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The dream - more of a nightmare, truth be told - was always the same.

Jo, standing outside Caroline's door, confused as to why the slide chain was in place when her partner knew she was coming. Her partner, who was expecting her but was not answering the ever-increasing knocks on the door or the calling of her name. Caroline, whose phone was going unanswered, its ringing heard through the gap of the door where Jo strained against it, trying to get inside and find out what in the world could possibly be happening.

Then, as always, the guy from across the hall - the one Caroline had more than a bit of a flirtation with - comes up from the stairwell. He smiles, his dimples flashing, until he sees the look of frantic determination on Jo's face. Once he hears Caroline may be in trouble, he adds his strength to Jo's, the two of them ramming their shoulders against the door in unison until the chain rips from the wall, allowing the door to open at last.

Jo, gun in hand, makes her way through the apartment, her worry and panic rising as each room comes up empty. Both feelings click up a few notches at the sight of Caroline's service weapon laying on the floor at the end of a trail of items pulled from the coffee table, a sure sign of struggle.

Then she hears the voice, the one which taunts her, night or day, whenever there's a moment of calm to disrupt. A voice, the sound of it dark, wet, and menacing, always has the same message.

She's already paid for your mistakes. Your turn is coming.

Ripping herself from the hellish ordeal that insisted on repeating itself several nights a week, Jo Devereaux bolted upright in her bed, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath around the fear and sobs warring against each other in her throat.

Confusion joined the mix for a few brief seconds as she looked around the room, not recognizing her surroundings until her eyes fell on the packing boxes stacked against the wall. With her carefully hand-written 'bedroom' on the sides, the boxes reminded her of the recent move and the reasons behind it.

Six months, she thought to herself, it's been six months already. One hundred and eighty long days - and longer nights - since she'd lost her partner. A slightly shorter span of time since the taunting note had arrived on her doorstep, letting her know the one grave mistake she and her partner had made in the serial killer case had, literally, been at her doorstep.

The note he'd left had included a photo of a battered Caroline, all tucked in with her badge.

Your turn is coming.

The voice, with its imagined cackle, had Jo shaking her head and running her hands through her disheveled hair in an effort to get it to fade. Would it ever truly go away?

Turning on the television, Jo bumped up the volume to help drown out the demon still trying to whisper its sly promises in her ear.

Determined to ignore the voice in her head, Jo stretched, the tank top she'd slept in creeping up and leaving an exposed strip of skin over the boxers she wore. Needing coffee, she made her way through the tiny house she now called home. A little shoebox of a place, it wasn't much bigger than the apartment she'd vacated in Macon. She could hear the television from any room; even now, the local morning news anchors could be heard a room and a half away. And though the home was small, it had a perk her apartment had never boasted. There was a small covered porch just off of her living room.

The porch, along with the trees and yard, had been what had sold Jo on the house.

Having lived in a bigger city most of her life, she'd never really had much of a chance to have a yard, or a porch, where she could just sit and watch the birds and the squirrels perch and frolic. She'd never known it was something she'd ever wanted, until her first morning here. When, after another night in a long string of nights with little to no sleep, she'd wandered out in the early morning hours. Enchanted, she'd made a cup of coffee and, after settling into the Adirondack chair left behind by previous owners, sat to watch the sun rise.

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