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“It looks…soft.” I rub my latex-covered thumb over the natural white fibers. “The profile is building toward the UNSUB being a sadist, so this doesn’t really line up.”
    Avery sighs as she looks down at the victim. “I’m inclined to agree with your theory there.” She leans back against the opposite table and looks at me. “Maybe the assailant’s rope choice was a matter of convenience, because he sure wasn’t concerned about her level of comfort.”
    I shake my head. “Everything at the crime scene implied meticulously planned. Staged. This rope is based on his personal preference. The question is, why? What’s so significant about this particular rope?”
    “Maybe forensics will help with that,” she says. “I had it sent out for more than just trace evidence. Look closely, Sadie,” she encourages. “Note how the threads of the rope are subtly different. Some tighter, some looser. Not exactly perfect.”
    As I turn the rope over in my hand, I see what she means. “And the ivory color is stained with dark pigments.”
    “It’s only a guess, but I’d say it’s hand-woven. Not manufactured.”
    My insides bubble up with excitement, and I look at her with widening eyes. “If that’s true, we may be able to track down where the rope came from.” She gives me a bright smile. “Avery, you’re a genius.”
    She lifts a shoulder on a half shrug. “I do what I can, but I’ll take it. But,” she adds, tone serious again. “Don’t get your hopes up for trace like skin cells. I found powdered residue on the rope.”
    The UNSUB used gloves. “A forensic counter measure,” I say, and her lips thin into a tight frown. “If he’s that careful, then it’s unlikely he’d forget to wear gloves while handling the rope at any other point.”
    “Exactly.” She pulls the sheet over the victim. “But sometimes origin can be more helpful than DNA.”
    Running the cord through my hand, I gaze down at the intricate design of the rope. The perpetrator’s methodology is starting to reveal itself, one link at a time.

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    “ K nocking on doors is the unis’ job, Bonds.” Quinn groans as he drives his fingers through his graying, disheveled hair. It’s almost always in a perpetual state of disarray. The gray suits him, though; it’s distinguished versus dated.
    “Their report says that two neighbors weren’t home when they canvassed the area yesterday,” I say, flipping my notebook closed. I raise my hand to knock again, and hear footsteps from within the apartment. I lower my hand. “Besides, it’s a good idea for us to get our own profile of the vic to build on.”
    “Because Old Lady Time was so helpful there,” he mutters under his breath.
    I cough to disguise my laugh. Misses Lewis—the first neighbor we spoke to—was an irritable older woman who spent the whole twenty minutes telling Quinn all about how lazy the department is, and how in her day, murders like this never would’ve happened. It’s all because of that violent cable TV, she swore.
    “You have something better to do?” I ask Quinn, knowing the answer. We’re both at a standstill in our investigation until we hear back from forensics.
    “Apparently not.” His hazel eyes slit to a glare before the door swings open. “Hello, I’m Detective Quinn with the ACPD,” he says, flashing the man his badge. “Can we have a moment of your time?”
    I smirk, but school my expression as I turn to face the victim’s neighbor filling the doorway. I know Quinn would rather be anywhere else than here with me, working on the victim’s profile.
    “Uh…sure,” the guy says, taking a glance over his shoulder. “Come on in.”
    As he opens the door wide, I follow Quinn into the entryway, which is identical in design to the victim’s apartment. Taking a quick look around, I note it’s the same floor plan.
    “My roommate’s resting in his room. Works the night shift.” The guy, who’s around six-foot tall with light blond hair