I See You (Criminal Profiler #2) - Mary Burton Page 0,26

three days, he would move out. All that was left to do was tell Skylar. Neither of them wanted to upend the girl’s life. But Hadley needed a new challenge. A new something to consume her life and thoughts.

Poor Skylar. She had been born to a mother who was damaged. A mother who was OCD about so much irrational shit but who was powerless to ease her grip on control. She was a mother who kept secrets and lied because they made her feel safe and in control. A mother who recognized love but was so consumed by guilt she had forgotten what genuine emotion felt like. Maybe if Hadley had made different choices, Skylar would not have suffered.

Hadley slipped out the back door, closing it behind her but not bothering to lock the door. Even if someone broke into the house, Mark would hear it. And he would know what to do, because he always knew how to fix any problem.

He was Mark the Savior. The Fixer. The Jailer.

She stretched out her calves and Achilles tendons before easing out the back gate. She began with a slow and steady jog down the back street illuminated only by the light of a near full moon. Despite her warming up her muscles, the plantar fasciitis in her right heel sent pain bolting up her leg. Experience had taught her that the discomfort would continue for several miles, and when it vanished, she would miss it. She functioned best when she was hurting.

Her muscles groaned and pulled but finally relaxed, coaxed by the warm morning air. She drew in a deep breath. Normally, she ran five miles, but today she was tempted to go farther. Her body craved the activity that released the endorphins. She ran faster.

The image of Marsha’s reconstructed face jostled into her thoughts. Though the sculpture was good, the face had an artificial look, much like a person prettied up for a coffin viewing. Real but not quite.

Each time she thought about Marsha’s skull under the clay and paint, she imagined her sister watching her through the glassy brown eyes. Marsha’s eyes had always been so trusting, because her sister had believed that no matter what, Hadley had her back.

Hadley stared up at the clear night sky and the full moon, remembering the moon had looked very much like this on the night Marsha had left. It had been clear, pure, and white. Almost perfect.

“Do you have to be such a bitch? You’re never happy, are you?” Marsha asked. “Hadley, it’s not my fault.”

Hadley quickened her pace, trying to chase away memories of her sister. “Go away,” she whispered.

Marsha’s voice echoed again in her head. I just wanted to go out and have fun. You should have warned me.

“Shut up!” Hadley said.

Hadley pumped her arms harder. Ahead, a cat screeched, and another howled back. Sweat began to pool between her breasts.

The image of her sister’s face flashed in her mind. The last time she had seen Marsha, her sister had been headed out the back door to meet a date at a club. Hadley could have said something. But she had not. She had remained silent as she’d watched Marsha drive off. It had never occurred to her that Marsha would not come home. She had thought maybe she would get knocked down a peg or two, but she would come home.

I trusted you! Marsha’s voice echoed.

The memory of the bust’s eyes stalked her. “You’re dead. You’re dead. And it’s not my fault. Not my fault. Not my fault.” She whispered the involuntary chant over and over as she pounded the pavement.

She tripped on a small pothole and had to take several quick steps to right herself. “Shit,” she muttered as she refocused on the pavement.

One step. Two steps. Three steps.

The pain in her leg returned, and she let it lasso her thoughts. She ran for another hour, and when she entered her front door, her calf was on fire. The scent of coffee surprised her, and she wondered if her husband had set the timer on the coffee maker incorrectly again.

She limped up the stairs, not bothering a glance toward Mark. The upstairs was still dark, but she had walked this hallway so many times she knew every creak in the floor, the number of steps from the landing to her bedroom, and the location of all the light switches.

The digital display on her nightstand clock read 4:32 a.m. Good. She still had an hour before the house