Chapter 1

“Nine-one-one. Where’s your emergency?”

Mark glanced at the clock on his computer. He could log out of the phone, go home, and start his weekend in three minutes. He hoped for something quick and brainless. Maybe a nice parking complaint. He could plug in a vehicle description, a license plate number, and call it a night.

The caller was sobbing and screamed all her words out in one jumbled mess. Very few parking complaints came in at three in the morning. Mark sat up straight and directed his caller to repeat her location.

“I don’t know where I am!” his caller cried. “Some guy just tried to rape me, then threw me out of his house. I don’t have any shoes on and he said he had a gun.”

“Did you see a gun?”

“No. But he went inside. What if he comes out with a gun? Ohmigod, ohmigod, help me!”

“I’m gonna send you some help, okay? Where are you?”

“I don’t know! I’m outside his house. The address is 2236. He has my shoes, he has my purse, what do I do?”

“I want you to get away from in front of his house, okay? Walk up to a corner and read me a street sign. Are you okay to walk up the block? Did he hurt you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Do you need an ambulance?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Can you walk up and maybe read me a street sign?”

Mark had already sent a call up to the dispatcher, Laura-Lee, letting her know that, according to the map that automatically popped up on his computer, police were needed in the vicinity of the university. At this hour, cars would already be rolling, but his computer only gave him an approximate block range; for an exact location, he needed his caller to tell him where she was. Finding a street sign gave her something to focus on besides what had just happened to her, and got her out from in front of the house. If this creep did have a gun, Mark didn’t want him coming back outside and scratching an itchy trigger finger.

“I’m on Frasher Street,” his caller was eventually able to tell him.

“Are you on South Frasher Street?”

“I don’t know! The sign just says Frasher Street.”

“But are you out by the U?”

“Yeah.”

Once they had it sussed out, Mark sent his caller’s exact location to dispatch. He could tell by looking at his map that police were almost on scene. Pertinent information flowed from his ear to his fingers to the dispatcher’s call screen without effort. He’d coded the call as a sex assault in progress, warned officers of the possibility of a weapon. They’d know what they were walking into and, with any luck, treat his caller with an appropriate degree of compassion.

Which she was going to need. “He said if he didn’t kill me he hopes I kill myself,” she sobbed into the phone. “I had to fight him off me. He said everybody wants him, he was doing me a favor, if I couldn’t be grateful I don’t deserve to live.”

“Which you and I both know is bull, right?”

She sniffled a ragged “Uh huh.”

“Okay, good. I’ve got help coming to you, okay? Tell me when you see a police officer. Do you go to the U?” Mark asked, just to keep her talking. His empathy went into overdrive on calls like this one. He could just see this young woman, standing barefoot and scared, alone on a street corner in the middle of the night, and he hoped his voice—any voice, calm and compassionate—could help her feel less isolated while she waited for help.

Just before the first of three little police car icons on Mark’s computer turned red, indicating an on-scene arrival, his caller told him, “I think I see police.”

“Okay, good.”

Then she shrieked. “Ohmigod, he just came out of his house!”

This information flew through Mark’s fingers into the call screen. “Does he have a gun?”

“I can’t tell. Ohmigod!”

“Does he see you? Are you somewhere safe?”

“I can’t tell. Ohmigod!”

“Does he see the police?”

“He does now! They just ran onto the porch. Ohmigod!”

“What’s happening?”

“Ohmigod, he did have a gun!” Mark was relieved by her use of the past tense. “But they got it away from him. Ohmigod, they’re arresting him. They have him in handcuffs. Ohmigod, you did it—they’re taking him away. One of the cops is walking toward me, some woman.”

This would be Flo Tanaka, according to the unit number of the little police car on Mark’s screen. She’d been Starr’s sergeant when he’d worked graves in District Three. She wasn’t exactly all rainbows and warm hugs, but she was highly trained in working with victims of sexual assault. Mark knew she would at least treat his caller with respect and do her best to help her feel safe.