CHAPTER 4
The shrill beeping of the alarm sliced through the room.
Parker blindly groped across the table until he finally found the button and forced the little bastard to shut up.
The night before, he had barely made it home before passing out on the old couch. His back ached now, his muscles were stiff, and fragments of the last few days buzzed through his head like a swarm of insects.
Rick slowly got up, rolled his neck, and shuffled toward the bathroom.
The mirror reflected a rumpled but still reasonably attractive twenty-seven-year-old man with messy hair and dark circles under his eyes—a wonderful gift from sleeping on a sagging couch.
The hot water had almost washed away the last traces of sleep when an insistent knock rattled through the apartment.
Rick muttered a curse under his breath, darted out of the bathroom, and dried his wet hair with a towel as he went.
“Who the hell shows up this early?..”
He yanked the door open—and immediately found himself staring into familiar gray-blue eyes.
Of course.
Who else.
For a second, something unpleasant scratched inside him—a mixture of irritation and something far more exhausted.
“Morning. What are you doing here this early?” Rick asked darkly, stepping aside.
Aaron walked in without a word.
“Get ready. We're going to the morgue.”
Rick stood there silently for several seconds, still holding the towel around his shoulders.
“How original, Lake... You really know how to set the tone for the day.”
No reaction.
Rick let out a quiet breath and ran a hand through his still-damp hair.
“Give me ten minutes.”
He turned lazily and trudged back toward the bedroom.
“You can make your own coffee. But there's only one mug,” he called over his shoulder. “Wash it if you want it.”
“I'll survive.”
“Never doubted it,” Rick snorted from the bedroom. “Oh, right... I printed the crime scene photos after all. I already sent over the digital copies, but I think better with paper versions.”
He leaned out through the doorway, waved vaguely toward the table, then disappeared back into the room while buttoning his shirt.
For several seconds, the apartment was silent.
Only the faint creak of floorboards and the rustle of photographs in Aaron's hands.
Lake's gaze drifted briefly around the apartment: boxes against the wall, a desk buried beneath papers, belongings scattered everywhere.
“Why is there clutter everywhere?” he remarked, frowning slightly.
“It's a creative atmosphere,” Rick shouted back. “It nourishes the soul.”
“It's a mess.”
Rick snorted as he pulled on his jacket.
“Try not to suffocate from the aesthetic shock.”
Aaron didn't answer.
His gaze merely lingered on Rick for a second longer than necessary before he calmly gathered the photographs from the table.
Parker stifled another yawn and patted his pockets. His head was still throbbing unpleasantly from sleep.
“Okay, I'm almost ready... Just need to find my phone and we can go.”
Lake stood by the door, leaning one shoulder against the frame while Rick, still half asleep, attempted to button his jacket, locate his phone, and fully wake up all at once.
Somewhere beneath his usual composure, the faintest trace of amusement flickered across Aaron's face.
When Parker finally zipped up his jacket and confirmed that everything was where it should be, Aaron held out a thin stack of papers.
“What's this?” Rick asked with a frown, taking them.
“Sign it.”
Parker skimmed the first page, then looked up.
“I don't have a pen.”
Silence hung between them for several seconds.
Lake blinked slowly.
“You don't have a pen in your apartment?” There was genuine bewilderment in his voice.
Rick rubbed a hand over his face.
“Why would I? I just moved in. I haven't even bought salt yet.”
Aaron pulled a slim black pen from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it over.
Rick nodded, took it, and returned to the papers.
As he read, his expression slowly changed. First concentration.
Then mild surprise. Then, all on its own, the corner of his mouth began to curl upward.
“I'm officially hired?” He looked up at Aaron, already signing at the bottom of the page. For the first time that morning, there was undisguised excitement in his voice.
“Apparently your approach impressed Sheriff Hayes,” Lake replied dryly and held out a plastic badge. “Congratulations.”
Rick immediately snatched it from his hand, but his excitement lasted exactly one second.
“No, no, no...” he groaned, staring at the photograph. “Where the hell did you even get this picture?”
He jabbed an accusatory finger at the badge, studying the thoroughly unfortunate expression on his own face.
Aaron glanced briefly at the photo, then back at Rick.
“Did you forget where I work?”
Rick let out an indignant breath.
“You could've at least found something more flattering.”
“I think it looks like you.”
“It's awful!”
Lake merely rolled his eyes faintly.
Then he silently took the signed papers back from him and carefully tucked them into the inside pocket of his jacket—so neatly and attentively that it seemed to be the only thing in the apartment actually in its proper place.
***
After entering the concrete building, they walked down a narrow corridor lined with dull gray walls. Every step echoed dully, and the occasional flickering lights made the place feel even more lifeless—as though light itself were something foreign and temporary here.
The door ahead creaked heavily.
A dense chill immediately hit them, carrying the smell of disinfectant and a faint metallic tang.
Rick shivered involuntarily. In that silence, even his own breathing sounded too loud.
Metal tables stood in the center of the room, while rows of square compartments stretched along the walls. A young woman in a white lab coat was working beside one of the tables. Her red curls were gathered carelessly into a low ponytail, though a few loose strands had escaped and rested softly against her cheek.
Hearing footsteps, she looked up.
“Detective Lake. You're right on time,” she said in a voice unexpectedly gentle for a place like this. “I just finished the examination.”
Aaron gave a brief nod and pulled on a pair of gloves as he walked.
Without another word, he approached the table.
His movements were calm, precise, long familiar. His gaze moved quickly over the documents, then the body—attentive, focused, without the slightest trace of disgust.
Rick didn't even realize he'd moved closer as well, instinctively tilting his head at almost the same angle, trying to understand exactly what Lake was examining so carefully.
“Find anything interesting?” he asked.
“Yes, actually,” the woman replied, making an inviting gesture. “The girls were very young, both under twenty. At first I didn't notice anything unusual. Bodies are bodies...” She hesitated for a moment, as though choosing her words carefully. “Especially considering the condition they were in. But the longer I examined them, the clearer one curious detail became.”
“What detail?” Lake asked, stepping closer.
He leaned over as calmly as if he were examining an ordinary object on a desk rather than a person whose heart had long since stopped beating.
Parker unconsciously took another step forward.
“Meticulousness,” the woman said quietly.
She walked over to the body marked with the «number one».
“Both have bruises and abrasions all over their bodies. Signs of internal injuries and sexual assault. Prolonged assault. He spent some time entertaining himself with them. Didn't show much mercy.”
Then she slowly moved to the second body. A placard marked with «the number two» stood beside it.
Lake frowned, already beginning to understand where she was going.
“But the eye sockets...” She leaned closer and pointed. “That's where this monster was careful.”
Parker noticed the subtle shudder that passed through her. Not because of the bodies themselves—but because of the person who had done this to the girls.
“...He practically cleaned them out to a shine. Seriously.” She slowly straightened up. “He really took his time. The incisions are clean. Confident.”
For several seconds, the only sound in the room was the quiet hum of the lights.
“As if he'd done it before?” Rick asked softly, carefully watching her reaction.
The woman nodded slowly.
“Exactly.”
Aaron turned his head slightly toward Parker but said nothing. Only for a moment, something more focused appeared in his expression.
“What about the weapon?” he asked.
“The wound dimensions match. Same weapon in both cases. I'd say a knife.” She paused briefly.
“Possibly a hunting knife.”
The woman removed her gloves, and the dry snap of latex carried a strange, unpleasant finality.
“Well then, kids, have fun. I'm going for a smoke. I won't get in your way. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Coroner Johnson.”
The door closed quietly behind her, and the room sank back into cold silence. Rick watched after her for several seconds before slowly turning toward Aaron.
“Wait...” He blinked in surprise. “Did you say Johnson?”
“Yes.” Lake gave a short nod.
Parker stared at him, even more stunned.
“That was Emma Johnson? Our Emma?”
One of Aaron's eyebrows twitched faintly.
“You didn't recognize her?”
“How was I supposed to recognize her?!” Rick laughed nervously. “She got about half her size.”
Lake merely exhaled tiredly through his nose, clearly having no intention of continuing that conversation. Then, unexpectedly, he held out a pair of thin rubber gloves.
Rick blinked.
“Uh... what?”
“You're helping.”
“I mean...” He glanced at the body. “Listen, maybe you should handle this yourself?”
“Parker.”
Aaron's voice remained low and calm, but there was something in it that made arguing feel pointless.
“You can do it.”
Rick stared at the gloves in his hand for several seconds, then let out a heavy sigh and pulled them on.
Stepping closer, he cautiously touched the metal edge of the table. The cold seemed to sink straight into his bones.
“Help me turn her over,” Lake said, as though he were asking for something entirely ordinary.
Rick swallowed.
“Seriously?..”
The body was heavier than he'd expected. Unpleasantly heavy. And even the thin latex gloves couldn't shield him from that awful sensation—the dead weight of a motionless human body in his hands.
And then something caught Rick's eye.
He frowned and instinctively leaned closer, wincing at the sharp smell of formaldehyde.
“Wait...” he muttered, squinting. “Hold her neck.”
Without a word, Lake bent down and carefully stabilized the girl's head with both hands.
“Yeah... like that. Thanks.”
“What is it?” Aaron asked calmly, though Rick immediately caught the focused attention beneath his tone.
Parker held his breath and carefully pressed against the skull. Beneath his fingers, the bone shifted slightly with a damp, unpleasant crunch.
The sensation was so revolting that he exhaled sharply and jerked his hand away for a second.
“The bones are moving...” Rick frowned. “Like they're floating. Is that supposed to happen?”
He withdrew his hand and let Aaron examine the damaged area himself.
Lake pressed his fingers gently against it and frowned almost immediately.
“No... it isn't. The skull is damaged.”
Rick slowly straightened.
“So she was struck. Hard.”
“Looks that way,” Aaron replied quietly, though his gaze had already moved lower, toward the girl's hands.
Parker watched silently as Lake carefully took hold of her wrist and ran his thumb along the darkened rope marks. Then lower—to the fingernails, broken down to the quick.
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
“What do you see?” Aaron turned her hand slightly, allowing Rick a better look.
Dark puncture marks dotted the pale, swollen skin. Many of them. The older ones had nearly faded, but some looked fresh.
“Was she an addict or something?” Rick suggested.
“Mm-hm,” Lake replied quietly.
He turned the hand palm-up, studying the veins carefully.
“But there are too few marks for someone with a serious addiction.”
Aaron picked up the other wrist.
“And they weren't injecting in the usual places.”
He lightly touched one of the dark marks near her hand.
“See the bruising around it? The needle kept slipping. The hand was shaking... or someone was holding her down.”
Rick frowned and leaned closer.
“You think someone was injecting her?”
“Possibly,” Lake replied calmly, still studying the marks. “Or she was dependent on someone more experienced.”
Parker thoughtfully shifted his gaze to the second table.
“Let's examine the other girl.”
They exchanged a glance—brief, almost automatic, as though they already knew without words what came next—and carefully lifted the second body together.
The metal table scraped unpleasantly beneath the weight.
“Careful,” Aaron said quietly, supporting the girl by the shoulder.
Parker carefully examined the second victim's head. Cold skin clung unpleasantly to the latex, and pale strands of hair caught against his fingers.
He pressed slightly harder. The bone gave way almost the same way.
“Same thing,” Rick exhaled quietly.
His gaze moved over her hands and veins, but this girl showed no injection marks.
His brows drew together automatically. Both girls were blondes. Almost the same height and build.
The same age.
The same injuries.
The same bruises.
Both had been restrained, held for some time, sexually assaulted, and then killed by a powerful blow to the back of the head.
Rick slowly straightened, turning something over in his mind.
Moments like this were when Aaron noticed most clearly just how quickly Parker picked up on details.
He didn't need experience. He didn't need years of practice. Rick seemed to instinctively know what was worth paying attention to—just as he had ten years ago.
Lake silently watched as Parker shifted his gaze from one body to the other again, building some private chain of logic in his head.
And as though he felt that attention, Rick's shoulders tensed slightly.
“This was definitely done by someone experienced,” he said quietly, still looking at the bodies. “He chose them.”
Aaron looked away.
But from the way his jaw tightened, Parker knew he'd reached the same conclusion.
“Yes,” was all he said.
“Emma said they had internal injuries...” Rick said dully, wiping his hands on a towel lying nearby. “Could there still be traces of semen inside?”
Lake thought for a second.
“Unlikely. They were in the water too long. Even if anything remains, the material will be heavily degraded.”
“Damn...” Rick exhaled quietly, visibly darkening.
For several seconds, Lake simply looked at him. Then he said calmly:
“But you noticed it well. I'll ask Emma to take swabs.”
Rick looked at him in surprise and fell silent for a moment, not immediately sure how to react.
Praise from Lake came so rarely that it took him a second to process what had actually been said.
For a brief moment, their eyes met.
And for some reason, that suddenly felt far more awkward to Rick than everything else happening around them.
He quickly looked away and took a deep breath, but the smell of formaldehyde and metal still seemed to linger somewhere in the back of his throat.
The door opened again.
“What have you boys got going on in here?” Emma walked in as casually as if she were returning to her own living room.
“We're finished,” Lake informed her, removing his gloves. “Collect samples. Fingernails, fibers, mucosal swabs—the usual. Send the results to my email.”
“Got it,” she drawled. “For you, I'll move it to the top of the list.”
Aaron merely nodded once.
Rick pretended to be examining the abrasions on the body again, though his attention kept drifting back to them.
Strange.
There had been a time when Emma and Aaron tried not to be around each other any longer than necessary.
Rick removed his own gloves and tossed them into the disposal bin.
Emma, meanwhile, grew noticeably more serious and stepped a little closer to Lake.
“Aaron...”
“Mm?” He finally looked up at her.
“Should I be worried?” she asked quietly.
For a few seconds, the room seemed to grow colder. Aaron's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. Rick understood that Emma was referring to Katie's case.
“I don't know,” he answered calmly. “It's too early to draw conclusions.”
Emma exhaled sharply through her nose and rubbed her forehead tiredly.
“God...” she muttered. “Do you know how to deliver news any more gently, or do you always sound like you're personally about to take someone into the woods and bury them?”
“Habit,” Aaron replied dryly.
Emma snorted softly.
“You do realize that every time you use that intimidating detective voice with me, I get goosebumps?” She nudged him lightly with her elbow, clearly trying to ease the tension hanging in the room.
The corner of Aaron's mouth twitched in a brief, almost fleeting smile.
Rick noticed it immediately. For some reason, that tiny gesture hit him much harder than it should have. Because he had almost forgotten what Aaron's face looked like when he smiled like that.
“All right.” Emma finally straightened up. “I won't keep you any longer. And... welcome back, Rick. It's been a long time.”
She lightly touched his elbow.
Parker smiled automatically in return, though his thoughts were still occupied by something entirely different.
“Let's go,” Aaron said calmly.
Rick nodded silently.
The morgue door slammed shut behind them with a heavy thud.
The cold morning air struck his face, and Rick took a deep breath, as though trying to force the smell of iron and death back out of his lungs.
“We'll stop by the station first,” Lake said over his shoulder as he headed toward the car.
Parker silently caught up with him.
For some reason, after leaving the morgue, being around Aaron felt especially difficult again.
As usual, he looked completely composed. Calm. As if several mutilated bodies in a refrigerated room couldn't possibly shake his balance.
Rick yanked the car door open with irritation and climbed inside.
They drove in silence for several minutes. Only the steady hum of the engine, the occasional hiss of tires on wet asphalt, and the gray morning beyond the windows. But his thoughts kept returning, stubbornly, not to the bodies But to that brief smile.
To how easily it had appeared beside Emma—and not beside him.
And with it, a familiar feeling slowly began spreading through him again, painfully irritating in a way he knew all too well. As if the past he had spent years trying to bury had suddenly cracked open again, trying to send roots down somewhere inside him.
Rick rubbed a hand across his face irritably and turned toward the window.
No.
He remembered far too well how all of this had ended the last time.
