CHAPTER ONE
1926 Words
CHAPTER ONE
Dakota Steele's father answered the phone finally.
She glared at her device, staring at the logged calls. Four outgoing... he hadn't answered in nearly two days. But then, this morning...
“H-hello?”
She couldn't help herself. A lump formed in her throat as she listened to her father's rasping voice, stained with cigarettes but refusing to go quiet regardless.
“H-hey, Dad?” she said, her own voice unsteady.
“Dakota?” he said, his voice shaking. “Tastee, is that you?”
She wrinkled her nose. Tastee had been a nickname Coach Little had given her in her fighting days. A combination of her first and last name, suggesting—somewhat dramatically—that she had a taste for blood.
Coming from her father, it didn't land the same way. “Yeah... hey... hey Pop. You got a minute?”
“Ummm... Can... can I call you back in a couple minutes?”
Then, before she could reply, he hung up.
She went still. Staring at her phone... glaring. “Well then,” she muttered slowly. Normally, Dakota prided herself on keeping her emotions in check. She liked being honest with herself—and with others—about her thoughts. But she also liked a sense of decorum. Appearances mattered.
But now... her father hanging up. They hadn't spoken—not really in... ten years? More? She couldn't say exactly. And the moment she reached him, he put her on hold.
Typical.
What more did she have to do? Send him a gift basket?
The previous day, she'd left two voicemails... but of course, the man wasn't interested.
She sighed in frustration, gripping her phone like a lifeline while standing in her apartment next to the small row of purple, Friend’s Princess orchids she had been cultivating near the north-facing window of her new place. Ever since she'd left Rapid City, moving back to Quantico to return to her position with the BAU, the one piece of home she'd managed to maintain were these gorgeous purple flowers.
But now even the orchids weren't lifting her foul mood. Normally, Dakota wasn't one given to emoting. Certainly not in public. Appearances mattered. But in the privacy of her own apartment, it was sometimes difficult not to give voice to her frustrations.
“Call any time, dear,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Would love to chat. In fact, I love you so much.”
Then in a high-pitched voice, she replied. “Oh, thank you Daddy. You're so kind. I love you too. Thank you for not shutting down two decades ago and completely abandoning me.”
“No, no,” she said, putting on a fake, deeper voice. “I would never do that. I lost one daughter already. Why would I want to lose another out of sheer neglect?”
Dakota snipped back one of the drooping orchid flowers, lowering it into a small glass dish where she dried out the petals in the hope of using them as bookmarks, following a craft she'd seen on social media. Dakota hadn't grown up in a family that had cared about things like flowers or bookmarks.
The tattoos she had were testament to her earlier life, during her fighting days. The sleeve tattoo on her left forearm was of a dove being mauled by snake. That one had been the tasteful suggestion of an ex-boyfriend. The cartoon mouse on her other arm been a decision made in a drunken stupor. And the big skull and crossbones, like from a pirate's flag, just inside the wrist, had been a surprise—she still couldn't remember getting it.
Her tattoos were of a bygone area. While fighting, most of the athletes had been covered in the ink. But now, working for the BAU, she often regretted getting them. When out and about, she wore long sleeves, or turtlenecks to cover the tattoos. To hide them.
Appearances always mattered, regardless of what others said. She'd learned this in fighting, and learned this at the FBI. Her sea-gray eyes, and single-lumpy ear from her fighting days often attracted attention of a certain sort. She preferred to wear her hair neat and cut shoulder-length. All of it perfectly uniform, like a longer bowl cut. She was still passably attractive save a faint scar along the underside of her cheek which had never properly healed.
Now, her fingers flicked through this hair as she glanced back at her phone, scowling.
Her information request from the BAU was still pending. And so the only path forward she could think of where the serial killer known as The Watcher was concerned was to wait for Supervising Agent Carter to allow her access to files that the previous supervising agent had locked under suspicious circumstances. The Watcher was a notorious murderer, named for the third eye he painted in blood on his victims' foreheads. A few months ago, Dakota had been given a chance to catch the killer, but she'd made the wrong call.
He'd escaped.
A woman had died.
And now, once again, she was determined to hunt him down.
But she wasn't just requesting information on The Watcher.
No... she'd also asked for information on her sister's case as well. Two cases from her past. One from three months ago, the other from decades ago.
Dakota's eyes narrowed as she thought of her baby sister's cherubic features. She spotted the b****y backpack left on the side of the road. The only piece of evidence left when her sister had vanished nearly two decades ago.
The disappearance of Carol—named after North Carolina—was enough to break their family. Her father had stopped parenting Dakota. He'd turned into a shell of himself.
For twenty years now, his life's work had been to gather information about his daughter's disappearance. He kept it all in a thick red binder while he slept, next to the side of his bed.
Coach Casper Little, Dakota's only remaining friend in Rapid City, had occasionally given updates about her father.
But since then, her old man had moved.
She hadn't even known her childhood house had been demolished.
Feelings of neglect, of frustration, of loneliness swished through her as she glared at her phone, waiting for her old man to return the call. But he didn't... as the time ticked by, there was simply no return call.
She wondered if perhaps she ought to call him again...
But no... No, clearly he didn't want to talk.
She felt a lance of pain. A sharp jab of emotional agony somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. She'd often experienced a strange emptiness when it came to her father.
She'd never blame another person for her own shortcomings... but sometimes she wondered if it might have been easier to quit drinking all those years if not for her old man's attitude towards her.
Still... she'd managed to stay sober for nearly a month now.
As the time stretched on, and the digital clock on her glowing blue screen continued to tick by, there were no further calls.
She held her phone, cradling it, feeling that anxiety, that loneliness, that bitterness in her stomach growing larger... larger... like flames stoked with fuel.
And then...
A text.
Her heart jumped.
But no—not her father.
She frowned. The frown didn't last too long though.
A mixture of emotions now. Equal parts disappointed, furious at her old man, but also... a sudden sense of bashful delight.
Agent Mark Bonet had texted her. They weren't dating. Not really. But... but she knew they found each other interesting. Bonet—a techie at the FBI—had been a division one linebacker. With her own background in competitive sports, they'd hit it off.
The text message was short but sweet.
Coffee this weekend?
They were still in the feeling out stage. But she couldn't hold back a smile now as she texted back. Sure. What time?
She hesitated before sending it, not wanting to appear too eager. But then, after a sufficient wait, she pressed send.
Still no call from her dad.
Part of her wanted to fling her phone across the room. “Damn it...” she muttered beneath her breath. She swallowed, feeling a strange... urge coming back that she was so familiar with.
She inhaled shakily, feeling that rising desire to go find the nearest gas-station or liquor store and pick, off the cheap rack, some of her favorites.
She could practically feel the way it would taste if—
The phone began to ring.
Thank God. She quickly lifted it. “Hello?”
“Agent Steele?” came a clipped voice.
Dakota's heart sunk again. Not her father, but rather Supervising Agent Carter. Dakota could picture the agent with her short-cut, pale hair and dark skin sitting behind a walnut desk beneath far too many security cameras. Dakota would never gossip about colleagues, and she certainly wouldn't accuse Carter of being paranoid to her face.
But the last time she'd been in the woman's office, the walnut desk had been moved in case of sniper fire.
It didn't help things between them that Agent Carter seemed to deeply dislike Dakota.
“Umm, hello, Agent Carter,” Dakota said quickly, trying to manage her emotions again and returning to her usual, concise way of speaking.
“Where are you now?” Carter asked.
“Home, ma'am.”
“Well come into the office now.”
Dakota swallowed. “Is this... about my information request?”
“What request?”
“I—I sent them a couple days ag—”
“Haven't checked my emails from subordinates yet. Information can wait. We have a case. Hurry up—we're wasting time.”
And then Agent Carter hung up.
Dakota puffed air slowly, frowning at her phone. Still no call back from her father. Maybe he was busy changing numbers or blocking her caller-ID. There was no shortage to the irritation she now felt towards her old man.
But on the other hand, though the conversation hadn't been friendly, Dakota could feel a slow sense of relief.
The one thing, the one high, the one buzz that hit the spot even better than a drink...
Was the adrenaline rush of the hunt.
Dakota didn't just chase bad guys for noble reasons.
She did it for the thrill. For the rush.
And by the sound of things, another opportunity had just come center stage.
Carefully checking her pockets for keys and wallet and ID, she hastened towards the door to grab her long-sleeved turtleneck draped over a chair and to pick up her shoulder holster.
As she hurried out the apartment door, she almost forgot her call to her father again.
Almost...
But a small, background part of her subconscious couldn't help but build resentment. Her old man's choices were beyond her control. And while Agent Carter wasn't a friend, Dakota knew the better her job performance, the easier to make information requests.
With or without her father. With or without Carter, Dakota was determined to go back through the case from three months ago... the case she'd failed that had led to the death of a young woman.
But she was also determined to look into her sister's disappearance.
It was only a matter of time.
The door to her apartment slammed shut behind her. The sound of her footsteps, hastening towards the stairs, accompanied the faint jingle of her keys as she slipped them into her pocket.
- Writer
