Blind: Killer Instincts by Sidney Bristol Page B

legs.
    “What the fuck? No.” Emma slapped her hand on the countertop.
    “It’s actually a good thing.”
    “How is that a good thing? They’re taking your job from you.”
    “Not really. Come over here for a minute.” He gestured toward the corduroy couches set up around the fireplace. “My LT is a good face for the media, and he knows how to play department politics, but he’s not the best detective. I’m actually relieved we’re bringing someone else in. They’ll handle it ten times better than he or I would.”
    There. He’d said it out loud. As much as it chapped his ass to not be in charge, it was the best decision.
    They settled on the couches, beer in hand, and the files he’d brought home with him spread out on the coffee table. He shouldn’t show her these, but she was the only other person who got this like he did.
    Emma studied him, her brow furrowed and mouth screwed up into a puzzled expression he wanted to smooth away with his mouth, to tease a smile from her. He might have forgotten how to smile, but he could enjoy the way she lit up a room with one. He was in awe of her. She’d built a life for herself out from under the shadow of what had happened to their parents. To them. He didn’t know if he could be half as strong as her, were he in her shoes. Life was hard enough where he was now.
    She was still staring at him with that odd look on her face.
    Right, they weren’t talking about her.
    They were talking about the case.
    Jacob knew his decision didn’t make a lot of sense to others. He should want to stay lead on the investigation. It would be a career-changing opportunity. But he’d never put much stock in moving up the ladder. He didn’t want to be promoted to a desk, playing nice with crooks in suits. All he’d ever wanted to do was put killers behind bars. And if that meant bringing in the feds, well, he’d play chauffeur and babysitter if that’s what it meant. Besides, he’d be close enough to the action, and profilers were a different creature entirely. He could learn something from them.
    “So...what happened? Why are they saying it’s TBK?” She sipped her beer, brow still marred by those lines.
    “Body posing. Removal of the eyes. The letters.” He ticked off each on his fingers, but took a deep breath before laying the last item out there. “Sexual orientation.”
    “What?”
    “TBK’s first vic was a woman suspected to be part of the lesbian community, but it was thirty years ago. No one talked about that. Today, our vic runs the OKC Pride Week. I mean, he had—”
    “Harold?” Emma gasped.
    Jacob went still, every fiber in his body screaming. “You knew him?”
    She set her beer down and turned to face him, her face a little pale. “Not really. I mean, I met him once. He came out to the track to talk to some of the guys that run the local motocross series about doing a special Pride Week thing. We talked a little. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
    “Nothing, I’m just—tired.” He glanced away, his thoughts whirling away. Harold was a people person. It shouldn’t surprise Jacob that Harold would know someone in about every circle of people. Jacob was grasping for straws where there weren’t any. It was coincidence that Emma had run into Harold once, nothing more.
    “But it is a copycat?” she asked.
    “I think so. It’s not a serial killer investigation—yet—but I’m afraid it’s going to become that soon.” He eased back onto the cushions, letting the age-worn sofa cradle him.
    “What qualifies a serial killer? Is there a test? A quiz?”
    He chuckled. “I would have thought you knew these things.”
    “Hey, I’m not the cop here.” She leaned against the arm of the sofa, her legs stretched toward him and smiled. He had a feeling she knew the power of her looks, which was why he didn’t feel quite so lecherous admiring her.
    “How’d you start doing that lawn ornament stuff? I saw your website.” He sipped his beer,