![]() ![]() The sights and scents were familiar, but each time, every time, there was something new. Lieutenant Eve Dallas crouched down beside death and studied it carefully. A leather bag with a gold clasp lay near her outstretched fingers. Jewels glittered on her fingers, at her ears, against the sleek lapel of the jacket. ![]() The jacket was neatly buttoned in contrast to the jerked-up skirt that exposed her trim thighs. She’d worn an expensive suit, the same rich color as her eyes. Her eyes, wide and still with that distressed expression death often left in them, were a deep purple against cheeks bloodlessly white and wet with rain. Long trails of her golden hair spread out like rays on the dirty sidewalk. ![]() ![]() Murder no longer shocked, but it continued to repel. It made scenes such as the one she viewed now, on a rainy night on a dark street nasty with litter, almost too usual. And because that didn’t seem to be enough, in some deep, secret chamber of her heart, she mourned for them.Ī decade as a cop had toughened her, given her a cold, clinical, and often cynical eye toward death and its many causes. She lived with them, worked with them, studied them. And they have kept it since, by being dead. ![]()
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