Perhaps the oddest thing about her was that her sweatpants were pulled down to her ankles and her underwear pulled down to her knees. Chloe hunkered down closer to the body and looked for any other details. She saw what looked like two small scratch marks on the side of her neck. They looked to be fresh and in the shape of fingernails.
“Where’s the husband?” she asked.
“In custody,” Greene said. “He’s admitted to it and already told the police what happened.”
“But if it’s a domestic dispute, why call the FBI in?” she asked.
“Because this guy was arrested three years ago for beating up his first wife so bad that she went to the ER. But she didn’t press charges. And his home computer was flagged two weeks ago for potential snuff videos.”
Chloe took all of that information and applied it to what she was seeing. She interlocked it all like a puzzle and spoke her theories out loud as they came to her.
“Given this man’s history, he was prone to violence. Extreme violence, if the crushed toaster is any indication. The sweatpants pushed down and underwear not quite all the way down indicates that he was trying to have sex with her here in the kitchen. Maybe they were having sex and she wanted it to stop. Scratch marks on her neck indicate that the sex was rough and either consensual at first or entirely unwanted.”
She paused here and studied the blood. “The blood looks to be relatively fresh. I’d estimate the murder to have occurred within the last six hours.”
“And what would your next steps be?” Greene asked. “If we didn’t have this guy in custody right now and there was an active search for him, how would you follow up?”
“I’d check for evidence of intercourse. We could get his DNA and get a match. While waiting for those results, though, I’d look for things like wallets upstairs in the bedroom, hoping for a driver’s license. Of course, that’s if it wasn’t already suspected that it was the husband. If that were the case, we could get the name from the address.”
Greene smiled at her, nodding. “That’s right. You’d be surprised how many rookies miss the fact that it’s sort of a trick question. You’re in the guy’s house, so you’d already know his name. But if it wasn’t suspected that it was the husband, you’re exactly right. Also…Fine, are you okay?”
The question took her by surprise—mainly because she wasn’t okay. She had zoned out, staring at the blood on the kitchen tile. It pulled her all the way back into her past, staring at a pool of blood drying into the carpet at the bottom of the stairs.
Without warning, she started to grow faint. She braced herself against the kitchen island, afraid she was going to puke. It was alarming and embarrassing.
Is this what I can look forward to at any remotely gruesome crime scene? At any scenes that remotely resemble what happened to Mom?
She could hear Sally in the back of her head, one of the first things she’d ever said to Chloe: I don’t know how a woman would make an exceptional agent. Especially one with your traumatic background. I wonder if that sort of stress comes home with you…
“Sorry, excuse me,” she mumbled. She pushed herself off the island and ran back to the front door. She nearly fell down the porch stairs on her way to the lawn, sure she was going to throw up.
Thankfully, the fates spared her that particular embarrassment. She took a series of deep breaths, concentrating so intently on them that she almost didn’t notice when Greene came quietly down the porch steps.
“There are certain cases that get to me, too,” he told her. He kept a respectable distance, letting her have her space. “There are going to be scenes that are much worse. Sadly, after a while, you sort of become desensitized to it.”
She nodded, as she had heard all of that before. “I know. It’s just…this scene brought up something. A memory I don’t like dealing with.”
“The bureau has exceptional therapists to help agents process through things like this. So never think you’re alone or that something like this makes you less of an agent.”
“Thanks,” Chloe said, finally managing to stand upright again.
She realized that she suddenly missed her sister very badly. As morbid as it seemed, fond thoughts of Danielle would flood through her whenever memories of the day their mother died surfaced in her head. It was no different now; Chloe could not help but think of her sister. Danielle had been through a lot over the years—a victim of circumstance as well as her own poor decisions. And now that Chloe lived so close, it seemed unthinkable that they should remain so distant.
Sure, she’d invited Danielle to the block part this weekend, but Chloe found herself unable to wait that long. And Chloe suspected that she wouldn’t even come.
Suddenly, she knew: she had to see her now.
Chloe didn’t know why she was so nervous when she knocked on Danielle’s door. She knew Danielle was in; the same car she’d had as a teenager was parked in the apartment complex parking lot, still boasting the band stickers. Nine Inch Nails. KMFDM. Ministry. Seeing the car and those stickers brought a pang of nostalgia that was more sadness than anything else.
Has she really not grown up at all? Chloe wondered.
When Danielle answered the door, Chloe saw that she had not. Or, rather, it did not look like it in terms of appearance.
The sisters looked at one another for a period of two seconds before they finally moved in for a brief hug. Chloe saw that Danielle still dyed her hair black. She was also still sporting the lip ring, protruding from the left corner of her mouth. She was wearing a slight bit of black eyeliner and was decked out in a Bauhaus T-shirt and ripped jeans.
“Chloe,” Danielle said, breaking into the faintest of smiles. “How have you been?”
It was as if they had seen one another just the day before. That was fine, though. Chloe had not exactly been expecting any sentiment from her sister.
Chloe stepped into the apartment and, not caring much how Danielle would receive it, gave her sister another hug. It had been a little over a year since they had seen one another—and about three since they had actually embraced one another like this. Something about the fact that they now lived in the same city seemed to have bonded something between them—it was something Chloe could feel, something she knew would not need to be vocalized.
Danielle returned the hug, albeit lazily. “So…you’re…what?” Danielle teased.
“I’m good,” Chloe said. “I know I should have called but…I don’t know. I was afraid you’d find some excuse for me not to come by.”
“I might have,” Danielle admitted. “But now that you’re here, come on in. Excuse the mess. Well, actually don’t excuse it. You know I’ve always been messy.”
Chloe laughed and when she entered the apartment she was surprised to find the place relatively tidy. The living area was sparsely furnished, just a couch, a TV and TV stand, a coffee table, and a lamp. Chloe knew the rest of the place would be the same. Danielle was the sort of person who lived on only the minimal amount of belongings. The exception, if she hadn’t changed since her teen years (and it seemed she hadn’t) was music and books. It made Chloe nearly feel guilty for the spacious and elaborate home she had recently purchased with Steven.
“Want me to put on some coffee?” Danielle asked.
“Yeah, that would be great.”
They walked into the kitchen, again only boasting the necessities. The table was clearly something that had been scoured from a yard sale, given at least a bit of dignity with a ruffled tablecloth. Two lonely chairs sat at it, one on either side.
“Are you here to bully me about your block party?” Danielle asked.
“Not at all,”