She's always had a peculiar sense of Evil.
Write it off as superstition, call it feminine intuition, accuse her of being overly religious, it doesn't matter. She's learned to trust this sense of profoundly disturbing wrongness. It presents itself time and time again in her life, in suspects, crime scenes, even the occasional news or television show. She pays attention now and steers the hell away from situations evoking this deep conviction that something has gone terribly and horribly corrupt.
She's walking down the alley to the parking lot when it creeps over her, caressing her shoulders with cold whispers of unease, sucking her stomach down a black pit. There's no one around; the lot is deserted, but Something is there. She can't shake it off. She weaves her keys through the fingers of one hand and grasps her purse like a club in the other, muttering every prayer she can think of under her breath.
Nothing grabs her on the way to her car, but she's thawing in the bright glare of an all-night diner before she can even begin rationalizing her way home.
It was only a panic attack. She's not sleeping enough. She's imposing random emotions onto her exhaustion. She should read fewer novels, choose cases more selectively. It's all a product of her mind.
And yet, she's so very rarely wrong.