Undercover Bait

Chapter 1

As the days grew shorter, the smooth autumnal air turned into a biting winter breeze, and leaves began to rot on the ground as darkness swept in on Great Falls, Virginia. The small secluded town in northwest Washington may have been known by many as an idyllic hiking and horseback trails, but to y/n Gibbs, it was practically home.

After leaving England when she was 18 to come to America, y/n studied forensic science at Pennsylvania State University, later applying to be a part of the FBI's forensic team in Quantico. With her late grandmothers passing on her fathers side (whom she didn't have much interaction with) her grandmother left her rental house in y/n's name, despite the fact that she had never met the woman in her life.

During her time at PSU, she continued to rent out the idyllic house to holidaymakers who would stay in the town for weeks at a time. Now, nearly 10 years later and 27 years of age, she still lives in the little white panelled house, with a black door and window frames, and a charcoal tiled roof, surrounded by a sizeable amount of land. When working in forensics, seeing death and blood all day, it's nice to come back to somewhere that calms her so easily. Somewhere that is so perfect and beautiful and peaceful.

Or at least, that's what y/n would say any other day, except today.

~•~

"Fucking shit shit FUCK!" I exclaimed as I tugged and pulled at my coat, which somehow had gotten stuck between my seat and hand break on my car. If it wasn't bad enough that I have to drive over an hour to get to work every morning, this just makes it even more painful.

Once I had finally freed myself from my own car, I slammed the door shut, only to be met by a sharp stinging pain in my right palm. Somehow, I had sliced my hand open on my own door handle. Although, it doesn't surprise me since the thing is basically a motorised safety hazard.

I rushed into the FBI building, the cold winters air biting at my cheeks and fingertips as I clutched my bag tightly over my shoulder. Fighting back tears, I scanned my card and rushed through into the nearest women's bathroom, throwing my stuff onto the counter before running the tap over my bleeding hand.

All I could do was stare. Watch as the blood rolled off of my hand and down into the drain. Tears of frustration slowly rolled down my face. Couldn't my life get any worse? Day after day it seems as though one bad thing after another comes and taunts me, and for what?

The tapping of heels outside of the bathroom door caused me to quickly wipe my stray tears away before a woman walked in and through to one of the stalls. I supposed it was strange to stand staring into my wound whilst somebody else took a piss in the same room as me, so I wrapped my hand in paper towels and left for the forensics lab.

Instantly, that jet black hair caught my eyes as I walked into the room where one of my closest friends, Beverly Katz, hunched over a young-ish looking man and inspected what only looks to be axe wounds in his chest.
"Hey Bev," I tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible, "Who've we got to accompany us today?"

"This is a Mr Darrel McAllister," Katz stated in her usual nonchalant way. "He was found just off Route 64 in Williamsburg, looks like he was lured from his car and into the woods." She finally looked up at me after painting a delightfully gory picture in my head, that same old playful smile plastered across her face.

"Great, lovely to know that some people carry axes around with them to murder people on a highway. That'll help me sleep at night." My sentences dripped with sarcasm as a small chuckle left my chest. The sarcastic banter was normal between me and Katz. Although, she's always more of the deadpan "say it as it is" girl, whereas I use more of your typical exaggeration, which of course is much funnier.