The corner of her vision was peeled on Dorman-Smith – but it was Alex who reacted the most visibly to her introduction. Mouth slightly agape, but tried to cover it up. Could’ve sworn she lost some color too; hard to tell in the uncomfortable, fluorescent lamplight. A reaction of surprise. Shock? Perhaps a bad conscience. Probably no reason worth noting. Trisha figured that the girl maybe possessed and consumed Weed, possibly tried some harder stuff for kicks. Unlikely she was involved in any real crime. Herby, on the other hand, had some very real crimes on his conscience, but his face was unreadable. Figured.

Trisha was caught very much by surprise by the apparent popularity of McCoy’s little session. Just when she thought everybody had been accounted for, a throng of new people shuffled in, each apologizing for being late and citing some quickly-explained excuse.

The first of these was a certain Mr. Dreymund. A man she could only describe as being at odds with himself. His face and deliberate beard gave him an antiquated, but dignified appearance, befitting perhaps of an old gentleman from the colonial age. But his rain-soaked clothes were visibly dirty – more than dirty, they were muddy. The jacket had been on the floor outside. Something was awkward about his gait too. He hid it well, but he restricted movement of his torso very much, like somebody who felt pain if they moved in a wrong way. Suggestive of dull, not sharp, pain. Bludgeoning damage? Perhaps he’d been in a fight? Unlikely, judging by his appearance. Or, if he was, he lost. Badly. Man should’ve called the police or gone to a hospital instead of coming here. Why didn’t he? He looked quite nervous too. Or maybe just distracted by something. Trisha couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was off about him. Perhaps she would ask him later what happened to him.

The second man was something else. He had criminal written all over him. Ghetto-style clothing, tattoos, an intimidating physique and a bad attitude – or, at least, the pretension thereof. She had seen guys before who looked tough but were gentle giants. Of course, she’d seen those who were the real deal too. She wondered which of these Joe Toledano turned out to be. She eyed him cautiously, like an owl watches a fellow hunter pass by, until he was seated; right next to her. Coincidence or not? Had he noticed her unflinching gaze? Did he smell a cop? Or did he simply find her hot? Perhaps she read too much into it.

McCoy urged the newcomer to continue the introductory round right away. Surprisingly he complied without protest; cooperation was not a trait she thought him to have. Impressions could deceive, but not always. Admitting to a criminal past with the ‘cartels’ – whichever ones he was referring to – he at least affirmed that he fit his stereotype. Looked like he’d seen enough though and wanted to pull out. Poor Joe; pulling out doesn’t undo your crimes. She wondered just what he was guilty of. At this point, he could have been anything, from a mere drug pusher to a murderer. Or worse. And Trisha figured he didn’t need those muscles to sell crack to a few kids. Joe bothered her, but she reminded herself that, no matter his crimes, he could never be as bad as [i]him[/i]. And since [i]he [/i]was the standard by which she measured evil, almost anyone could pass for a half decent person.

The rounded moved on to Alex Fusco, the only other female in the room. As her story went, her boyfriend went missing a while ago and she comforted herself with alcohol. It was exceedingly rare to find an alcoholic who was willing to admit to being one. Doubly so for young people. But if it was true – and Trisha had no reason to believe otherwise – then Alex should seek help now, and not from a pseudo-scientific group session like the one she was in. Of course, one detail still remained unexplained: why the distraught reaction to Trisha’s outing as a cop? She said her boyfriend went missing. If anything, she should be glad to meet a detective; they’re the sort of people she needs right now. Why the opposite reaction? Feelings of guilt? Survivor’s guilt? Or something more sinister? Perhaps an unfortunate accident. At any rate, she hoped the police was on the case. Although if he went missing long enough ago that she had time to develop a dependency on alcohol, then Trisha did not rate his chances of being alive very highly. People don’t go missing for a few months only to turn up fine. She pitied the girl, and the boy whose life was most likely spent. They were both too young to go through something like this. She would lend the girl an ear if she needed it.

While Alex told her story, another person – again, slick with rain – entered the room with an apology. After a wordless welcome from McCoy, he found himself a seat next to Dreymund. He was difficult to read, and that was a good thing. There were enough troublemakers as it stood. He looked relatively average: reasonably well groomed, clothing that saw regular washing and was picked with a modicum of care for appearance. No obvious quirks, just a bit of exhaustion. Did he take the staircase? He was probably in a hurry not to be late. She wondered if the elevator wouldn’t have been quicker regardless. She had nothing to pin on him at the moment, but she knew that his looks deceived her. After all, he would not have been here if there wasn’t something that ate him up from the inside.

It was McCoy’s turn to speak up again; instead of letting the rest introduce themselves, he decided to change it up, going so far as to putting the dreaded word ‘game’ in his mouth. Trisha inwardly cringed. If this turned out to become a circus, she would have no shame in leaving. She was an adult, a busy one at that. She had no time – or patience – for games.

“𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚊n𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 about 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝,” he began. Boy, oh, boy, doctor. She’d rather not. Of course, now that he prompted her, she could not stop herself from opening the lid on those dreadful memories. The girl in the playground was one of those that hurt the most. Arms tied around the supporting chains of a swing, body bent over it. Needless to speculate why she was in such a position. Broad daylight, children had been laughing in this place hours before. She wanted to plunge a knife into the man’s black, rotten heart. But how had nobody, neither child nor adult, noticed anything until after the fact? How had nobody stopped him? Hell, how did nobody even see the suspect at all? None of it made any god damn sense!

She clutched her fist; knuckles became white. Her face remained calm, a mask of stone. She had well trained restraint. What was the source of her will to go on? Hell if she could give it a name. A sense of justice? No, something rawer. Vengeance? The anger of a wolf mother?

No. But all of those played their part as well. There was something else she could not deny: she felt awful. Every single time she found a dead girl, she felt like she had personally failed the kid. Every other victim was only permitted because she had failed to catch him yet. Her dalliance was costing children – and their families – their lives and happiness. The Violator was incapable of feeling shame or guilt.

So Trisha felt it for him.

Melancholy had almost taken over enough of her senses to momentarily blind her to the world, but a peculiar smell brought her back and urged her to close the lid on that dark chasm. That was bad. He had probably intended for them to lose themselves in thought, while he had not only dimmed the lights, but ignited a bunch of candles she had neglected to notice. Careless! She felt like she deserved a slap in the face for being so inattentive. Bunch of colors, circular – or haphazard – arrangement. She did not like it, but not because of the occult connotation. It was the strange smells, incense most likely. Could be it was entirely harmless, or offensively smelling at best. But what if it wasn’t? What if there was some kind of deliriant that made the mind more pliable? Or an incapacitating agent? No, the latter was somewhat unlikely. After all, McCoy was not immune. Drugs were not out of the realm of possibility, however. She had to speak up.

“Mr. McCoy, do you mind if I ask about the candles? I’m not the incense type. Is this strictly necessary? And what’s in them?”

In spite of her state of mild alarm, her voice was as calm as ever, even stoic. Her intense eyes found his own, even in the dim light; the dark could not hide him from her iron gaze.