Free Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) by Charlotte Raine

want to do is fall into my bed and never wake up. But I need to know when Grace returns home, so I know she’s safe. I spread out the notes of my John Doe on the dining room table. It’s mostly grotesque photographs and a some notes about the health condition of his body. He died about three weeks ago. He has no notable birthmarks, scars, or tattoos. He didn’t have any notable diseases. The only thing that really set him apart from any other body (besides the fact that the killer destroyed his face) is that he had written something on his hand. It had mostly faded, but the ink had sunk deep enough in the epidermis that the water hadn’t dissolved all of it. It says, call Kayla which is incredibly unhelpful. Kayla could be a girlfriend, a friend, a sister, some random girl he found while traveling.
    The front door swings open, causing some of the papers to blow off the table, and Grace walks in. She fumbles with her bag as she takes it off and begins searching through it without acknowledging me. I stand up and grab the pieces of paper off the floor.
    “How was work?” I ask.
    “Oh, it was…you know, work .”
    “I do know,” I say. “I was with a corpse all day.”
    “Oh, right,” she says, glancing up at me. “Did you figure out anything new? You already know the cause of death, right?”
    “Yeah, his neck was sliced open. The killer went straight for the carotid artery. He knows what he was doing.”
    “Oh,” she says and starts to search through her bag again before finding lip balm. She rubs it against her lips. “So, do you have any clues to who the killer is?”
    I shake my head. “There’s no evidence left. It’s not like when someone is shot and a bullet is left in the body. This guy used a knife—a small one, but I couldn’t say exactly what kind since it was used to slice the throat…if it was used to stab the guy, I could have figured out the exact size and shape of it. But no. I have nothing to go on. I was looking through my notes to try and figure out if I missed anything, but I’m not seeing anything.”
    “Could I look?” she asks.
    “I’m not sure you would want to. They’re gruesome and…it involves knives.”
    “I can deal with it,” she says. She walks around me to the table. Her step falters for a second as she sees the photographs. “Wow. That’s…the killer really tried to destroy this person’s humanity.”
    “And identity,” I say. “We still don’t know who he is. None of the missing kids that fit the age range are a close enough match to this guy for me to even consider them to be him. For some reason, his friends and family just don’t care that he hasn’t contacted them in a month.”
    “That’s sad to think about,” she says. “I would hope my mom would at least contact the police if she couldn’t get ahold of me after a couple of weeks without hearing from me.”
    “I would track you down myself.”
    She laughs. At first, it stings because I think she’s making fun of my comment. But then, she kisses my cheek.
    “Thank you,” she says. She kisses my lips. I had forgotten how her lips feel—warm, soft, smooth—like satin. Had it really been that long since we kissed? Or was this simply the first time in a long time that I had noticed the way it felt again?
    I put my hands on her waist. We continue to kiss, two dysfunctional people trying to make sense of a dysfunctional world. She moves her hands under my shirt, her fingertips tracing the muscles underneath it. She begins to unbutton the shirt, her small fingers undoing each clear button with precise care.
    I place my hand over hers, stopping her.
    “I have to work,” I tell her. She frowns, folding her arms over her chest.
    “Are we doing okay?” she asks.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You know what I mean. Is our relationship doing okay? Is there a problem that we need to talk about?”
    “What would we need to talk about?”
    She sighs, shaking her head. I do know what she’s talking