Dr. Barnes’ first patient of the day had been a middle-aged woman, who she’d seen a handful of times before, and who, so it appeared, had problems for the sake of having problems. Their sessions revolved around discussing and trying to understand a problem that was never a problem to begin with, but became a problem because it had been forged into one.

‘Not that much to revise here,’ Dr. Barnes said to herself.

Her next four patients had all been people with complicated marital problems, who she did her best to try to help, but she knew that, in the long run, their relationships were, for the lack of a better word, doomed. All four of them could barely stand the sight of their partners and Dr. Barnes got the impression that the main reason why they came to her practice wasn’t really to seek any sort of help, but just so they could spend another ninety minutes away from the person who they hated with a feral intensity.

Her last patient of the day, a seventeen-year-old girl named Beverly Dawson, was indeed a human conundrum. Beverly suffered from multiple personality disorder and her case was as intriguing as it was sometimes terrifying. After eight sessions, Dr. Barnes had already encountered five different personalities, each bringing with it a whole new dimension of complexity. The most frightening of them all was the one Dr. Barnes secretly referred to as ‘Severely Aggressive Beverly’, or SAB.

As Dr. Barnes finished revising her notes, she reflexively placed her right hand over to her left wrist, something she did unconsciously every time she was either nervous or thinking, but as her fingers touched her bare skin, she looked down at her hands and a sad, almost painful, feeling came over her. She closed her eyes and pushed the feeling away. Seconds later she pulled her chair closer to her desk once again and powered down her computer.

After finally locking her office for the rest of the weekend, Dr. Barnes took the elevator down to the building’s underground parking lot. It’d been a long day. A long week, in fact, and she couldn’t wait to get home, have a hot shower and indulge herself with a nice bottle of red wine. Hell, maybe she would have a spliff too.

As she approached her pearl-white Toyota Camry, one of the last few cars still left in the lot, she noticed that someone had left something on her windshield, which wasn’t at all surprising. Almost every day she would get at least one leaflet on her car, most of them advertising fast-food joints around the vicinity, or a happy-hour deal down at one of the many local bars and lounges.

Dr. Barnes got to her car and grabbed the leaflet, ready to throw it away. Only this time it wasn’t a leaflet, it was an envelope. Across its front, large letters, which had all been cut out from some glossy magazine, had been glued together to spell her name.

‘What the hell?’ she whispered as she placed her briefcase on the floor and tore open the envelope.

Her surprise heightened. Inside it she found a single piece of paper folded in half, with yet more cut-out letters and words stuck together to create a short message. She unfolded it and was about to read it when she heard some sort of noise coming from her left, or at least she thought she did. Her eyes immediately shot in that direction. In the dim parking-lot light she saw nothing. There was no one there. Dr. Barnes dragged her gaze around the nearly empty lot. Still she saw nothing. No one. Her attention returned to the piece of paper in her hand and she finally was able to read the note.

‘What?’ she asked, frowning, before impulsively looking up again. The parking lot was as still as a moment ago.

Her eyes went back to the beginning of the note and she read it again. This time, as she got to the end of it, she let out a half-humorless laugh.

‘What a silly, stupid prank. Does someone expect me to believe this?’ she asked herself, ready to trash the whole thing; but that was when she noticed that there was something else right at the bottom of the envelope.

She tipped it on to the palm of her right hand.

A split second later, her heart froze.

Thirty-Two

Hunter had stayed behind in his office after Garcia had left. Even though he wasn’t very prolific with Facebook, Twitter, or any other social media network, he wanted to dig a little deeper into the personal profiles of Karen Ward, Tanya Kaitlin and Pete Harris. He began by carefully rereading all forty-six comments under Pete Harris’s Facebook post about ‘brainlaziness’. Still none stood out, with the exception of Tanya Kaitlin’s comment, explicitly admitting that she didn’t know a single phone number by heart. Sure, Karen Ward’s killer could’ve come across that same information through a number of different methods, making that whole post nothing more than just a coincidence, but Hunter had never really believed in coincidences, especially in this case, where Karen had asked Tanya a very direct question – Really? Not even mine? What a great best friend you are lol.

Hunter spent the next hour and a half click-jumping from one profile to another, reading posts and looking at photos and uploaded images. The more he read, the more images he looked at, the more surprised he became. In short, people were laying their lives bare over the Internet for anyone who cared to read about it, and even though most social media sites tended to offer quite extensive security settings, a lot of people still chose to ignore them.

By 9.30 p.m., Hunter’s eyes were watering from squinting at his computer screen. He needed to get out of that office.

Hunter’s biggest passion was single malt Scotch whisky. Back in his apartment, tucked in a corner of his living room, an old-fashioned drinks cabinet held a small but impressive collection of single malts that would probably satisfy the palate of most connoisseurs. Hunter would never consider himself an expert on whisky but, unlike so many, he at least knew how to appreciate its flavor and quality, instead of simply getting drunk on it, though sometimes getting drunk worked just fine.

He thought about going home, where he could indulge in as much single malt as he wished without breaking the bank, but he quickly debated if staying in tonight was such a good idea.

Hunter lived alone. No wife. No girlfriends. He’d never been married, and the relationships he had rarely lasted longer than just a few months, sometimes a lot less. The pressures that came with being a detective with the LAPD’s UVC Unit, and the commitment the job demanded, always seemed too much for most to understand and cope with. He didn’t mind being by himself. Living alone didn’t bother him either, but he was still human and sometimes the loneliness of his small apartment was the last thing he needed. Tonight was one of those nights.

Los Angeles nightlife was arguably one of the liveliest, craziest, and most exciting in the world. The spectrum of choice was almost interminable, going from luxurious and trendy nightclubs, where the rich and famous mingled with Hollywood stars, to themed bars and dingy, sleazy underground lounges and parties, where the freaks came out to play. Whatever mood, crazy or not, you found yourself in, you were sure to find a place in LA to suit it. Tonight, Hunter was in the ‘stiff but quiet drink’ mood.

Thirty-Three

‘Are you listening to me, John? Because if you are, keep your eyes on the screen.’