Isabella stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her leather jacket and tried to pretend she wasn’t doing major league origami with every rule in the book. She knew that looking into this case—even just as an observer, like Kellan had made her promise—was a bad idea in theory. She’d learned the hard way to trust her team and not stuff her feelings into the basement of her chest, and most of all, not to freelance on the job. But Marisol had been her family. Her responsibility. And someone was out there, preying on young women in the here-and-now.

She wasn’t going to jump in with both boots first and guns blazing. But she was a good cop, a smart cop. No way was she going to sit back and do absolutely nothing, either.

Not until she knew justice would be served. For this girl, and maybe even for Marisol.

“Hey,” Kellan said, his boots thumping over the sidewalk lining Marquette Boulevard as he closed the space between them to brush a kiss over her temple. “Glad you could get away to meet me for lunch.”

Isabella pressed her irony-laden smile between her lips. “If by ‘lunch’, you mean a covert recon mission to try and piece together what happened to Brittany Martin and figure out whether the same person who killed her also murdered my cousin, then me, too.”

“I say potato, you say recon mission. We’re just going for a walk, remember? But if it makes you feel any better about dodging Sinclair, I can take you out for a burger afterward.” Kellan fell into step beside her, and God, having him here while she worked through this was the only thing keeping her from falling apart right now.

“Nothing will make me feel better about dodging my boss, but it’ll be worth it when this case is solved. Even if the person who killed Brittany had nothing to do with Marisol’s murder,” she said, looping her arm through his.

He nodded as they walked down the block, dropping his voice to keep their conversation private. “Then let’s get to it. Were you able to turn up anything about the detectives who are investigating Brittany’s case?”

“Yeah, but I kind of wish I wasn’t.”

“That good, huh?” Kellan asked.

“Sadly, yes.” Isabella frowned, swiveling a gaze over their surroundings as they slowly walked. “Detectives Barton and Weiss are leading the investigation. We don’t work with the Nineteenth too much, but Sinclair mentioned this morning that he gave them a courtesy call to let them know about the similarities with Marisol’s case yesterday.”

“And?”

Her frown intensified. “And they pretty much gave him the Heisman.”

Kellan’s muscles tensed beneath his dark gray hoodie, not a lot, but it was enough to telegraph his displeasure. “I’m sure that went over well.”

“Sinclair didn’t seem thrilled when he told me,” Isabella agreed. “But he did say he got the impression it was more of a territorial pissing match than them blowing off the case, which means they’ll probably at least look into the similarities on their own.”

It wouldn’t be the first time another unit had gotten chippy with intelligence over jurisdiction. Especially since, if Barton and Weiss shared too much and Sinclair decided there was more than just an eerie coincidence between the two crimes, the sergeant had the juice to yank the case from them with little more than a “better luck next time”. Isabella knew he almost certainly wouldn’t, even if the cases did prove to be connected. But the homicide detectives didn’t, and most cops shared about as well as toddlers in dire need of a three-hour nap.

“Well, that’s not all bad, is it?” Kellan asked, bringing her back to the here-and-now of the sun-strewn sidewalk. “I mean, territorial isn’t great, but at least they want to find the guy who did this to Brittany.”

Isabella hedged. “Yes and no. I mean, of course it’s good that they want to catch this son of a bitch. But as mi abuelo likes to say, ‘wish in one hand and shit in the other, and see which one fills up first’.”

Kellan’s laugh warmed the chilly December air between them, keeping her grounded. “Your grandfather sounds like a no-nonsense kind of guy.”

“Let’s just say I come by my stubborn streak honestly,” she said. “Wanting to solve the case is one thing. Being good enough cops to actually do it is another.”

Stopping at the end of the block, she hung back, taking in the neat yet tightly packed brownstones, storefronts, and alleyways along both sides of the city street, most of which were festively decorated with wreaths or ribbons or lights that would surely kick on as soon as the sun began to set later. “Anyway, Maxwell told me that Weiss isn’t half-bad on his own, but Barton’s pretty much a dick weasel. He didn’t seem shocked that they wanted to hoard the details.”

“Great.” The corners of Kellan’s mouth pulled down to fully negate the word. “So we’re kind of flying blind here in terms of how seriously they’re taking this case and the possible connection to Marisol’s murder.”

“A little. But for now, all we’re doing is looking, remember?”

After another perusal of the street around them—which Kellan mirrored with the shrewd stare and intense observation skills he’d earned courtesy of the Army Rangers—they both began to walk again.

“So here’s the library where Brittany was last seen eight days ago.” Isabella pointed to the large brick building on the next block in front of them. The bones of the case had been in the file Sinclair had found online. He’d shared the details with her yesterday, and even though she’d had to couch things in hypotheticals and use a wheelbarrowful of air quotes, Isabella had shared them with Kellan last night. “She was working on a school project with two classmates. They both saw her leave at seventeen-hundred, and a text to her parents confirms that she was on her way at seventeen-oh-four.”

“There are a bunch of city cams in this area,” Kellan said, tipping his stubbled chin at the black box perched on top of the telephone pole across the street. “Do you think maybe one of them caught her?”

Hope perked in Isabella’s chest, warm despite the frigid December weather. “It was dark out when she left. Still, worth a shot.”

They walked for a dozen more steps, quietly taking in their surroundings before Kellan quietly said, “You mentioned Marisol took a similar route the night she disappeared.”

“Oh. Ah, yeah.” Isabella’s belly dipped slightly beneath her low-slung jeans. “Her family—my Aunt Bianca and Uncle Santiago—used to have a row home about six blocks from here. She was walking to my parents’ old place on Caldwell Street when she…” Was kidnapped on her way to my house. Raped. Murdered. “Disappeared.”

“I know the area pretty well.” Kellan’s steps didn’t falter, his arm firm over hers. “Just from all the calls we go on. It’s pretty nice.”

“Mmm hmm.” She’d grown up less than a mile away. Gone to the library they were now walking by no less than a thousand times. How unfair that she could walk by it a thousand more when Marisol hadn’t even lived to see her own fifteenth birthday.

Isabella’s heart began to pound. But Kellan kept walking, his boots a comforting thump-thump-thump on the concrete, so she took a deep breath and kept going, too.

“Someone with bad intentions would have to go the extra mile to blend in around here. Both twelve years ago and now,” he said, and she unpacked the thought with care.

“That’s true.” While this part of Remington was well-populated, it was also very suburban, along with being notoriously tight-knit. She’d been on a first-name basis with half the store owners within a four-block radius of her parents’ brownstone growing up. From the sound of the passing greetings riding the air around them right now, not much had changed. “A stranger would probably stand out unless he took pains not to. But I’d have to imagine Barton and Weiss have canvassed the area to ask if anyone saw anything unusual.”

A thread of frustration uncurled in her belly. God, between the street cam footage she couldn’t pull and the canvass to which she had zero access, she hated not knowing what the other detectives had—or hadn’t—done. To say nothing of what they had or hadn’t found.

As if he’d zoned in on her brainwaves, Kellan arched a dark brow at her in profile. “We’re just looking, remember?”

Isabella released a heavy exhale. “I remember.”

“So this is where Brittany started out.” He inclined his head at the library, a two-story brick building that spanned more than half the block.

She smiled a hello at two moms hustling by with jogging strollers and toddlers bundled to the nines. “Yep.”

“Okay. Let’s walk the route between here and her house and check out the parts of the trip that would have intersected with Marisol’s walk to your house twelve years ago.”

They’d mapped out all the potential common spots when they’d gone over all the details of Brittany’s case last night, which—in addition to Isabella’s familiarity with the neighborhood—made finding the part of the route the two girls had likely shared fairly easy. The good news was that there were both several stores with security cameras along the three-block chunk of real estate in question, as well as one street cam. The bad news was that it had been dark when Brittany had left the library, and even if they did get sail-under-a-star lucky and caught a glimpse of her on the footage, chances were high it wouldn’t yield much.

“Ugh,” Isabella muttered, looking at the row of brownstones all decorated with red ribbons and strings of lights. “There’s that alley there, the park two blocks back, and the loading zone for that market across the street. Brittany could have easily been snatched from any of those places. If she even disappeared from the same part of the route as Marisol.” Just because Isabella wanted the cases to be connected didn’t mean they were. She had to keep a level head, here.

“There are a lot of plausible scenarios,” Kellan agreed, his tone reluctant.

Unease mixed with the determination in her chest. Barton and Weiss had given Sinclair the cold shoulder, yes, but that didn’t make them bad cops. Maybe they’d pulled all the footage, or nailed down a lead from the CSU report, or figured out another angle.

And maybe she’d go bat-shit crazy speculating all the could-bes and what-ifs while a killer roamed the streets, looking for another victim.

“There’s really only one way to know which scenario is most likely, and whether or not it’s being properly investigated,” she said, her determination winning out.

Kellan ran a hand through his hair, letting it rest on the back of his neck as he looked at her. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

“Because that one way involves a trip to the Nineteenth Precinct. It’s time to meet Detectives Barton and Weiss.”

* * *

In a sea of detectives, uniformed officers, and degenerates in handcuffs, Kellan was definitely the odd man out. His ID and fire department badge got him through the security checkpoint at the Nineteenth Precinct, though, and after a borderline flirty smile from the woman he was marrying in T-minus five days, the otherwise cranky desk sergeant sent them down a long hallway toward the homicide unit’s office.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Kellan asked, gesturing to the brown paper bag in Isabella’s hand.

“First of all, the Holey Roller is always a good idea. These donuts are like the holy grail of breakfast pastries. Secondly”—she paused for an inhale before nodding in certainty—“I don’t want to interfere in the case. But Marisol was my cousin, Kellan. My blood. My best friend. If there’s a chance, however small, that the man who killed her is back out there hurting young women, I need to know that everything in the RPD’s power is being done to stop him.”

Well, shit. When she put it that way… “Okay. Just do yourself a favor and try to take it easy, would you? Don’t go all Detective Moreno on them.”

Despite the potential gravity of the situation, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Unable to help himself, Kellan released a full-blown smirk at her as they reached the double doors marked Homicide Division, Nineteenth Precinct.

“Baby, I love you. But let’s just say you’re about as subtle as a sledgehammer, especially when you’re mad. Maybe play this one on the nice side?”

“I brought donuts,” Isabella said, her smile as angelic as it was full of shit. “I’m perfectly nice.”

Christ. They were going to need bail money. Kellan could feel it.

“Help ya?” came a gruff voice from just over the threshold. It belonged to a worn-looking man wearing a suit so rumpled, Kellan would bet good money the thing stunt doubled as pajamas.

Isabella didn’t hesitate. “I’m Detective Isabella Moreno, from the intelligence unit at the Thirty-Third.” She flashed the badge on her hip with her non-donut hand. “And this is Kellan Walker with the RFD. We’re looking for Detectives Barton and Weiss.”

Rumplesuitskin turned toward the back of the open office space, calling through the clutter. “Yo, Barton! You and Weiss have a coupl’a VIPs over here. From the Thirty-Third.”

Kellan felt his fingers flex slowly into fists at the guy’s tone and the snotty implication that went with it, but he kept himself in check. Isabella was far from a wallflower. She’d give better than she got if shit got critical. Plus, the lead wasn’t his to take right now. Not unless she needed him to have her back.

“That so?” The semi-bald, wholly obnoxious man at the desk along the rear wall barely looked up from the mountainous stack of forms and file folders on his desk. “Must be our lucky day, Weiss.”

The detective at the desk next to him actually had the decency to stop what he’d been doing and push back from his keyboard. He sent an assessing gaze over first Isabella, then Kellan, before saying, “I guess so. You’re a little far from the schoolyard, aren’t you, Detective Moreno?”

Kellan didn’t miss the way she bristled before covering the cluttered office space in a handful of strides. “A little, I guess,” she said, her smile mostly teeth. “I thought I’d bring you guys some donuts and offer up some insight on a cold case that might be related to the kidnapping-rape-homicide you’re working right now.”

Barton took the bag, measuring her with a cold, flat stare that made Kellan want to throat punch the guy. “Huh. That’s funny, since I already got that line from your boss and I told him we’d take the possible connection under advisement.”

“I know you two already spoke.” Isabella had to tread very cautiously here, and the tone of her voice said she knew it. “But I have personal ties to the case from twelve years ago. I know all the details inside and out, and—”

“Let me stop you right there, sweetheart.” He lifted one meat hook of a hand at the same time Isabella’s brows shot upward and Kellan shifted forward on the linoleum. “I’ve been a cop for a lotta years. Known Sam Sinclair for most of ’em. I don’t need him—or you—to hold my hand while I work a case, and I’m sure as shit not going to let you waste my time with some crime that might as well be ancient history when I’m trying to do something important, like catch a killer in the present day.”

“The cases could be related,” Isabella said, her shock evident on her face and in her voice. “You might be looking at the same killer, and that ancient history might just give you the intel you need to find him and bring him down.”

Barton snorted. “Right. And Crosby over there might be jolly old Saint Nick.”

Just like that, Kellan was done holding his tongue. “Look, we’re just trying to help catch this guy, same as you two.”

“Save it, flame jockey. Like I said, we don’t need any help.” Barton slid a beady glance at Weiss, who was examining the coffee mug on his desk as if it were suddenly riveting. “I already read through that old case of yours, anyway. Couple of similarities, I guess, but there’s not really any evidence to suggest these crimes were done by the same guy.”

“Did you look for more than five seconds?” Isabella asked, not far enough under her breath to get it past Barton or Weiss. Weiss’s brows winged all the way past the thin black rims of his glasses, but Barton had apparently tapped out in the patience department.

“Tell you what. I’m going to assume it’s that time of the month and let that cute little remark of yours slide. Otherwise”—he reached into the brown paper bag on his desk to pull out one of the donuts Isabella had brought and took a huge bite—“we’re done here. Door’s that way.”

Kellan had moved two steps forward before his neurons had even stopped firing off the command to invade the motherfucker’s dance space. “Did you just say that? Did you seriously just say—”

Isabella’s fingers wrapped around Kellan’s forearm, squeezing with enough intent to stop his words. “No, you know what, Kellan, it’s all good. We’re done here, anyway. Thanks for your time, Barton. Weiss.”

They got halfway down the corridor leading back to the lobby before Kellan could find his voice amid all the free-flowing anger in his throat. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “You’re going to let that misogynistic horse shit go?”

“Believe me, I want nothing more than to drop gloves on that knuckle-dragging son of a bitch,” she said, and her fiery expression backed up the statement, one billion percent. “But we’ve got more important things in front of us, and we can’t do them if we’re both sitting in county lockup for popping off at the mouth at some idiot homicide detective.”

His brain played a lightning round of connect-the-dots, and oh hell. She couldn’t mean… “What more important things?”

“We’re going to figure out who killed Brittany Martin, and whether or not he’s also responsible for Marisol’s murder. But first, we’re going to stop and grab something to eat. We need a plan to deal with Barton, and I’m going to need all the strength I can get before I go all Detective Moreno on his ass.”