ENG_Can I hunt your mind?

Loris barely managed to get out of the car. Spending the night in it was hardly the best idea—he needed to consider other options. He sighed loudly, stretching his stiff shoulders, and, grabbing his bag, made his way to the Bureau building.

With his usual reluctance, he descended the stairs and pushed open the bathroom door. Loris yawned and rubbed his face with his palms for the hundredth time that morning. He did not care for the reflection in the mirror—bruises under his eyes, stubble, rumpled clothes, and hair long overdue for a trim. He snorted loudly as he turned on the tap; the icy water did wonders to bring him to his senses. The man tore off a piece of soap stuck to the sink, rubbed it between his fingers, and diligently used it in place of shampoo, cleanser, and even shower gel. The coarse paper towels did little to absorb the water, leaving only red scratches on his face. Then came a hasty toothbrushing and another glance in the mirror.

"Well, you do look like a person," Loris muttered, straightening up as he fetched a change of fresh clothes.

The workspace greeted him with darkness and a stale air. Loris tossed his belongings onto the back of a chair, fastened the collar of his shirt, and set about preparing the room for the workday—switching on the lights, the air conditioning, the coffee maker, and …

"The police are actively investigating the disappearance of a child that has rocked the city. Today, one of the Bureau of Criminal Investigations agents, Karl Schmidt, issued an official statement regarding the current status of this high-profile case. According to him, the investigation is focused on a narrow circle of suspects, and law enforcement is doing everything possible to locate the child as swiftly as possible," came the report from the speaker of a minor, old television set in the communal kitchen. "All available resources are being directed toward establishing the whereabouts of the little girl as well as uncovering details of a crime that may form part of a broader kidnapping scheme. The police are urging citizens to provide any useful information that might assist in the search."

"That's complete nonsense," Loris said as he took another bite of his freshly made sandwich—stale bread and ham—washing it down with hot coffee. His gaze fell on a photograph that had appeared on the television screen. His eyebrows furrowed; he had seen that image more than once. The very first time, when he had tried to calm the distraught mother of the missing girl as she hysterically pleaded for help in the building's main hall. Orphans had once passed by, leaving behind an unsettling chill.

Gross's voice rudely cut through the monotonous droning of the news presenters:

"I understand! I understand! Enough of repeating!"

He awkwardly squeezed his way through the corridor, holding his phone clamped between his ear and shoulder, while with his free hand, he struggled not to lose what remained of a stack of documents tucked under his arm. His journey to the coffee maker proved to be a veritable gauntlet of obstacles—brushing against the edge of a table, a chair, and then Loris's shoulder, causing the latter to spill the remaining coffee all over himself. Gross muttered under his breath as the papers finally scattered across the floor.

"Thank you, Ganse," Loris murmured, glancing at his colleague as he shook the coffee from his collar.

"Sorry, I'll pay for the dry cleaning," replied Gross in his characteristically clipped tone as his phone flew onto the table. He leaned against the sideboard and reached for the knot on his tie to loosen it.

Gross then continued in a measured yet exasperated tone:

"I'm absolutely fed up! Haven't you any lawyer acquaintances?"

He paused, taking another deep breath to steady himself before adding,

"Are you sleeping in the car again?"

"Mind your own business," Loris shot back plainly.

"Really, Loris—what on earth is going on?" demanded Gross.

"Don't you have enough problems already? I'll handle mine myself," Loris replied.

The two men exchanged angry glances.

No sooner had Steb taken a step than he was overcome by an impulse to turn about and clamber back into the taxi.

"Just a moment, young man,” interjected Karl Schmidt on the plaza, positioning himself directly in front of the building's entrance.

Steb ground his teeth—every day, for the past few weeks; the same tedious routine.

"I have already made it abundantly clear that I harbor no interest in your propositions," declared Steb in his characteristically measured tone.

"Today, I happened to encounter you entirely by chance," With a disarming smile, Karl remarked, "But now that we have met…"

"Should you persist in your prattling about squandered talent, I swear…" Steb began.

"You are, after all, a talented agent," Karl interrupted briskly. "And Grayson is busy stowing things away in his basement. Why not join my team?"

Steb cast an annoyed glance at the hand laid on his shoulder.

"Not interested," he replied curtly, withdrawing the hand with a grimace of disgust. "Mr. Schmidt, unlike yourself, I am burdened with enough tasks which I endeavor to complete punctually—there is neither time for idle chatter nor for work that, quite likely, I would be compelled to perform on your account."

Karl smiled indulgently.

“Oh, Steb, Steb… I merely wish to grant you an opportunity to flourish. What will you do if Grayson fails, once again, to shore up your band of amateur pseudo-psychologists? Do consider it once more," Karl said, very gently adjusting Steb's signature beret. “The door to my office is ever open to you,” he added with a wink, "and might I add—your coiffure is simply splendid. Would you care to furnish me with your hairdresser's number?"

"I shall manage without it. Good day to you, sir,” Steb muttered, his disdain evident in his expression.

Inside, all manner of anger was seething, but upon noticing Caitlin, who was passing by at that moment, Steb shifted his attention towards her.

“Good morning, Madam Kiramman,” he announced as he pushed open the heavy door to allow her passage. "You look elegant, refined, and impeccable today—as ever. Royal blue suits you remarkably well."

"What is the cause of such formality?" Caitlin inquired skeptically, raising an eyebrow though the corners of her lips curved into a smile.

"And how else is one to admire such a splendid lady?" Steb added with feigned solemnity. "After all, few others in this wretched hole can manage it."

Winding his way through the throng, the fellow continued:

"Did you request the footage from the surveillance camera on the building adjacent to the crime scene?"

"Yes, there is hope that it has captured the culprit," she replied.

"'Accidentally' it transpired that I have several acquaintances in the security firm servicing that area," Steb remarked enigmatically. "And, just as fortuitously, I possess on a flash drive—whose presence in this portfolio remains something of a mystery—the recordings from every camera along the perimeter. But for nobody."

“Impressive,” Caitlin observed.

“Quite so,”

Steb retorted.

“And what do I owe you?” she queried.

"Only recognition of my communicative talents and a few smiles, for our den suffers from a severe dearth of positivity," he concluded.

"Why are these videos always of such ghastly quality? I was just about to say—" Caitlin did not finish her sentence before her gaze fell upon the upper left corner of the screen, where a riotous jumble of multicolored pixels—evoking a vague human likeness—captivated her attention. "Rewind!" she commanded sharply, causing Steb to shudder slightly. "Here, see? Zoom in. The number isn't visible?"

"Hmm—just a moment..." The young man remarked as he shifted his attention to the map of surveillance cameras lying at hand, pointing to one in particular. "We can review the recording from this one," he continued, methodically scrolling through the contents of a folder on the display in search of the requisite video in the archive. A double click, a slight zoom—and upon the screen emerged the blurred image of a vehicle's registration number. "I shall now submit an inquiry to the Department of Transport and the Centre for Criminal Information. I trust that by tomorrow morning, I shall receive a reply and then immediately report back to you," he declared.

"My, you are simply splendid," the girl observed as she pressed her lips against the edge of his beret and, in a burst of delight, clasped his shoulder—eliciting a smile from Steb.

"Always at your service," he replied.

"Your requests are executed with most remarkable promptitude," sneered Gross, casting an envious glance at Caitlin. "Shall I begin bestowing kisses upon your forehead for every task completed? Perhaps then you might commence work with greater alacrity?"

"Your wife will not appreciate that, sir," Steb retorted—his voice, for the first time since Caitlin had come to know him, laced with playful, spirited notes ideally suited to such repartee. "And might I add, your mustache appears exceedingly bristly."

"Just look at him—my mustache does not suit him," Gross countered.

"The lunch break was devised as an opportunity to rest and, if possible, to have a bite to eat," Steb declared, placing his finger upon the edge of the document Caitlin held and gently tugging it downward. "There is a fine establishment not far—fresh air, a wholesome, well-balanced repast, and agreeable company. What say you to the proposition?"

Caitlin could not help but note how markedly Steb differed from the rest of their team—his slender build, fashionable coiffure, and impeccably chosen attire that underscored his natural aristocratic bearing. Were she to encounter him on the street, she would scarcely doubt that he was one of her mother's esteemed colleagues—a veritable white-collar gentleman of the upper echelons.

"Please," he said most gentlemanly, moving the chair aside to afford the lady the privilege of seating herself first and then seating himself opposite her with a nonchalant crossing of his legs. "And how do you find your work at the bureau?"

"Gathering information, are you?" Caitlin inquired with a teasing lilt.

"I may be mistaken, but it appears to me that you find our company rather discomfiting," Steb observed in his characteristically refined tone. "Believe me, Gross and Loris are not nearly as disagreeable as they might at first appear. Do grant them a chance. Should Gross extend an invitation to a family dinner, I should advise you to accept—his wife prepares the finest ravioli in the world with sage and Parmesan. You shall not regret it. And if you coax the recipe from her, you are bound to share it with me."

“It is not a matter of you,” Caitlin replied softly. "It’s just… I feel I do not quite meet the demands of this position. Everything seems to progress tediously as if I am accomplishing too little, troubling me terribly."

"Indeed… on your first day, you failed to crack a case over which seasoned detectives have been laboring for an entire year. What a pity," Steb remarked with a gentle smile, unobtrusively patting her forearm. "Caitlin, do relax. Had you not met the requisite standards, Grayson would have dismissed you long ago—as with all your predecessors. She tolerates no slackers. Pardon me, waiter—might we have the menu?"

"Steb, may I ask you a question?"

"Yes, of course," he replied without pausing from the task of carving into a hearty steak.

"And why did you consent to work with documents? You used to…" she began.

"Grayson possesses an extraordinary talent for discerning promising talent—it never ceases to amaze me," he murmured under his breath, inwardly delighted by the thought that you, no doubt, had attempted to compile all pertinent information on us before consenting to join. "There come moments in life when one must choose between what one is truly passionate about and what one is obliged to do," he added between bites. "Grayson has enabled me to make that choice far less painfully. Moreover, she did not financially slight me—for which I remain immensely grateful."

"I…"

"All is well," he interjected softly, reassuringly. "We are all, in a manner of speaking, outsiders here. In his day, Gross was deemed unhinged and repeatedly suspended from duty owing to his psychological 'experiments’—nearly to the point of having his license revoked. And Loris was shown the door, for he dared to inform management that bribery and the falsification of documents are, to put it mildly, illegal. In recompense, his personnel file was kindly amended with annotations such as 'prone to physical aggression,' ‘harassment,’ and ‘habitual inebriation on the job.’ And as for you, Marcus is ever on your case for your 'excessive inquisitiveness.'”

"Do not remind me," Caitlin retorted curtly.

"Are you aware that, on account of him, you have been struck from the list of candidates for promotion on three separate occasions?" he observed, the astonishment upon her face greatly amusing him.

"You bloody bastard!" she exclaimed.

"Hanse," Grayson addressed the man without averting her gaze from the wooden tablet to which several papers were affixed—papers that clearly piqued her interest far more than anything else in that room.

"Just don't tell me they've again bundled someone into bags? Not even a week has elapsed," grumbled Gross, his whining more reminiscent of a wounded beast's roar than a pitiful lament as he craned his neck toward the ceiling.

"Almost. Do you recall the case of the missing girl?"

"The one that Karl is leading?"

"Mhm."

"Then he's once again cocked it up, and management expects you to set it right? What a disappointment."

"Not all is lost. At least they've nabbed a suspect," Grayson replied, shaking her head. "The priest has confessed, but…"

"We have no documented confession—after all, they can't coerce one from him. And every one of his relatives, not to mention himself, denies his words," the man summarised.

"I see," Gross said, leaning on his knees and rising with a hoarse sigh while cursing his advancing years. "Now, this is my principal headache."

"I shall reward you."

"Pleasant to hear."

"And what of the adage, 'I do it not for money but for the sake of science'?" interjected Steb suddenly from the passage as he held the door open for Caitlin.

"You are rather too bold today," Grayson remarked.

"Both of you have come to your senses. Don't get cross," roared the boss. "Kiramman, you may accompany Gross for the interrogation. You'll learn his signature tricks and gain some experience… provided, of course, you so desire."

The narrow, dimly lit corridor through which they proceeded to the interrogation room was filled with an unpleasant odor of mold and decay and imbued with a palpable, damp chill. One of the guards halted them with a barely perceptible gesture. Gross was saying something to him, but Caitlin did not listen; her gaze had wandered through a small window in the massive wooden door as if of its own accord. There, handcuffed to a table, sat a man—tall, sporting a light, unkempt stubble on his chin and dressed in a relatively expensive suit. Most would have deemed him even attractive.

"May you fetch us some hot coffee?"

"Certainly," replied the guard.

"Caitlin?"

"Yes?" she answered, not immediately responding to the summons and only later lifting her somewhat distracted gaze to meet her colleague's.

"Here, take this," Gross said as he removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "We shall be here for a long while—I can tell by his self-satisfied mug."

Caitlin felt suddenly awkward. The suspect fixed his unyielding stare upon her, not once averting his eyes even when Gross greeted him and nonchalantly shook his hand. He was scrutinizing her.

"The sooner we begin, the sooner we all shall be out of here, isn't that so, Joseph?" came the pleasantly courteous tone from one of her colleagues—a tone that struck her as rather unexpected.

"A cigarette? They dole out some terribly bitter rubbish here," replied the man, his voice tinged with irony.

"Thank you," he added, reaching for a paper cigarette and promptly clamping it between his teeth while waiting for it to be lit. "Very kind of you," he remarked, drawing a deep, savory puff so half the cigarette vanished as if by magic.

"Now then, Joseph, do begin to talk."

The conversation dragged on—two hours? Three? To Caitlin, it all resembled an intricate game with rules she could never quite grasp nor discern who was indeed prevailing.

"You stated that you had been at the shop, and your testimony has been altered. So… which account should be regarded as accurate?" one interrogator inquired.

"Whichever pleases you most—simply record that," the man replied.

Caitlin found it most irritating—the way he tapped out a rhythmic beat with his fingers and smiled each time he turned his gaze upon her and delivered an absurd, entirely unnecessary remark. She understood all too well that he derived pleasure from the discomfort he provoked.

Shifting her attention, Caitlin glanced towards Gross. His face remained impassive, yet the chaotic scrawl in his notes—unlike his customary, precise penmanship—betrayed that he, too, felt out of his element.

"Very well, let us take a brief recess," he declared.

The break room was utterly agreeable—warm and inviting. Caitlin immediately gravitated towards the luncheon that was kindly proffered and laid on the table. Soon enough, Gross joined her, having earlier phoned someone to request the attendance of any available polygrapher.

"Excuse me, but what of the polygraph…?" the young lady began, then fell silent midway. In all her brief time at the bureau, she had gathered that the senior does not always take kindly to criticism. "It's just that…" she paused to choose her words carefully.

"Pseudoscientific rubbish, is it?" roared the gentleman with a laugh. "Is that what you meant to say? Naturally, he remains oblivious to it—at least, one hopes so. After all these years, I can almost detect those who are truly guilty by scent. And when I get on my nerves…" He trailed off, though she found amusement in how everyone endeavored to refrain from swearing in her presence, even as they lied and behaved as though she were a fool. "But as long as he remains convinced there is no corroboration, it shall persist. We have nothing but the priest's words as evidence—which is woefully insufficient. And that scoundrel is well aware of it."

"You seem rather friendly towards him," she observed.

"Our task is to unearth the truth. They must feel at ease with you, or extracting information will be nearly impossible. Never act as Carl does. That path leads only to a dead end. Aggression and shouting achieve little. Besides, that nincompoop has already wrongfully convicted several innocents. People trembled and signed away what he fed them."

"How dreadful."

"Indeed. And do say nothing more. Should you tire, you may take your leave—I shall conclude this myself."

"Not at all; I find it rather interesting."

***

"...She began to struggle," Joseph flicked the ash from his cigarette. "I grabbed her tightly by the neck," not a muscle on his face stirred. "She screamed, she resisted. And so I gagged her..."

"...In a wasteland—by the local dump, about twenty meters from an abandoned van..."

…

The words spoken during the interrogation echoed incessantly in Caitlin's mind as they traveled in a convoy of police vehicles. Somewhere deep within her, she wished to believe it was nothing more than a nightmarish dream or a poorly executed joke—and that the little girl would be found alive and unscathed.

This time, the gathering—a throng of policemen, dog handlers, forensic experts, and who knows what else—evoked an overwhelmingly sinister sensation. Caitlin was rendered speechless, frozen, and covered in a cold sweat; she attempted to mask her terror-stricken expression with her hand as they extracted from beneath the rubble a small, pallid body bearing unmistakable signs of violence.

"'She's completely…'

'Why? What's wrong with him? What sort of monster must one be to do such a thing?'"

"'And that, I shall have to find out,'" came the reply.

"'What?'"

"'That which I am engaged in—I interrogate these degenerates, analyze, compare, and deduce their common traits,'" Gross declared as he lit a cigarette and extended it towards Caitlin. Receiving her refusal, he merely shrugged and took a long, contemplative draw. "'That which I recounted to you during the lecture in the department is the result of my many years of work—not some plucked-from-thin-air conjecture. One must thank Grayson, who believed in me and enabled me to pursue this line of work. All the others looked upon me as if I were a complete psychopath.'"

"'Sir!'"

A short policeman interrupted their conversation, raising his hand to his temple. "We have searched the entire surrounding area. We found a few more bloodied items, but they are not of a child's, so… they likely belong to some vagrants."

"'In any case, collect the samples. Who knows—perhaps they may yet prove useful to us.'"

***

"'I will strangle that bastard with my own hands,'"

he vowed, grateful to God, that Loris was working with them—no one else could have restrained the girl's father and prevented vigilante justice.

"'I understand you perfectly, sir, but…'"

"'Seriously? You think you understand?!'"

The man, maddened with rage and hatred, scanned the room for a possible escape. "Then let him go!"

"'The most difficult part of our work is learning to detach ourselves from our emotions,'" Gross pontificated, repeating this truth for the umpteenth time that day. Caitlin sighed deeply. She knew she must learn to conceal her feelings, for everyone around her seemed too adept at reading them. "In time, you shall adjust and learn," he seemed to read her thoughts. "Not all at once," his colleague encouraged. "It is late. Come along—I shall take you home."

"Have a good evening, and try not to dwell too much on it, alright? There's nothing you can do about it now," came the voice as Caitlin closed the car door.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she replied in her characteristically refined tone.

"I still suggest you take your sleeping pill," the speaker continued in a casual drawl.

A few minutes later, as she gazed after the departing car, Caitlin felt a touch on her shoulder. In that instant, her breath caught, and a chill of fear seized her heart. She gripped the stranger's arm in a flash, abruptly shifting her center of gravity so that his body became a lever. With a sudden jerk, the "attacker" was lifted off the ground, his legs flailing helplessly in midair. For a moment, time itself seemed to freeze as his body crashed heavily onto the asphalt, stunned by the force of the fall—a perfectly executed, almost automatic throw. Caitlin only released him once she had finally pinned the "offender" to the ground.

"Vi?" she inquired, her voice trembling yet controlled in refinement.

"That was downright unexpected—and, I must say, rather hot," she added with a wry, pained exhalation.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry. You alright?" came a smooth interjection.

"Just a sec—let me collect myself, and then I'll be able to explain a bit more. But trust me, I'll know better than to come up on your backside again. And do you pull this on many people daily?" he continued, his tone blending apology with a teasing lilt.

“Offstage—this is a first," he replied with amusement.

"Oh, so I have the honor of being your first?" he flirted, his words dripping with that unmistakably charm. "I can't quite tell if the sparkle in my eyes is from the force of that knock or from your beauty."

"Enough," Caitlin murmured softly, silently praying that the blush on her cheeks had gone unnoticed.

"Hey, how about dinner at my place?" came Vі as soon as they stepped into the elevator. "I know it's late—and you've been chasing all sorts of crap around town all day."

"By all means," replied Caitlin without a moment's hesitation.

She had no desire to be alone, and calling Maddie to unload her worries would only invite extra headaches and a barrage of questions she'd rather not face. Moreover, the slight look of surprise on Vі's face was rather endearing—and certainly made this impromptu invitation worthwhile.

Caitlin glanced around, puzzled. This place bore no resemblance to the rebellious den she'd imagined—a cluttered lair with scattered belongings, walls plastered with quirky posters, and towers of old magazines. Instead, she found herself in a minimalist yet thoughtfully arranged interior, where every item had its proper place. A gentle aroma of citrus and coffee filled the air, lending the room a cozy warmth. The only element that disrupted this harmony was a boxing bag hanging in one corner and a pair of well-worn gloves draped over the door.

"Don't be shy—make yourself at home," said Vі warmly.

"Are you interested in painting?" asked Caitlin as she paused beside one of the paintings on the wall. "Lovely. Is that your handiwork?"

"Honestly, all I've managed here is a hammered-in nail," Vі laughed. "My sister—the resident artist—gifted it for her housewarming. How about some tea?"

"I wouldn't say no," replied Caitlin.

"Black, two sugars, and milk?" Vі continued.

"You've got it," Caitlin confirmed.

"So, you work at the local department?" Vі asked casually as she settled opposite her.

"Not exactly," Caitlin sighed, running a hand over her face to tuck stray locks behind her ear. "I recently had the opportunity to transfer."

"A lousy bunch, huh? No offense, but there's a heap of—how should I put it—downright immoral idiots among you?"

"I won't argue with that assertion. Unfortunately, you're right. But I've received something akin to a promotion," Caitlin remarked, spearing a few pieces of roast on her fork and bringing them to her mouth. "I never imagined I'd say this, but my old workplace is beginning to resemble heaven."

“Are the conditions any less than stellar?"

"Oh no, the conditions are simply wonderful," she mused, twirling her fork between her fingers as she considered whether to divulge more. "It's more a matter of what I now have to contend with over there."

"And what exactly is that?" Vі asked, propping her chin with a hand and studying her companion intently.

"I'm not entirely sure... Have you heard anything about the Bureau of Criminal Investigations?"

"Oh," Vі's eyes lit up with renewed interest, her eyebrow arching. "That's the place where they hunt serial killers, isn't it? Are you sure that's what you call a promotion?"

"A fine question indeed," Caitlin conceded with a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, though a somber look clouded her eyes. "I haven't quite made up my mind yet."

"If anything, I wouldn't mind listening to your ultra-crime lectures in the evenings, so you won't be the only one scared," Vі added, undeterred by the silence. "Maybe you could tell me?"

"She appeared to be no more than five years old," Caitlin's voice trembled as the investigator's words spilled out—her lips quivering, her cheeks shaking nervously, and tears welling in her eyes. "And then there's Joseph. He didn't bat an eye when he recounted what he did to her. And afterward—her father, he was barely restrained from taking justice into his own hands."

"Cait…" Vі managed only to say as she carefully squeezed her companion's hand, striving to soothe her while searching for the right words.

"Did it take you that long to interview an ordinary teacher? He should have broken down by the third minute. You're losing your grip, Gross," Grayson chirruped merrily in her office, her gaze fixed unerringly on her work.

Hans snorted as he removed his spectacles and slumped onto the plush sofa.

"A challenging teacher who personally strangled the neighbor's child," Gross corrected.

"Yet another genius failure of the criminal underworld—adept at manipulating everyone around him until his conscience finally improved? And where, pray tell, did you lose Caitlin?" Grayson inquired, her tone both amused and exasperated.

"She got a bit overwhelmed, so I took her home," Grayson eventually looked up and squinted warily. "Let her have time to digest today's events."

"In what sense?" Gross queried.

"Well, you know—I, too, was rattled for a long while when I first laid eyes on that child at the scene,"

he added.

"Saw?" Gross pressed.

"Joseph handed the scene over to us, and we…" Gross began.

"You were meant to bring her here, not drag her to the crime scene," Grayson chided him sharply as though addressing a misbehaving first-grader. "I authorized only the interrogation!"

"Oh, give it a rest. She would have had to confront it sooner or later anyway,"

the man said, settling comfortably on the sofa with one leg casually crossed over the other. "And if she decides that such a life isn't for her, it's better to know sooner rather than later."

"Do you know how much effort I expend to keep this circus running? I'm sorely lacking proper staff—people who work rather than shuffle papers. And Caitlin works at about one hundred and ten percent. There are five of us, Hans—only five—while other teams boast at least ten," Gross lamented.

"Listen, I …"

Before he could continue, Grayson interjected, "Quiet down and pray that tomorrow, when I open the office door, young Kiramman is seated properly at her desk!" She lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke through clenched teeth.

"Sorry. I didn't think," Gross mumbled.

"As always. Stick your 'sorry' where the sun don't shine," Grayson snapped.

"I suppose," Gross sighed, removing his glasses and massaging his nose.

"What happened?"

Steb's sudden voice broke in as he peered into the boss's office, curiosity evident.

"Hans forgot how to switch on his brain,"Grayson replied, taking a deep drag—though even that did little to calm her. "And he decided it would be brilliant to drag Caitlin to the crime scene—the very case Karl was handling."

Steb merely shrugged as though utterly unsurprised by this turn of events. Hans had always been somewhat eccentric, finding many aspects of human interaction exceedingly challenging. If he could, he'd probably organize a proper interrogation party in the department, conveyor belt questioning every suspect.

"Honestly, I would have foreseen it if I were in your shoes,"

Steb remarked indulgently.

Vі's morning started oddly—it was barely past five a.m., and in her arms, another body squirmed, clearly discontented at not being allowed to break free.

"I doubt you actually need to be up this early for work," Vі drawled in her manner, pulling the girl even closer.

"I'm supposed to be at work by eight,"

the brunette replied, allowing Caitlin to glance at the clock and verify that no one was late.

"There's plenty of time yet. Let's lie here a little longer,"

Vі murmured sleepily, her eyes remaining half-closed as she sank into her silky, dark hair. The soft curls caressed her skin and even tickled her nose. "I can give you a lift to work—and whip up breakfast."

"Deal," Caitlin agreed without hesitation, later justifying her decision on convenience. "Maybe another half-hour or even an hour."

"I like you better when you're not putting on airs of being untouchable,"

Vі said soothingly, gently patting her on the head.

"You have an apartment the same size as mine. Where do you find all that space to store these costumes? A new one every day,"

Vі commented confidently as she strutted alongside Caitlin toward her old Ford.

"They're not exactly in abundance anymore. I mix them artfully," Caitlin replied with a light, flirtatious smile—thanks in no small part to a pleasant sleep.

"And can you work something equally impressive with my six identical black T-shirts and three pairs of jeans?" Vі teased, leaning on the hood and casually tossing her keys between her fingers. She seemed utterly captivated for a heartbeat—so much so that it was as if her neck might snap from the intensity of her admiration for those svelte thighs clad in lightweight linen.

Vі swung open the door with a barely perceptible groan, inviting Caitlin to sit.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear a thing," Caitlin murmured.

"And do they charge for compliments now? Gonna cuff me, too?" Vі quipped.

Caitlin tried to ignore the intrigued glance cast her way—though, truthfully, it was proving rather tricky. She pointed to her wristwatch, tapped the dial, and said, "We're running late."

Vі's driving was superb. She navigated confidently, focusing entirely on the road, not distracted by trifles or banter.

"You stop, miss,"

Vі announced as the door opened, extending her hand to help Caitlin alight.