It was amazing how many people- men in particular- underestimated me. You would think with my kind of reputation, word would have gotten around that the name Rose Hathaway was something to fear.

Nope.

Detective or not, I was still petite with a pretty face and nice figure. At first glance, I was probably as nonthreatening as... well, a rose, cliche as that comparison may be. Behind that charming facade though was a force to be reckoned with, something most had to find out the hard way. Not that I minded fulfilling that quota.

As usual, I didn't think things through. I just acted. When a suspect decides to run, it tends to flip the switch from negotiations to full-out bitch brawl. After suffering three straight days of paperwork, I welcomed the change of speed.

Feet pounding against the ground, I ripped through the backway twists and turns, the wind viciously beating against me. I ignored it, pushing myself to run harder. Cutting a close corner, I chased after him through a narrow alleyway, praying that if any pursuing cars were still on our tail, they wouldn't try to make it through here. The alley bent and opened up into a makeshift parking lot, completely empty save for a few stacked boxes. I doubted this side of town got much business.

He was close, less than a few yards away. As I closed the distance between us, I did the first thing that came to mind: I tackled him. And when I say I tackled him, I tackled him. My football-enthusiast, ex-CIA agent mother would have been proud.

Slamming him hard into the concrete, he grunted painfully, the wind knocked out of him. I sat up and maneuvered my knee so it pinned in between shoulder blades, my other foot firmly planted in the ground. It was still easy to throw me off, and he attempted to- until I locked the barrel of my gun onto the back of his neck.

"Casey Andrews, you're under arrest for the murder of Aaron Bale," I growled just as the rest of the police force swung into the lot, sirens blaring. I glanced up. Welcome to the party, guys.

One of the officers yanked Andrews from underneath me, locking him in handcuffs and delivered the usual you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent speech. I got to my feet, too, smiling as Mason, my partner in crime, showed up. We'd been working a couple years together and meshed well. Though that could be trouble just in itself sometimes.

"Nice work, Hathaway," he praised, handing me my blazer. Adorned in a gray trench not unlike my black-and-white getup, his blue eyes gleamed in the last traces of sunlight. I had to admit, he was pretty cute, in a boyish sort of way. "I'm disappointed, no ripped clothing or injuries?"

I gave him a lopsided grin. "Nope, you'll have to wait to check me out some other time, Mase. Besides, I can't stay long enough for you to finish ogling. I have another appointment to catch."

He made a face. "You heart breaker, you have a date."

I couldn't help it; I laughed. Mason always acted like I had a hundred guys waiting at my doorstep with a bouquet of roses and box of chocolates. Scary part was, with the attention I got from the male population, that wasn't too far out of the realm of possibility. But that was one of the exact reasons why I didn't date. That and my job. Getting a call about having to check out a murder tended to diminish any chance of getting hot and heavy with a guy. "No, not tonight- unless you're volunteering." Before he could reply, I chuckled and shook my head, not wanting to encourage him. "Actually, I've got a business date. Sydney's back in town and wants to meet up."

Mason quirked his eyebrow at the mention of the constantly missing, CIA informant. Criminal hunting seemed to- if not had to- be genetic in my pool of friends. I'd kill to have Sydney's job some days. Ironic, considering she was an assassin. "How long is she staying?"

I shrugged. "A day? A week? A month? Who knows with her. All I know is I'm going to get my ass handed to me if I'm late. Again." Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration. Sydney worked for an intelligence agency, firmly staying on the sidelines of any real action. Fighting wasn't in her resume. One thing she was good at doing though was chewing me out. I guessed it came with her interrogation skills. "I wasn't even supposed to be on call today," I admitted.

Taking out my hair tie, I shook out my tangled mass of dark waves before running through it with my fingers. "Your clothes gives it away a lot quicker than your hair," Mason pointed out.

I glanced down. He was right. It was already dusk, no time to run to my apartment for a new outfit. I sighed, muttering, "Figures." Ignoring my blazer entirely, my hands busied with rolling up my white, button-down's sleeves, going for a chic-business woman look. Actually, I realized, my attire was a mirror of Sydney's- one I constantly poked fun at. Instead of lingering on the horror of the thought, I shoved it aside, remembering the pressure of time. Maybe it would score a couple points in my favor.

Mason lingered in the background, clearly entertained by my distress. His amusement, and surprise, grew when he caught sight of what was on my wrist. "I never thought I'd see the day. Rose Hathaway, you've been converted."

Following his gaze, I found my chotki, an old, Romanian cross, dangling there. I shot him a scandalous look at the accusation. "You think a Jehovah Witness convinced me to give up sleeping in on Sundays in exchange for purifying my soul? Not even God has the power to pull me out of bed."

Mason smiled. "Oh please, with that attitude, I'm surprised he hasn't shot you down yet."

"Hey, the big guy knows where I stand on the whole religious aspect," I protested. "Besides, I'm pretty sure he has better things to do then throw lightning at a 27-year old detective who bailed Sunday school."

"So, what, you're trying to gain extra credit and pretending you've seen the light by wearing a cross?"

I feigned surprise. "Mason, I'm shocked. You think I'd try to pull a fast one on Jesus?" The jaded look he gave me answered for him. I rolled my eyes. "Such lack of faith. But, no, for the record, I'm not scamming God." I flashed him a devil-may-care grin along with a glimpse of the chotki. "Think of it as a good luck charm."

"Like you need luck," he said wryly.

"You'd be surprised," I answered. "For example, I need all the luck I can get to beat 5 o'clock traffic."

With that, and a quick panicked look at my watch, I half-walked, half-jogged back to my car, my joking nature fading. As I traded my boots for black pumps, I felt a internal sigh press against my chest, heavy as lead. Man. So much for being the life of the party.

Sliding into the drivers seat, I lifted the back of my wrist, studying the chotki. It's silver exterior shone and tinting warmly under the sunset's rays. The cross was intricate, a rare artifact that had been passed through generations while still maintaining its hardiness. I might not have been converted into the house of God, but I could still appreciate its beauty. Especially since Lissa, my best friend, was the one to give it to me.

I didn't usually wear it on the job, but I'd slipped it on without thought this morning. No matter how many witty lines I threw around with Mason or how many criminals I tackled, it didn't change my current mood. Which, frankly, sucked. I finally let out the loud sigh I'd been reigning in and pressed my forehead against the leather steering wheel.

The chotki reminded me of something.

As if wanting to punish myself more, I went against my better judgment and opened the tiny compartment underneath the radio in the dashboard. Ignoring the fact that it was supposed to be an ashtray, I'd come to stowing small things in there: coins, hair ties, rings, irreplaceable, nickle-size pendants from a formal lover I hadn't seen in half a decade- you know, the usual.

Not daring to touch it, I eyed the nazar, the blue, eye-like amulet staring back. It wasn't blue eyes that danced across my vision though. Deep brown orbs that mirrored my own bombarded my memories, followed by a rare yet full smile, chin-length dark hair, a light, Russian accent...

I slammed my head into the steering wheel, this time the car's horn wailing with me. Christ. What the hell was I doing? I hadn't thought about him in months. And yet, here I was, a masochist in the making. I closed the compartment, lifting my head after I deemed it safe for my own sanity. From the startled and annoyed looks of passing pedestrians, it was clear they thought I'd already lost it.

I breathed out, forcing myself to regain my composure and whatever little self-control I possessed. Distraction was what I needed. Turning the key in the ignition, I flipped on the radio.

1980's music that was probably the biggest hit in Siberia at the moment came pouring out of the sound waves. Nostalgia washed over me and I hastily turned the dial, wanting to escape it as soon as possible. A country station came on. The universe had a sick sense of humor.

Shutting off the radio altogether, I revved the engine- something car-loving Sydney Sage would have scolded me for- and took off down the streets of Boston. I gunned it, needing the harsh beating of the wind to pull me back to the present and keep me there. Because I knew if I continued lingering in the past, I was going to drown in it.

After a couple minutes, I once again gained enough common sense to finally pay attention to the traffic laws in front of me. I was actually a little surprised I hadn't gotten pulled over for reckless driving. I stopped at a red light, sinking back into my seat and exhaling. The fresh air had helped clear my head like I'd hoped it would. My biggest worry was, again, making it to the bar on time. I figured the bottle of champagne in the back seat would be a satisfactory apology. Not that Sydney really cared if I was late, seeing as that was typical for me-

My phone rang out of nowhere, startling me from my thoughts. "Christ," I exclaimed to no one in particular. How did she know I was talking about her?

But, startling enough, it wasn't Sydney's name that popped up on the screen. It was Mason's. Hadn't I just left him ten minutes ago? The light turned green as I picked up. Normally I yelled at people that talked on the phone while driving, but, well, this was official police business. I could afford to bend the rules a little. "What, you miss my company already?" I asked.

"Something like that." Though his tone was as light as mine, it was shadowed by something heavier. "I think you might have to break your dinner plans tonight, Rose." I frowned as he continued, "There's a murder up in Quincy, possibly a missing person, too. Alberta wants us on it ASAP."

Of course. I sighed. A part of me wanted to reject the case right away, already feeling overwhelmed without the new addition. But... I couldn't just ignore it either. My sense of justice notwithstanding, Alberta specifically called us out on it. She was one of our superiors, and one I held in high regards. If she wanted me on it, then what choice did I have? Knowing I would regret this later, I caved and said, "Fine, I'll be there in thirty."

"I'll be waiting," he said grandly before letting me go.

Tossing my phone aside, I changed my course, cutting across two lanes of traffic. An angry soccer mom in an SUV ripped on her horn. "This day just gets better and better," I muttered.

***

Lights already flooded the crime scene by the time I arrived, police and reporters scattered over the lawn of the house. Heels clacking against the pavement, I saw to my chagrin another detective amicably chatting with the media. To make things worse, I recognized him instantly. "Stan," I called, pointedly cutting off whatever he was about to say.

His eyes flickered to me before turning them heavenward, clearly anything but thrilled to see me. The feeling was mutual. "Hathaway, should have known you'd show up. What are you doing here? This isn't your case."

Ignoring his jabs, I put my hands on my hips, replying, "It is now hotshot, I just talked to the commander. Where's Mason? He said he'd be here."

Stan scowled at this new information, not liking I'd stolen the case but obliged to follow orders, jerked his head toward the left. Sure enough, my partner, originally obscured by shadows, walked over to the edge of the police tape. Mason's eyes reflected his relief that I'd shown up. He didn't handle murder scenes as well as I did and was glad to have backup- even if that backup constantly teased him about his unease. I ducked underneath to the other side and, not wasting time, asked, "So where's the crime scene, partner?"

"Follow your nose, it might bring back some memories," Stan's suddenly smug voice interrupted from behind.

I shot him a look over my shoulder. I was never one for inside jokes unless I made them. It didn't help that I wasn't in a very fun mood to begin with. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You'll see. Have fun, Hathaway." I watched his retreating figure for a second more before sharing a questioning glance with Mason, turning back and refocusing my attention.

Strolling into the mansion-like home, I searched my surroundings, sharpening my senses for anything unusual but coming up short. That is, until I saw Mia Rinaldi, the other detective in my unit, greet us inside. It was rare to see her arrive first- especially since she was supposed to be soaking up sun in California right now, not checking out a killing back home. "Mia, I thought you were still on vacation." I said, surprised. Her skin was still it's usual pale, definitely not the tan I'd expected. Even her worn golden curls and azure eyes looked washed out.

Her grimace spoke legends. "I cut it short. It's bad in there, Rose, worse than you think."

Wow. Encouraging words. None the less, I strode into a living room that only money could buy, Lissa looking up from her work as I did. In front of her, turned away from me, was the body. It would figure that my best friend was a medical examiner. Lissa, like me, had a strong sense of justice but used her wits instead of body strength to take down the bad guys. After all, her dainty, slim silhouette was about as helpful in hand-to-hand combat as her no-violence rule. Knowledge was where she strived. Personally I didn't see the attraction in examining and cutting up corpses, but I'd given up trying to make sense of it a long time ago. To each their own.

Rounding the couch, I realized just how grisly the scene was, a faint wave of nausea washing over me as I took it in. I wouldn't have been surprised if Mason passed out. The victim, a 34-year old doctor according to Mia, who was reciting what she knew in the background, was gagged and bound by duck tape, leaving his limbs immobilized. Vacant eyes stared up at the ceiling while blood stained and covered his abdomen. I doubted all the bleach in the world could save his white shirt now; not that he needed it. His throat had been cut clean open.

"There are signs of forced entry," continued Mia, "but none of the neighbors appear to have heard anything. His newly-wedded wife, Gabrielle, is missing."

Those words sent a chill through me. They were too familiar. Studying the sickening wound once more, I dragged my gaze away to look around, an ominous feeling gnawing at my chest. Everything about this was nostalgic. It couldn't be though... could it?

That's when I spotted it. My blood ran cold as I stared, frozen. A spilled tea cup had rolled underneath the coffee table, a part of the rim chipped. The dark brown stain splashed across the carpet, mirroring the spilled blood close by.

I bent down, eyes on it. "Let me get this straight," I said. "We have a dead guy's throat cut perfectly open, recently married, wife is missing..." I looped a finger through the handle, picking up the ceramic piece and glancing back up to Lissa and Mia. Both were already looking at me, Mason long since ditched at the sight of blood. I smiled bittersweetly. "And there's a tea cup at the scene."

"Oh my God," Lissa breathed, straightening, her halo of white-blond hair falling back like a curtain. She'd picked up what I already had. The tea cup was his tale-tell mark. She turned to Mia, incredulous. "Mia! Why didn't you warn us? At least warn Rose!"

"Is he out?" I demanded before she could put in a word, standing. "Is Dashkov out?"

"No, of course not!" Mia assured quickly, glancing between us. It was rare we teamed up on her, especially sweet, angelic Lissa. "I didn't tell you because I wanted your unbiased opinion." She nodded toward the body as I made my way to it again, voice solemn. "It looks like his work, doesn't it?"

I studied the victim again, eyes sharp, before shaking my head in disgust. I pointed at him, fiercely growling at Mia, "We locked that bastard away, Mia, you tell me how this is possible."

Mia, trying to be reasonable, said, "Look, we've got a copycat on our hands, that's all."

I steadied my breathing. A copycat would explain everything, even the tea cup. Still, my instincts refused to believe such a simply beautiful explanation, the knot in my gut tightening. Damn. I had to be sure. Facing him again, I tilted Dr. Colbe's neck away, my gloved fingers brushing against two marks.

Some days I wished my instincts were wrong. "Stun gun." I heard Lissa suck in a breath. "Just like Dashkov's victims."

"Anyone could have picked up a newspaper or seen that on the news," Mia protested.

I said nothing at first, my mind spinning with revelations. "Except we never released this detail," I said quietly, dropping my hand.

Dashkov. Victor Dashkov. There was no doubt about it. The infamous serial killer I'd helped throw into jail had somehow committed another murder. The same serial killer that had taken over 20 lives had pulled off another murder when he was supposed to be locked safely away... The same man that had tried to make me his next victim, and was hell-bent on completing his goal and sending me to the land of the dead.

I seriously needed an aspirin.