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which two shooters came together, one red and one blue in her mind—the dominant and the submissive, respectively. In this single-shooter situation though, she had a feeling the submissive blue meant the perpetrator was submitting to some urge he couldn’t control. Mental illness, be it schizophrenia or not, was a likely explanation for such a compulsion. True psychopaths, unlike the kind the media portrayed, were scarily
sane
, and usually displayed a great deal of control over their actions. The problem was they didn’t have consciences, so they just didn’t care about right or wrong.
    Jenna’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She reached for it reflexively, her heart leaping into her throat. Every time that phone rang, the worst possibilities flashed in. She could practically hear Claudia’s voice on the other line, taunting that she had gotten Ayana somehow. With Ayana at home, away from her after everything that had happened last year, Jenna would just as soon turn herself in as the grocery store shooter than not answer that phone.
    â€œSorry, have to take this,” she said with no further explanation. She’d already told Saleda one of her conditions for returning to the team would be that she would have her phone on her at all times for this very reason. Saleda hadn’t had enough better options to argue.
    When she was a few steps away from Saleda and Dodd, Jenna answered the phone. It wasn’t Claudia, nor was it her brother or her dad telling her there was any kind of problem with Ayana.
    It was Gerald Fitz, her ex’s attorney.
    â€œDr. Ramey, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I need to have you come down to sign a few papers in the morning so I can file them,” he said.
    Not more of this.
As if the horror of Hank being murdered wasn’t enough, she’d found out in the days following his death that he’d named her executor of his will. She’d also learned that when a cop takes out enough life insurance to cover his daughter’s entire future in case of what, compared to other professions, could be thought of as a very likely job-related incident, family members he hadn’t spoken to in years would somehow assume his will contained equally as much to take care of his loved ones. Even though in reality the only assets he’d had to his name to leave were the fixer-upper he’d bought as a foreclosure and a plot of land near his childhood home he’d inherited when his dad passed. But the insurance money made those long-lost relatives come out of the woodwork, sniffing around and subsequently finding out that the plot of land Daddy Dearest had left him was worth a great deal more than they’d have ever known or cared about otherwise. They’d claim it was rightfully theirs, and unlike the insurance money, the will left more room to be contested. After all, Hank named Ayana alone on his insurance policies. And while he’d named her in his will, too, that will hadn’t listed her until a year after she was born. Whoever used to be on it could argue they were still supposed to be. After all, the person running the show was someone who—in their eyes, anyway—stood to gain from them being missing from it.
    â€œI’m at work right now, Mr. Fitz. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow—”
    â€œCan’t,” he said. “Have to get this in by the fifth of the month, Dr. Ramey.”
    â€œWell, then tomorrow will be fine. It’s only the third,” Jenna said.
    Her breath caught.
Three taps. March the third. Third month, third day.
A recent crime scene she’d seen in the news flashed in. “Son of a bitch.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?” Fitz replied.
    â€œOh, sorry,” Jenna mumbled. “Not you. I need to go. I’ll call you shortly.”
    She hung up, striding toward Saleda and Dodd. No wonder this crime scene hadn’t felt politically motivated to her. It wasn’t. At