The memory Hunter was searching for didn’t trickle back into his mind like he’d hoped it would. It smashed against it like an ugly train wreck. One second he had nothing, the next . . . there it was, the eyes, the blood clot, the face.

‘No way,’ Hunter whispered, fighting the memory inside his head, because what it was telling him was that he had been that close to the killer, that he had looked into his eyes, that they had shared the same breathing space.

Hunter disregarded the files and photographs on the floor and reached for a blue folder that was sitting to the left of his computer screen. It didn’t take him long to find what he was after.

He looked back at the enlarged image on his monitor and studied the killer’s eyes again. Inside his head, the memory began colliding with reason, but if there was one thing that Hunter knew well, it was that reason and violent murder rarely crossed paths. Still, a memory wasn’t enough. He needed more information, and he needed more information now.

Hunter minimized the image-viewing program and called up a different application. As it loaded up, he typed in the name he got from the blue folder and hit ‘enter’. A few seconds later, he had that person’s basic personal file on his screen, including a portrait photograph.

The first thing Hunter did was enlarge the photo and look into that person’s eyes.

No blood clot.

He enlarged the picture further.

It wasn’t there, but Hunter knew that a blood clot could appear in someone’s eye at any time and for a number of reasons. All that was needed was for that person to suffer any sort of trauma that would cause the delicate blood vessels beneath the tissue covering the white of the eye to break.

The picture Hunter was looking at had been taken seven years ago. The blood clot could have appeared in his eye any time after that.

Despite knowing all that, doubts had started coming at Hunter from all angles. Was he really that desperate for a lead that his brain had given him a fantasy dressed up as a memory?

It was very possible, he knew that much, but why that person? And why did the memory feel so vivid in his mind?

Hunter minimized the portrait photo, went back to the person’s personal file and began scanning through the information on the pages – name, address, place of birth, marital status and so on, but it wasn’t until he got to the third page that something made him pause. Something about an accident.

‘Wait a second . . . What?’

He went back to the top of the page and read it again, slower this time. The information was flimsy at best, but it did provide him with a couple of important details he could use to run a more refined search. Intrigued, Hunter did exactly that.

The file the search returned wasn’t very long, but the information and the photographs it contained shocked Hunter for two reasons. One: The devastating sadness of it all was life-changing. Two: If Hunter was right about the killer, this had to have been the trigger.

Suddenly, as he read the file for the second time, Hunter remembered a couple of photographs he’d seen while browsing through one of the social media sites that afternoon.

A lump lodged itself in his throat.

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he whispered, already doubting the crazy theory that had just begun taking shape inside his head.

He quickly reloaded his browser and logged back into that same social media website. This time, he knew exactly whose pages to look for. There was no blind searching.

It took him about five minutes to find the first photo, and as he did, he felt as if his office walls had begun closing in on him.

‘This can’t be it.’

Stunned, Hunter moved on to somebody else’s profile page and their ‘photos’ tab. He scrolled through the images until he found the one he was looking for.

‘Oh, my God!’

Both pictures, despite coming from two different pages and belonging to two different people who didn’t know each other, shared the same theme.

‘This is nuts.’

His heart began sounding like a kick drum, but he wasn’t done yet. They now had three victims. Three different people. Three different social media pages to check.

‘Be wrong, Robert,’ he said to himself, as he typed the third and last name into the search box. ‘Be wrong.’

The page loaded and Hunter moved straight on to the ‘photos’ tab. His eyes began scanning the thumbnails like a lion searching for prey – forty, sixty, one hundred pictures – nothing. It wasn’t there. One hundred and ten, one hundred and twenty – no. His crazy theory was just that, a crazy theo—

‘No way.’ The walls closed in further. His finger moved off the scrolling ball on his mouse as his eyes locked on to a specific thumbnail.

‘No, no, no.’

He maximized it.

There it was, a photograph with the exact same theme of the two previous ones he’d just seen.

Hunter stepped away from his computer and started pacing the room. He could feel his muscles tensing up on him. He could feel a headache starting to grab the base of his skull.

The clock on the wall read 01:54 a.m.

His mind felt tired. Exhausted, actually. There was nothing that Hunter wanted more right then than to go home and be able to fall asleep, but the key words were ‘be able to’.

He paused before the picture board and stared at all the photos for a long while. The victims, the video-call witnesses, the savagery of the crime-scene shots. There were pieces missing everywhere and he knew he wouldn’t find them by pacing the length of his office, or sitting behind his desk.

He considered what to do next.

Improvise, Robert, a voice said from deep inside his head. Improvise.

Eighty-Eight

Hunter had no problem finding the house, a brick-fronted, two-story, family home with a well-cared-for front lawn and perfectly shaped hedges. The house was in total darkness, with the exception of a dim light that bathed the porch in a weak yellow glow.

A note by the doorbell read ‘not working’. Hunter gave the door three firm knocks and waited. No reply. He tried again, the knocks a little firmer this time. Still no reply. He stepped back from the porch and looked up at the house. No lights. No movement. No sound.

What are you doing here, Robert? You should go home. The ‘sensible’ half of his brain decided to engage in conversation. He paid it very little attention and skipped over the hedge fence that surrounded the front garden before trying the window on the left – locked, and the closed curtains kept him from seeing inside. He had no better luck with the window on the right.

It’s a sign, Robert. Go home. Sensible half was back.

Hunter walked around to the right side of the house, where he found a door with a large frosted-glass window. Through the frosted glass he couldn’t see much, except that the door looked to lead into the kitchen.

Hunter paused and considered his options for a short instant, before taking off his jacket and rolling it around his right fist. He looked left, then right. All quiet. He held his breath, steadied his legs and sent a firm punch through the frosted window. It smashed with a muffled crash. Instinctively, Hunter looked around again. Still all quiet.

‘Awesome,’ he said to himself. ‘Breaking and entering, followed by an illegal house search. The captain is going to love this.’

Hunter retrieved a latex glove from his pocket, gloved up, slipped his hand through the broken glass and unlocked the door. After pulling his pen flashlight from his gun holster, Hunter stepped into the house.

He quickly cleared the dark kitchen, surfacing in a spacious living room decorated with a combination of antiques and modern furniture. A staircase at the south end of it led to the house’s second floor. Hunter decided to check upstairs later.