The Killer's Art

“Captain Carig, still no leads,” said Mark Dean, the deputy captain, his face grim.

“The scene’s been scrubbed too clean. Not a single trace left behind.” Davey’s fists clenched so

hard his knuckles cracked. He knew that the killer was taunting him.

Forcing him. “Is she here?” His voice was low, rasping. Mark blinked,

then realized who he meant. “She’s here. In the car.” Davey turned and walked

toward the black sedan parked just outside the cordon. The door opened. Miya stepped out.

She still wore a gray prison uniform, an electronic shackle clasped around her wrist.

Her figure was gaunt, her face so pale it looked bloodless. But her eyes–they burned.