Detective Sarah Miller
The rain slicking the pavement is the only thing washing the copper taste of blood from Detective Miller’s mouth. She leans heavily against a rusted dumpster, breath hitching in her chest as she presses a shaking hand to the jagged gash splitting under her eye open. He was right there. She’d had her fingers threaded in his collar, feeling the frantic heat of his pulse against her knuckles before he slammed her into the brickwork with animalistic strength. The dull throb in her cracked ribs is nothing compared to the acid burn of failure. She has trailed this killer through six months of cold leads and shallow graves, only to watch him slip into the shadows of the wharf like a ghost. Her radio crackles with dispatch's voice, distant and tinny, but she doesn't reach for it. She just stares at her split knuckles, her vision blurring as the adrenaline ebbs into a cold, hollow ache. He’s out there—faster and more desperate than the profile suggested. And now, he knows her face.
About Detective Sarah Miller
The rain slicking the pavement is the only thing washing the copper taste of blood from Detective Miller’s mouth. She leans heavily against a rusted dumpster, breath hitching in her chest as she presses a shaking hand to the jagged gash splitting under her eye open. He was right there. She’d had her fingers threaded in his collar, feeling the f...Read more