Jennifer Lynne is a homicide detective working on one of the most horrific serial killing cases New York has seen in the last decade. When she and her partner get a lead on the suspect, they catch him with his seventh victim. But things go south and...
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I wouldn't go back to the precinct today if I had it my way. I'd dig my heels in. But Drake has always been the more responsible one. He'd never play hooky, not even if I asked nicely. There's no point in trying.
As soon as we leave Attica, Drake brings us back. The entire ride, I pick at the skin on the side of my nails - which, by the way, is something I've never done before. But it takes my mind off of the nerves eating away at my stomach. Drake pulls into the lot and the car lurches, snapping my eyes away from my hands.
Here we go.
The moment I walk into the bullpen, the Captain is on me. I skid to a stop and try ducking behind Drake, who strains his neck to look at me with a furrowed brow.
"Jennifer Lynne," Stringer scolds, and all of the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "Don't even bother."
I sigh and roll my eyes, stepping back into his line of sight. He stands there with his arms folded and that stern look flat across his face. "Yeah?" I try to say as nonchalantly as I can.
He moves towards me. "You're a grown adult, Jennifer, but if you're going to be childish, I can walk you into that room and stand outside until you do what is required of you."
While I can't always get a good read on him, I can tell he's dead serious. If he says he'll force me to meet with the goddamn shrink, I know he will.
I throw my hands in the air. "Fine!"
Stringer points to his office. "She's ready for you now."
I exhale through my nose. "Lovely."
The early afternoon sun shines through the slants in Stringer's office. It casts a yellow-orange glow onto the shiny desk and the black leather couch on the back wall. And sitting in one of the chairs on the outside of Stringer's desk is a woman with dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses. As I enter, she moves the notepad in her hand and looks up at me.
"Jennifer?" She starts. "Hi, I'm Dr. Keegan." She motions to the couch behind her. "Please, sit."
I close the door behind me, shutting out all of the eyes watching me. As I make my way to the sofa, she turns the chair to face me. The stiff material of the couch squeaks under me as I sit. I hate this stupid thing.
At first, the woman doesn't speak. She just looks at me like she's waiting for me to go first. Why does this feel like deja vu from earlier with Jackson? I cross my legs and raise a brow. You first, lady.
She clears her throat quietly. "So, you were involved in a shooting last Friday, correct?"
I nod. "Yep."
Dr. Keegan tilts her head. "And how are you feeling about that?"
"About the shooting itself or being the shooter?" When she doesn't respond, I shrug. "A shooting is always a terrifying thing. But it was a good shooting. He was a homicide suspect with a knife in his hand and a victim at his feet. And he charged at me."
