Page 5 of Into the Veins
“Social media profiles have been known to be sophisticated profiling tools.” Colson maneuvered through the victim’s home office. A row of white bookcases took up the wall behind Rachel Faulkner’s matching desk with color-coded books grouped between décor pieces. The surface of her workspace had been cleaned to a glimmering polish with nothing but a thick spiral bound planner and the victim’s laptop left behind. Handwritten notes and appointments cascaded down the vertical layout. No embellishments, a packed schedule, very little room for family time or enjoyment of life. A series of post-it notes had been arranged on a white board off to the side of the desk; goals the victim intended to reach for the quarter. Markers of a self-proclaimed workaholic obsessed with success. “The ratio of posts from her feeds suggests Rachel prized success and power over her family life. She was a classic overachiever. She wanted everyone who followed her to work as hard as she did, to improve their lives through dedication and goal reaching. Her work was everything to her. Not for the sake of helping others, but to fulfill her own needs.”
“Color expert, online dating ghostwriter. Did you happen to be a profiler in a previous life, as well?” Blair rounded behind him, a hit of her subtle perfume filling his lungs, and his gut clenched with inexplicable need. Warm vanilla, with a hint of almond, if he had to guess. Pulling open one of the desk drawers, the sheriff exposed the slender curve of the back of her neck. Flawless skin stretched from the base of her dramatically red hairline and disappeared beneath the collar of her uniform shirt. The deep green color of the King County Sheriff’s Department uniform accentuated the waterfall of the pin straight hair cutting off a visual of her face as she straightened. One glance in his direction. That was all it took to rocket his blood pressure higher.
“I consulted for the Seattle field office a couple times after getting my doctorate in psychology.” He’d worked with plenty of law enforcement officers over the course of his numerous jobs, but he’d never met someone as intense as Blair Sanders. She didn’t trust him, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of trusting. He’d witnessed as much when he’d met Agent Reese. Blair and the criminologist had an obvious bond beyond the job.
Colson moved onto another section of the office, taking in the pattern in the hardwood floor. No scuffs or signs of a struggle. They’d have to search the rest of the house, but so far, the Faulkner home wasn’t proving to be a crime scene. “Wasn’t the right fit, but someone like Rachel Faulkner, someone obviously determined to prove her life is better than others isn’t a tough profile to build. Her entire existence was dependent on being seen as worthwhile and successful at all times. There was no room for failure or mistakes, which leads me to believe she required the same of her family, friends, and her followers. Nothing but perfection. Unfortunately, perfection isn’t something that can be accomplished, even for our victim. Instead, there’s a whole lot of shame, guilt, and resentment when she falls below her own expectations.”
In a way, Colson understood. The victim’s work had given her worth, a distraction from reality. Somewhere she could have control and steer any situation toward an outcome of her choosing. His attention drifted back to Blair. He could see the sheriff and Rachel Faulkner having that in common. The need for control wherever she could get it, including controlling how many people she trusted with details about her life. It was a defensive mechanism, one he’d relied on over the years himself. Herpetology, color theory, private investigation—it’d all played a key role in ensuring he didn’t miss out on a single aspect of the life he’d been given.
“That’s a lot of pressure. If she expected the people around her and her followers to strive to become her, could be the pressure got to be too much for whoever killed her, and they snapped.” Blair flipped through the victim’s planner on the desk. “According to Agent Reese, women are seven times more likely to choose poison to kill their victim. She believes our killer is female, and Rachel Faulkner’s following is ninety-six percent women and young girls.”
“That’s a lot of suspects.” And it would be impossible to run background checks or interview each and every single one of them.
“But not all of them live in or around Seattle. I’ll have Agent Reese reach out to the victim’s friends and family when she’s done getting Braydon Caddel to pull the surveillance footage from the front gate. See if anyone might be capable of something like this or have priors.” Blair slid her phone from her pressed slacks and took a photo of the victim’s current planner spread. “There aren’t any personal photos in this entire room.”
“I noticed. Lots of natural light, scented candles, and neutral colors, too.” He scanned the office, memorizing the layout. The sitting area with two comfortable chairs and a blanket thrown over the back, the perfectly curated decor pieces on the shelves and walls. There wasn’t much here they’d be able to use to find their killer, but it spoke volumes about Rachel. “I believe the victim considered this space to be a reprieve. Somewhere she could go to get away, maybe even relax.”
“She kept track of her hours in her planner,” Blair said. “She was pulling sixteen-hour days up until yesterday, starting at five in the morning. Can’t imagine that’s relaxing for anyone.”
“It is when her entire identity is wrapped around her work. Running her business made her happy.” Just as chasing new and exciting experiences countered a deep urge to settle for what life had handed him.
“I’m not seeing anything that could lead us to a potential suspect yet. No meetings scheduled for the day she disappeared. Nothing hinting at the private message her husband said upset her, and her vehicle is parked in the garage. She couldn’t have gotten far on foot. We’re still waiting on phone records, but as far as I can tell, whoever attacked Rachel Faulkner knew exactly what they were doing and made sure not to leave any evidence behind.” Blair took her seat at the desk and opened the victim’s laptop. “The computer is password protected, and it’s getting late. I can have the cybercrimes unit take a run at it tomorrow. I’ll see if the witness who found her might’ve remembered anything since this morning. Until then, all we can do now is wait.”
“She might’ve called a ride sharing service or had a friend pick her up. She was upset. She’d just found out her husband had filed for divorce. I’m sure the only thing on her mind was getting as far from here as possible.” They’d been searching all afternoon, but they weren’t getting anywhere without knowing the location of the crime scene. Rachel Faulkner hadn’t been killed in her home. This was a dead end. “You never answered my question from earlier.”
Blair unplugged the power supply from the laptop and coiled it tight in her hand. “What question is that?”
“What was the last thing you looked up on your phone?” Colson slid his hands into his jeans. They’d been partnered—or rather coerced into working—together going on four hours, but he didn’t sense the same level of detachment in her as he had this morning at the crime scene. All those experiences he’d had over the years, all the new challenges to keep life interesting and stay on the go—none of them compared to the excitement at the idea of getting under that flawless skin of hers.
“You mean apart from information about the victim or this case?” A hint of an exasperated curl tugged at the corners of her mouth, and even that small change hit him solidly in the chest. Desire snaked through him, and he didn’t want to imagine what a full smile would do. Her shoulders deflated on a strong inhale as she finished with the laptop cord. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Rutherford. Not truth or dare. You and I aren’t going to be friends. I brought you on as a consulting investigator because you have relevant information concerning my victim. Were you lying? I imagine that would be quite easy for a private investigator.”
Another jab at his current profession. He noted the flash of annoyance in the tendons running down her neck. He closed the distance between them, his boots echoing off the hardwood floor with every step gained. “Not at all. Everything I’ve told you about Rachel Faulkner is true. But if you and I are going to be working together to solve who killed her and left her body out there on that trail, I need to know who I’m working with and whether or not I can trust you.”
Blair seemed to let his words take shape between them, weighing them, deciding whether or not to believe him. The sheriff had covered some of the most gruesome and brutal cases in King County over the years. Trust wouldn’t come easy for someone who dealt with lies and violence on a daily basis, but Colson wouldn’t budge. She focused on recoiling the power cord. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re only a part of this investigation because I allow it. You don’t have any room to call shots, and whether you trust me or not is irrelevant. I’m trying to find a killer, and you are a tool I’m using to accomplish that goal.” Her shoulders rose on a strong inhale. “That being said, I need to know if I can trust you. So I’ll answer your questions with the expectation you answer mine.” She stood a bit straighter. “I bought some porcelain paint.”
An explosion of surprise cut through him, which didn’t happen often considering his drive to experience all aspects of life, and Colson couldn’t help but laugh to counter the images of Blair Sanders doing anything that required paint. The hardened, controlling sheriff who’d threatened to arrest him at the crime scene this morning had a creative streak. “Porcelain paint? What for?”
“I paint ceramic bowls, mugs, vases.” The muscles in her jaw flexed under his attention as though daring him to laugh again. She gripped the victim’s laptop under her arm, the power cord in one hand. “Items I’ve sculpted.”
“Wow. That was…” He didn’t know what to say, what to think. In an instant, the woman had transformed from the isolated, secretive law enforcement officer into someone he didn’t recognize. Colson didn’t know what to do with that. He’d learned to read people over the years, but he’d made a mistake with Blair. “Not what I expected. Figured you would’ve spent your down time in the shadows searching for random criminals to arrest.”
“I save my vigilant justice for the weekends.” Blair headed toward the office door. “We’re done here.”
There wasn’t anything more they could glean from the victim’s office. Rachel Faulkner had to have been killed elsewhere then left for rangers to discover on that trail, which meant they had no idea where to look next. There was a chance Agent Reese had made more progress with the surveillance footage from the front gate.
He followed Blair through the massive home. Dove gray walls, bright white wainscoting, and gleaming brushed nickel heightened the overall airy and light aesthetic with a random pop of color here and there. Despite the fact Rachel’s Faulkner’s two children were under the ages of seven, the house remained immaculate, but Colson would bet his entire investigative fee it wasn’t at the hands of the victim or her husband. There was at least one other witness in the house that could give him and Blair insight into the victim’s life before she went missing.
The click of high heels on tile registered from the gleaming chef’s kitchen in ceiling-to-floor white. Agent Reese rounded the eight-foot granite island speckled with bits of gray that matched the walls. Bauble earrings swayed as the criminologist pulled up short. Dark roots he hadn’t noted until now offset the blonde waves from the agent’s scalp and threatened the high-maintenance profile he’d started building the moment they’d met outside. As far as Colson could tell, Agent January Reese had become one of the few people the sheriff considered a friend. Someone she dined with in her spare time, someone she trusted. “After going through all of the surveillance footage from the front gate over the past week, I was able to narrow down the victim’s and her family’s routine, including the landscapers, housekeeper, employees. I have Mr. Caddel getting me their contact information now.”
“From what we’ve been able to determine from the planner we recovered in the office, the victim rarely deviated from her daily routine,” Blair said.
“One of the pillars of success Rachel spouted to her followers is doing the same thing every day will lead to success faster than anything else.” Colson swiped through the victim’s social media profile and pulled up a post highlighting a group of three colorful hardcover books. “Recently, her company started manufacturing planners to purchase so fans could write down their goals on a daily basis to reach them like she did.”
Blair maneuvered the victim’s laptop under her other arm, leaving her dominate hand free. “Did you find anything that breaks that pattern?”
“Just one outlier,” Agent Reese said. “And you’re going to want to see it for yourself.”
Blair cast Colson a questioning glance before she followed the agent’s trail back through the kitchen and into a small, dark room on the other side. It hadn’t been enough for Rachel Faulkner and her family to be protected by an alarm system. They’d installed top-of-the-line security. Multiple monitors and cameras, round the clock surveillance, and what looked like digital archives going back weeks. None of it had been able to stop the victim from winding up on that trail. All three of them crowded into the single closet-space to view the footage. “This is all new.”