𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XIX

Thankfully, I pointed out what was happening to me as soon as we began walking, and they had let me take a quick restroom break. That is when the tears of blood and the vision of yet another murder starts, and all I can think is, I didn't do this, and then I collapse.
—-

This vision is different from the others. While the others are clearly premeditated and thoroughly planned out, this seems to be spontaneous. The hands aren't gloved. For once, he's not wearing gloves. I can't make out anything specific about them, though, because in a blink of an eye there's blood coating every inch of his skin.

The killer seems angrier than usual. Nervous, too, by the way his hands are shaking. And definitely intelligent in the human body. He knew exactly which places to target, exactly how to rip apart the limbs with enough force and precise angels. I try, so hard, to focus on details but the victim is impossible to detect, his face concealed and ruined so harshly that I try to close my eyes, as if to stop from seeing the images before me, but it doesn't work. It never does.

After ripping off the first limb, the killer digs his crimson-colored hand into the wrist of the victim, knowing exactly which vein to pop so that it could kill the victim. Because of this, the vision is cut short and I wake up hearing bangs against the door. "I'm just washing my hands! Sorry." I shout, and begin rubbing the blood off my face.

Thoughts are running through my head. Leads, ideas, suspects. But I don't have time to worry about that, because the second the interrogation room opens, I'm faced with my lawyer and Logan Issac, the head of the FBI's bau. He's also someone I'm comfortable with, having been his assistant for an internship a few summers ago. "Ms. Ivers." He starts, taking a seat in the chair opposite of me. "How are you feeling?"

Now, I know my rights. I can easily plead the fifth hand, and use my right to remain silent. But I also know from working with Logan, that he finds it more suspicious than rambling. Logan might think this is a game of cat and mouse, where he's the cat and I'm the mouse. What he doesn't see is that I'm the shark and he's the lame small fish who's being played. "Nervous. It's not every day I get framed for a murder."

He laughs at this. "I'd hope not." He repositions his chair so it's closer to the door; a psychological trick he taught me to make the suspect feel trapped. "How's the school year been going lately?"

I put on a smile. "It's been good so far, thanks." Now, he doesn't care. Not really. This is just another psychological trick of his; to ask normal questions so you can defer the person's normal body language to their fake one. He'll ask me a more incriminating question in a little bit.

"Good, good. The loss of classmates must be frightening." any time now, "Speaking of which, where were you on the night of September twelfth? The night of Alex Anderson's death." Bingo.

I make sure to keep my body language the same. "In my dorm, sleeping." I answer, which is the truth. That was the first time I had a vision, and I was still convinced it was just a dream then.

He nods, and asks the next question. "What about September Twenty? The night of Angel Riths death."

"Sleeping. Our boarding school has a curfew, detective." I tell him, but he looks pleased I brought it up.

"One that you don't seem to follow very often. Because only a few days later, the night of Dante Luciano's disappearance, you were spotted sneaking through the building. Care to explain what you were doing?" His tone is smug, as if he thinks he's caught me. What he doesn't understand is that our roles are reversed.

I thank god for the theater classes I was forced to take and try to force a blush. "You won't tell the headmaster, right?" I ask innocently, using my doe eyes to my advantage and acting as if I'm subconsciously playing with my hair. That's in braids. With ribbons. I applaud myself for the look I chose, because it helps in situations like this. Men are so easy.