Author's Note & Disclaimer:

I'm an old fan of the Scarpetta series and greatly fascinated with the complex character Benton Wesley. Early in the series it was very briefly established that Agent Wesley has three daughters from his first marriage. Michele was the only one mentioned by name, and any stories featuring her are my attempt to get to know her better since, her creator, Patricia Cornwell deprived me of the privilege. You can expect the arrival of any other characters in the series of course, and chapters may be written from their point of view from time to time, but Michele is the focal point of much of the writing. She briefly appeared in the fourth book of the series, titled Cruel & Unusual. You'll also be introduced to numerous original characters who are a part of her life.

Additionally this work, and any that will follow, were originally posted for reading in a group called The Last Precinct which was established specifically for the enjoyment of Scarpetta related fan fiction. A few friends requested that it might be posted here as well, and I offered to undertake that task. Be advised that writing style may vary from time to time as there is more than one author in TLP and although we all collaborate with one another, I have given my word not to alter another's writing without first obtaining consent to do so.

I do not own the rights to any character that was first mentioned in a Scarpetta novel. They are solely the intellectual property of Patricia D. Cornwell. I simply adore them.

"Damn!" It's nearly ten p.m. I've just arrived home after a dreadful day spent in equal parts in the Richmond morgue and in my cramped office at the Richmond Crime Lab only to realize that I forgot to leave the porch light on when I left this morning. The front door of my home is shrouded in darkness. I approach cautiously; my eyes probing the shadows for even the faintest hint of danger. My key's in my hand; a ready weapon, if need be... Just like I was taught. Why didn't I leave the light on? I know better! Thank God I'm alone out here. Such carelessness, if witnessed, would have the over protective man who practically X-rayed my Halloween loot when I was a kid in full on lecture mode. "Sorry Dad." I apologize to man seen only in my mind; contrite even though he's hours away in Boston.

Wait! hit the pause button for just a sec. If anyone cares to know I am Michele Wesley; the eldest of three daughters born to Benton and Connie Elliott Wesley, though my parents are no longer together and haven't been since before I graduated high school. Mom is with the guy I affectionately call 'What's His Name' and Dad is finally married to the incomparable Dr. Kay Scarpetta as he should have been long long ago, though I'll admit I didn't always feel so warmly toward the good doctor.

It is Valentine's Day 2012 and I am a 28 year old AFIS analyst who only three months ago changed jobs from the Virginia State Police to the Richmond crime lab. Born on April 1, there is no end to my younger sisters' teasing. With hideously cheery smiles, Lisa and Amanda never tire of telling me that I am the most beloved April Fool's joke every played on two parents... but they usually say it with great affection...usually. As some of you may know, I began my life chasing after the tall shadow cast by my father; a high school principal long ago turned Forensic Psychologist/ FBI agent. Anyhow, in case my mood wasn't well established in the very first word above, it has not been a good day, but I've digressed, now that the introductions are made, on with the story...

"Damn!" I curse myself for the careless oversight again as I fumble in near blindness to insert the key into the lock. The pen light on the end of my key ring seems to be dying and is of little use to me. "Damn!" I swear yet again. I just can't catch a break today, I think miserably.

I can hear Moose's big feet pacing eagerly on the opposite side of the door. The key slides in and turns, and then I must use my left foot to prevent my barely open front door from closing as I try to free my key from the stubborn lock. After several long seconds the key is released and the next obstacle I must face is getting into the house without letting Moose out. Moose, my faithful companion, is a Black Lab/Great Dane mix who believes he's still a puppy in spite of the fact that he weighs 116 pounds, and he's happy to see me. Wearily, as I try unsuccessfully to nudge passed him I think, it's quite possible he is the only living soul who has been happy to see me all day. Even, my mother was in sour spirits when I stopped briefly at her house on my way home.

"Moose, sit!" I command in frustration, and much to my astonishment he does. I open the door a bit wider and decide to try another one. "Stay!"

Moose obeys, but looks positively miserable doing it.

I finally make my way into the foyer of my small house where a small nightlight burns and I am grateful for its meager glow. I turn quickly to close and deadbolt the door before Moose can change his mind and make a run for it. I'm not up to chasing him though my neighborhood tonight. He's a new member of this household and we are still getting acquainted; still testing each other's boundaries. Moose hates being told what to do; and so do I. He's been here three weeks and so far it's been a battle of wills. Not once has he complied with the training I've tried so diligently to instill. Not once; until tonight.

I unceremoniously dump my purse and keys on the hall table, and reach out to rub his large head in praise. "Thanks for listening pal. It's been an awful day."

Moose stares at me; his big melancholy eyes not so much as blinking.

"What? You want a treat?"

And, with that one word all good behavior is abandoned for a mad dash to the kitchen. I follow; with considerably less enthusiasm. Inside the kitchen, I shrug out of my suit jacket and toss it carelessly over the back of one of the stools at the breakfast bar while Moose turns frantic circles in front of the section of counter where his treat canister sits. I move in that direction, but stop when I catch sight of the folded note propped in front of Moose's favorite container. I unfold the note and begin to read as I absent-mindedly remove the lid.

Gina, the dog sitter I hired, has written to say that she took Moose to the park, less than two hours before I arrived home and that he has already been fed his evening meal.

Moose whines; then barks once impatiently.

"Okay, okay! Gina writes that you just had dinner you know. It's not like you're starving."

He snatches the offered treat, and very nearly takes a few of my fingertips with it.

"Happy Valentine's Day to you too, Fur-face," I mutter as I use a paper towel to wipe dog drool off my hand. "Come on let's go to bed. Maybe tomorrow will be better."

I kick off my heels and pad, in my stocking feet, to the sanctuary of my bedroom with my four legged friend close behind; hoping that the ones I hold near and dear have had a better day than I.