Free Color Blind by Colby Marshall Page A

remember the details. Perhaps you should ask your mother. She might pass on a thing or two.”
    “Got a mother, Isaac?” Jenna asked, elbows on the table, head propped in her open right palm.
    Isaac cocked his head, searched her eyes. Green, intense. “What? You suppose reptiles like me are hatched?”
    “Mommy issues, too, huh?” she retorted.
    A distant memory flashed in, and he promptly cataloged it, neatly folded it, and placed it back in the compartment reserved for such things. “Yeah, I think you should ask your mother. That visit might be more educational for you than this one. And who knows? Maybe you’ll get something out of it. You never answered me about revenge against your own family, after all. I realize you’re on the right side of the law and all that, but you know how it is, don’t you, Jenna? When it’s dark—when you’re dark—sometimes nobody’ll see.”

“T houghts?” Hank asked as Jenna exited the box.
    “I hate this job? I don’t know. He’s definitely trying to steer my attention away from something. The old ‘look over here so you don’t look at the real action’ sort of trick. Question is how much of a truth line there is in his game.”
    Hank shrugged. “Most sociopaths have a truth line in there somewhere. Still doubt he actually talked to your mother. Wouldn’t hurt to check records just in case, but odds are, he’s bluffing.”
    “Yeah,” Jenna said. “Odds.”
    She yanked back out the medical examiner’s photos of Emily Grogan, the ones Emily’s family and the media had such trouble getting hold of. Amazing what could happen when a murder case kept so quiet suddenly became tied to the most prolific serial killers the country had seen in years.
    Richards stepped in, crowded Jenna’s personal space. Up until this moment, he’d been sitting quietly in a chair in the corner, but now his movements were jerky, agitated. “Aren’t we paying this Grogan guy way too much attention if he isn’t the second shooter? I may not be the expert here, but shouldn’t we spend more time profiling that guy? ” He jabbed at the window toward Isaac.
    “We are,” Hank muttered.
    Jenna shook her head. Richards wouldn’t accept Hank’s answer, however true it might be. “We don’t have anything on Isaac yet. According to public records, Isaac Keaton doesn’t exist . Thadius Grogan is Isaac’s profile right now. He’s one of the only connections we have.”
    Richards threw his hands up. “You said yourself he’s trying to distract you!”
    There, she couldn’t argue. But it was more complicated than that. Isaac Keaton had his own agenda, for sure. The question was: better to chase the person Isaac took them straight to , or dig a needle out of a proverbial haystack and find one eyewitness from the theme park?
    A third option existed, but right now that option was on Jenna’s list right after stabbing her own eyes out with a rusty spoon.
    She glanced at Hank, hoping for help.
    “Your call,” he said.
    Funny. He’d said the exact same thing when she’d found out she was pregnant with Ayana. Something she had never been able to forget. Or maybe forgive.
    Now her mind cinched around the answer on the spot: whichever one wasn’t Hank’s. “Richards is right. We need to talk to the people who were at the park, starting with the coherent ones in the hospital. I want to interview the victims myself.”
    •   •   •
    T he stubby night shift charge nurse at Simons Medical Center didn’t act happy when Jenna, Hank, and Richards showed up on her floor at 1 a.m. wanting to talk to the park shooting victims. “These people need their rest , Detectives!”
    “Ma’am, we hate to interrupt the sleep of anyone who’s been through such a traumatic experience, but it’s crucial we speak to them as soon as possible. Our job is to bring the people who hurt them to justice,” said Hank.
    Jenna was thankful he hadn’t bothered to correct her inaccurate moniker