"All units, suspect vehicle is a blue Toyota Prius, license plate Adam-David-Seven-Two-Nine-Four." Marcus Kane's voice cuts through the radio chatter as he jogs toward his unmarked Crown Vic. "Driver is Dr. Elena Vasquez, thirty-two years old, five-foot-six, dark hair. Consider her armed and extremely dangerous."
The lie tastes bitter. Elena dangerous? The woman who cried when she accidentally killed a spider in their old apartment? But the blood on her clothes, that note in her handwriting—
Marcus's partner Detective Lisa Morrison slides into the passenger seat. "You know her."
It's not a question. Morrison has worked homicide for fifteen years; she reads people like Marcus reads crime scenes.
"We dated." Marcus starts the engine, scanning traffic for Elena's Prius. "Five years ago. Ended badly."
"Badly enough for murder?"
The question hits like a physical blow. Marcus remembers Elena's hands—delicate surgeon's fingers that could map neural pathways and make him forget his own name with equal skill. Those same hands holding a scalpel over a dead man.
"She's not a killer." The words come out harsher than intended.
Morrison raises an eyebrow. "Evidence suggests otherwise. Victim's blood on her clothes, suicide note in her handwriting, security footage shows her entering the building Friday night but never leaving. Plus, she just fled a crime scene."
Marcus's radio crackles. "Detective Kane, we've got the suspect's vehicle heading north on Dexter Avenue."
He hits the siren and accelerates, weaving through morning traffic. Morrison's right—the evidence is damning. But Marcus knows Elena. Knew her. The woman who spent sleepless nights researching treatments for trauma victims, who brought home stray cats, who made him believe in forever.
That woman wouldn't murder her mentor.
Would she?
"Tell me about Blackwood," Marcus says, forcing himself into detective mode.
Morrison flips through her notes. "Dr. Richard Blackwood, sixty-eight, lead researcher on experimental memory-extraction technology. Recently secured a massive government contract. No criminal record, no known enemies. Until today."
They round the corner onto Aurora Avenue. Elena's Prius sits abandoned in a bus stop, driver's door hanging open.
Marcus parks and approaches cautiously, weapon drawn. The car is empty except for Elena's purse on the passenger seat and her phone on the dashboard. The screen shows seventeen missed calls from "Richard Work."
All from Saturday and Sunday. When Blackwood was supposedly at his conference.
When he was already dead.
Morrison examines the phone. "Last outgoing call was Friday at 11:47 PM. To Blackwood."
"Time of death?"
"Preliminary estimate puts it between Friday night and early Saturday morning."
Marcus stares at the abandoned Prius. Elena had maybe ten minutes to get away on foot. In a city of seven hundred thousand people, she could be anywhere.
His phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: Northgate Transit Center. Platform 3. Come alone, or she dies.
Morrison leans over his shoulder. "That her?"
Marcus's chest tightens. The message reads like Elena, but something feels wrong. Elena never used dashes in her texts. She was precise about punctuation, almost obsessive.
"I need to check something." Marcus heads back toward the car.
"Where are you going?"
"Transit center. Call for backup but keep them at a distance."
Morrison grabs his arm. "Kane, if this woman is desperate enough to kill once"
"She didn't kill him." The conviction in his voice surprises them both.
"How can you be so sure?"
Marcus looks at Elena's abandoned car, remembering the woman who used to trace neural pathways on his chest in the dark, explaining how memories form and fade. How trauma could steal pieces of a person's past.
"Because Elena Vasquez is a memory expert," he says. "If she wanted to commit the perfect murder, she'd never leave behind evidence. And she sure as hell wouldn't forget to take her car keys."
The radio crackles again. "All units, we have a situation at Northgate Transit Center. Possible hostage scenario."
Marcus is already running.