the recent training, the belief most rookies emerged with that they were now the best agent in the whole of the FBI.
“So what if it is pi?” Flynn continued, with the air of conclusion. “We still have to do our due diligence and investigate the old-fashioned way. We can’t just assume it’s some lunatic going around marking bodies with pi because he wants to honor the cosmic resonance of special numbers. It’s far more likely to be a family member. An ex-husband. It’s almost always a husband.”
“I never said that we should not conduct a full investigation,” Zoe grumbled.
“I guess we’d better pick this up in the morning, then,” Flynn said, checking his watch. “Too late now to go barging in on the family members. And we still need to sort out somewhere to stay.”
Zoe pursed her lips, unable to argue with him. Out of all the numbers she had to deal with, time was the most annoying—simply because it was incessant, and never stopped to allow her to catch her breath.
“Fine,” she agreed. “But first thing in the morning, we get going. I do not want to delay any further than necessary.”
Partly because she had pride in solving cases fast. Partly because she didn’t want the killer to strike again. But most of all, because the quicker this was over, the quicker she wouldn’t have to deal with the rookie anymore.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Zoe still clutched at her seatbelt, trying not to throw up the last pill along with the slice of buttered toast as Flynn steered their rental car along twisting roads far too quickly, taking them deeper into Syracuse to seek out the astronomer’s family.
A night in a motel room bed had done Zoe few favors. As always seemed to be the case in these cheap small-town motels, the bed was almost as solid as a brick, the sheets scratchy and dubiously clean, and the bathroom far too small to have a satisfying shower.
Still, it was something. At least Zoe had been able to rest, which was a boon for her body as well as her mind. With the antidepressants Dr. Monk had given her also working their way through her system after a hasty breakfast, she could almost admit to feeling vaguely human.
Except for the nausea that rose up every time Flynn came up against a bend.
“Can you not take the corners a little easier?” she groaned, as Flynn threw it around yet another at a speed that was distinctly terrifying.
Flynn glanced at her before looking back at the road. “Sorry. I like getting places fast. There’s lives at stake, right?”
“Yes,” Zoe muttered darkly. “Ours.”
He seemed to ease off a little during the last few turns, but it made little difference to Zoe’s roiling stomach—they were already at the address they had gotten from the sheriff, pulling up outside a respectable-looking mid-sized family home with a tiny yard in the front. It put Zoe in mind of Shelley’s home, and she shuddered.
“You’re not cold, are you?” Flynn asked, looking at her curiously.
“No,” Zoe said, shrugging her coat closer around herself. She’d made good on her intentions to dig out a warmer coat, and the late fall weather wasn’t penetrating it yet. “Come on.”
Flynn, meanwhile, appeared to be perfectly fine in only his suit. He stepped out of the car and buttoned his suit jacket, smoothing down the edges, and walked to the door with a confident stride. He seemed unfazed by the weather completely. Zoe privately wondered whether he really did feel the cold, and was too vain to consider wearing an overcoat that might wrinkle the lines of his perfect tailoring.
The rookie made three short, sharp raps on the door, and Zoe watched the dimensions of the frame and calculated the advancing nearness of the audible footsteps until it opened. A man stood there, probably thirty-six, his brown hair, thick brown eyebrows, and the angles of his nose and eyes telling Zoe that he was Elara Vega’s son.
“Carlo Vega?” she asked, before Flynn could dive in and take the lead again. “I am Special Agent Zoe Prime with the FBI. This is my colleague, Agent Flynn. Can we ask you a few questions?”
“It’s about my mother, yes?” Carlo asked, his gaze sweeping between the two of them. There was a downwards cast to his whole face, as though he had spent the night slowly melting.
“That’s right, Mr. Vega,” Flynn replied. “And may we first of all say, we’re very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Carlo said, stepping