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 sit up a little too fast and stare down at my hands, fingers spread. The sleep in my eyes quickly fades as the drumming in my ears rage on. I want to rub at my eyes to see if this is really real, but if this is what I think it is, I don't want to touch my face. Whatever it is, it's all over my palms and fingers, running up my arms. I trace it along my body and I realize I'm naked. But the thick of the red stuff is only on the top of my chest.
Fuck. I've been to plenty of crime scenes to know this is exactly what I think it is. It's fucking blood. And not my own.
My hands touch the sheets again. Shit, it's everywhere. On the sheets, pillows, and comforter. The white material now forever stained. I delicately touch my skin. It's like my clothes kept it from getting all over me, but my contact in the bloody sheets must have left an imprint on my body.
What the hell happened? How did I even get back here like this? I cover my head with my hands, not even caring anymore. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think. Think, Jennifer, think!
The bar. I was at the bar! Oh, and Theo... I met Theo. Oh shit, and I made out with him in the bathroom. But that's all I remember. I can't recall anything after that moment! I suck in a jagged breath, opening my eyes. Is...Is this Theo's blood?
I gag, throwing the sheets back. I rush into the bathroom, racing to the toilet. But in my path, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and freeze. It's just as bad as I thought. Blood is splattered over my face and in my hair, which is thrown into a messy bun. I don't even recognize the blue eyes staring back at me. They're darkened in the red starkness.
I have to get this off. I turn on the facet and try washing my hands but it barely comes off. I bring my face closer to the sink and start scrubbing my face until it feels raw. I check my reflection in the mirror but it's barely gone. Fucking fuck. I turn around and start the shower.
I go over my body and skin at least three times, hoping it'll be gone. How am I supposed to show up at work with blood in my hair and on my hands? Not at all, that's for sure. As I stand under the hot stream of water, I beg the memories of last night to come back but they won't. And if I'm being honest, do I want them to? Do I really want to know what I may have done?
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a nearby towel around myself. A quick check in the mirror shows me I'm somewhat okay now. But as I go back into my bedroom, I pause in my step at the reminder of what I woke up to. My sheets are a mix of white and red like I had a visit from an eccentric painter. And nearby on the floor is a pile of clothes. Bloody clothes.
I uneasily walk over. Oh shit. Where's my phone? I pat down the jacket but nothing. I check the pants pockets but no phone. It's not here. "Shit!"
I pick up the shirt on the floor with two fingers. I take a deep breath and lean in, going for a sniff. Almost immediately, I get the thick, metallic scent I know all too well and drop the shirt. Shit. Shit!
