Karrin wasn't kidding when she said she'd leave me in the backseat. She'd even threatened to cuff me for good measure, in case I got any funny ideas about escaping. She did leave the plastic divider open and both of the front windows down so I wouldn't expire in the heated interior of the car.

By the time we pulled up to the storage lot, there were already dozens of uniformed police swarming over the place. Occasionally a detective would stand out from the sea of faded blue that made up most of the crowd. There were two that I could spy, standing out like navy shadows, moving through and conferring with the average joe cops. One was a woman, the other a man. I was willing to bet they were partners, if not more. They seemed to orbit around each other, like planets caught in each other's inexorable pull. Even from a distance, they gave off the same sort of energy as my mom and dad, anticipating each other without effort.

There were crime scene techs as well, outfitted in flappy protective coverings and plastic booties to protect their shoes. One man, in particular, looked pale and shaky. For once I was glad to be at a distance because he looked like he was about to lose his lunch. I didn't want to experience that with him. He was a middle-aged man, balding but in pretty good shape. He was wielding a camera, photographing shapes on a tarp.

I was focusing very intently on the bars that lined the back windows of the car, rather than trying to see it more closely. Karrin was right. I didn't want to know. The dry overview in the autopsy report and her personal knowledge on the subject was enough. I didn't need to pile on more horror to fuel my nightmares.

But I couldn't help it. There's just something compelling about death. Humans are obsessed with it. Some dread it, some embrace it, some watch it with wary fascination, but all of us are aware of it to some degree.

Bob's power clung just beneath my skin, like soap scum to a dish. I felt dirty, and no amount of scrubbing made it go away. Worse, with the power came an awareness of death I hadn't had before. There was death everywhere. Not only the animals and humans that the earth had spat up on command but the leaves that were preparing to tumble to the ground in a month's time. The trees were ready to shed them like snakeskin and draw all their energy inward. Human beings were dying, little by little as their bodies broke down. Their hair, nails, and skin were of particular fascination. Dead cells all, but maintained with pride. Humans glorified death, even when they didn't consciously realize it.

The shapes on the tarp were like a siren call to this new awareness. Bodies, rent apart violently. The signature was made especially potent by suffering. And these girls had suffered. I had to know if one of them was Molly. The decomposition would probably make it hard to identify her, but I wanted to try. Surely I'd have some connection to the body if it was hers? Blood calling to dead blood?

I reached my fingers through the bars to rap sharply on the safety glass. It took a few minutes to catch the attention of the officer outside my window. He was a large, brawny man that Karrin introduced as O'Toole. He was a rookie cop shoved recently into Special Investigations after pissing someone important off. He rode in the back with me and kept a sharp eye on me when he'd been let out by Murphy.

O'Toole bent and quirked an eyebrow at me, then rounded the car to shove his head through one of the open windows.

"What do you need?"

I gave him what I hoped was a strained and sheepish smile. "I need to use the bathroom."

O'Toole rolled his eyes. "C'mon, kid. How stupid do you think I am? That's probably the oldest one in the book. I'm not letting you anywhere that crime scene. Murphy will rip off my scrotum and feed it to me if you go running in there."

"Seriously. I drank two cups of coffee and a water cup at the precinct. If you're not going to let me out, at least get me a bottle or something. I can't guarantee how sanitary the backseat's going to be but..."

I shrugged as if the outcome didn't really matter to me. O'Toole grimaced.

"I can't tell if you're full of shit or not, kid."

"Well, it's not that I'm full off, Officer."

O'Toole gave a dry snort when he finally got the joke. He deliberated another second before coming to a decision. I pressed my lips together until they turn white to keep a smile off of my face. I know what he's going to say before he says it.

"Fine. Come with me, kid. There's a gas station just down the road. I'm gonna let Murphy know. You stay next to Detective Dobbs. You try to come anywhere near the scene I will take you down and cuff you. Understood?"

"Understood, sir."

I breathed in a big gulp of air when I was let out of the car. Being trapped inside the cramped interior of a car in the summer heat was like being shoved into an oven. The air outside was just as warm, but at least I didn't feel quite so claustrophobic. O'Toole put a hand on my back and guided me to the very edge of the crime scene where the pair of detectives had their heads together. O'Toole approached and, after a muttered conversation, he left me standing shoulder to shoulder with them.

Dobbs was a middle-aged man with an attractive face, a head of dark hair, and brown eyes. He regarded me suspiciously as O'Toole crossed the police tape to talk to Murphy. She didn't look happy with him. I used the opportunity to peer more closely at the figures on the tarp. There were four, all splayed in various poses. They looked like they'd fallen down mid-step and stayed there. Most were face-down, but I could see bits of bone peeking out from the skin, brown and leathery as it was. The only thing really recognizable was the hair. All four had wisps of blonde hair clinging to the skulls in patches. Did any of them look like Molly's signature golden-blonde? I couldn't tell. I was still too far away.

Dobbs continued his conversation with his partner after a few minutes, pitching his voice low in an effort not to be overheard. It didn't really help him. I could still hear, and even if I couldn't, I'd definitely have pressed to get the direction of his thoughts. I didn't relish intruding on his privacy, but this was too important to tune out.

"Did the judge sign off on the warrant, Jules? The sooner we search the units, the better."

Jules nodded. "Should be here within the hour. Then we can see which one of these sick bastards was cutting up those girls."

Anticipation fizzled down to my gut. It wasn't pleasant, exactly. I'd probably be sick if one of the bodies turned out to be Molly's. But at least it would be something. We'd finally have an answer.

The crime scene tech who'd been pale paced away from the scene and disappeared into the bushes, presumably to throw up. Dobbs frowned.

"Never seen Huber throw up at a scene before. Wasn't he part of this case two years ago?"

Jules shrugged. "Those corpses were fresh. These are...juicy. Can't blame him."

The word 'juicy' made my stomach do a nasty flip-flop as I struggled not to envision what it meant. What it must smell like to be closer to those bodies.

O'Toole trudged back to us, hands in his pockets, looking as unhappy as Murphy. There was a resentful edge to his mood, and I was willing to bet he'd gotten an earful. I straightened and looked anywhere but at the scene, trying to look as innocent as humanly possible. O'Toole didn't buy it.

"C'mon. Enough gawking. Let's get you to the-"

But that was as far as he got. Three distinct cracks split the air, loud as an explosion at close proximity. It felt like having two rusty nails shoved right into my eardrums. O'Toole rocked back on his heels in surprise, a scarlet stain blooming on his shirt moments later. He went down hard, clutching his shoulder with a sound of pain.

At the same second, something hit me, jerking me back as well. It felt like someone had taken a heated knife to my bicep, drawing a line of searing agony across my skin. I didn't fall. Instead, Dobbs whirled, bracketing an arm around my chest and cupping the back of my head as he took us both to the ground. His hand cushioned my skull when we hit the packed earth.

The sharp cracks continued, but all I could really register was the pain in my arm. I glanced down at my arm in numb shock. Beneath my shirt sleeve, there was a bloody track about a half-inch deep like someone had taken a spoon and simply scooped skin and muscle away.

O'Toole had been shot. I'd been shot.

Someone was trying to kill us.