on leave, FBI agents must be fit for duty at all times, and this mandate extends to alcohol intake. This is my third and final glass for the evening, but I could easily imagine myself finishing off the bottle. Maybe then I could relax? I’ve studied psychology; I know I’m in a high-risk group to become too fond of drinking. Thank God for the Bureau’s alcohol mandate—I’m too much of a Goody Two-shoes to break the FBI’s rules.

I recork the bottle, using a wine pump so it won’t spoil, and move to the couch. I break the silence by turning on the TV, flicking through the channels to try to find something that will hold my interest and distract me from more sinister thoughts like rape statistics. I fly through the stations, pausing on each one only for a couple of seconds. Nothing captivates me, but maybe that’s more reflective of my mood than the programming. I settle on the news and finish my glass of wine before washing the dishes.

Finally I call home.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Hi, sweetie.” I can hear the excitement in her voice. “Great to hear from you. How’s life in the good old US of A?”

“Great, everything’s great.” I never did tell Mum and Dad about what happened. It would totally freak them out. Then they’d spend all their time trying to convince me to give up the Bureau. At first I didn’t tell them because I couldn’t deal with reliving those few weeks. Then I realized it would open up a can of worms, with lots of “we told you so” and pressure to quit. And now…well, now it seems too late.

“And work?” Her tone changes. She’s asking because she knows it’s the right thing to do, because she knows it’s important to me, not because she’s really interested. They never wanted me in this line of work.

“Love it.” I keep it simple. “So, what’s news in Melbourne?” I lean back against the couch.

“Mmm.” She pauses. “Your dad’s still going stir-crazy.”

I laugh. “That’s old news, Mum.” Dad retired six months ago and he’s still readjusting to life on the outside. I think life as a retiree is as foreign to him as life on the outside of a prison for a career criminal.

I hear the unmistakable click of another phone being picked up.

“How’s my little girl?” Dad’s American accent has softened over the years, but you can still hear the unmistakable twang of his roots.

“I’m good, Dad.”

“Hope you’re not working on any dangerous cases.” His voice is serious now, concerned.

I draw out my words in a singsong voice. “No, Dad.” It’s not a lie. I’m not working on any dangerous cases right now.

“We do worry about you.” Mum follows this with a sigh.

“I’m fine.” Silence. “Really, I am.” I chew on my bottom lip, catching it and releasing it a few times with my two front teeth.

“Are you looking forward to your holiday?” Dad moves the conversation to a less controversial subject.

I let my head sink back further into the couch and release my lip. “You bet. It’s only a week but it will be nice to get away.”

We spend the next twenty minutes engaged in our usual chitchat. By the time I hang up, I feel comforted. But within minutes the silence engulfs me again. I look at my watch. Too early for bed. I try channel surfing again, but in the end I opt for reading. I grab my latest Kathryn Deans novel and curl up on the couch, with the heater on low. I fly through the book, turning pages and only occasionally looking over my shoulder.

I wake up with a start and immediately look around the room to make sure I’m alone. I’m still on the couch and my book lies on the floor. A small drop of saliva sits on the corner of my mouth and I notice that the cushion I’d propped underneath my head and shoulders is slightly damp. Nice. Drooling in my sleep.

I change into my gym gear, like I do most nights when I can’t sleep, and throw my gun, a bottle of water, a towel and my gloves into a small bag. Up on the fifteenth-floor gym I do a few stretches before jumping on the treadmill. For the first five minutes I gradually increase my pace and then up the speed until I’m pushing myself—hard. An hour and ten miles later I slow the treadmill to a walking pace and guzzle some water. My legs are shaky, and I’m barely able to stand. I ride the slight nausea with more water before slipping into my protective gloves and moving over to the punching bag. I go through my kung fu punches on the bag, starting with straight punches and moving on to hooks, tiger punches—which use the heel of your palm as the impact point—uppercuts, back fists, and leopard punches with bent fingers so you’re striking with your knuckles. I finish up with my favorite, scratching face—a tiger strike followed by a sharp drag. In practice you’d strike the person’s cheekbone or temple with the palm of your hand, then drag your hand down their face, digging your nails in. Nice.

Back in my apartment I check the place once more, gun in hand, before jumping in the shower. Finally I flop into bed and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the adrenaline to level off. Logically, exercising is not a good move for insomnia, but it seems to be the only thing that calms me, that helps me release the anger.

If I hadn’t killed the bastard already, I’d do it now.

NeverCaught: I thought Wednesday would never **ing come.

DialM: Really? I think the first week has passed by quite swiftly.

AmericanPsycho: So, nearly one week down, who do we like?

BlackWidow: Well, you can count me out on Danny. The guy’s an asshole—worse than most.

NeverCaught: You are some man hater.

DialM: I personally have grown quite fond of Ling over this past week.

BlackWidow: Is it the accent?

DialM: I do like the Australian accent, but it’s more than that. Rare is the union of beauty and modesty.

BlackWidow: What’s her story anyway?

AmericanPsycho: Haven’t you checked out her bio?

BlackWidow: I haven’t bothered with the women.

DialM: She’s eighteen years old. She’s in the U.S. for six months before she starts studying medicine back in Sydney, Australia. She’s adopted from China—both her adoptive parents are from Italian stock.

BlackWidow: Thanks.

DialM: Who do you like, Psycho?

AmericanPsycho: Brigitte.

DialM: She is a beauty, that one.

AmericanPsycho: Yes. It’s time.

DialM: What if we go for Danny? I don’t like the fact he’s got army training.

BlackWidow: Like I said, I’m out. I like to play with them first, and I couldn’t DO him.

NeverCaught: Who cares about Danny? It’s Brigitte that I want. She’s hot.

AmericanPsycho: I think I’m more her type.

NeverCaught: Like she’s got a say in it.

DialM: True.

AmericanPsycho: I think it should be Malcolm or Danny first, just to make things more interesting.

DialM: Not much pleasure in it. Well not for me at least.

NeverCaught: Hey, Psycho, do we get to watch the actual deed?

AmericanPsycho: The successful member can take video and still images of the kill, but you mustn’t show us your face. Or you can keep it private.

NeverCaught: I like to strut my stuff.

AmericanPsycho: Your member kits included a digital camera. There are instructions on how to post photos to the Web site via your laptops. We also have a house especially set up. Somewhere private you can take them. But there are no cameras in the house.

BlackWidow: You have thought of everything, Psycho.

AmericanPsycho: Of course I have.

NeverCaught: Only a few hours until one of us has the first victim of the Murderers’ Club.

BlackWidow: I can’t wait.