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"On it." In a split second, his silliness faded, and we tumbled back in to work. Zayan wasn't always ridiculous, and sometimes I appreciated his levity, but today I didn't for some reason.

My mind wandered while I perused the files to thoughts of the previous eyes that landed on those pages. A decade's old cold case, six people with matching mortal wounds, and no suspect in sight. Coffee rings marred the white pages on some of the files, while others bore the burden of many fingers over the years. Notes in pencil, notes in pen, in varied scrawls, littered the edges of some.

"Got it," Zay called out. "It was with Homicide before us—"

"Naturally, but who in Cold Case?"

"The first was Yetzen and Klemp, both retired now. And two years later, Stiles and James." He looked up from his screen. "James is marked as retired, but Stiles works in Sex Crimes."

"Yeah, I know him. Who else?"

"Miller and Moreno. Moreno's in Homicide now, and Miller is marked as retired. A lot of retirees from this unit…"

"Most people go to Cold Cases before retiring. Not much action, a lot of desk work and interviews." I took a swig of my soda then set the bottle down. "The question is, why are we here?"

"I took whatever position was open for a promotion. You?"

"Not sure." I flicked my fingers in his direction. "Was Moreno last on this case?"

"Yeah. Seems like it just sat around since then. Though there have been a few inquiries in the system. Some private investigators or something." His fingers tapped away on the keyboard.

"Not surprised. Probably hired by the family. Protein Heather's family, I'm sure, must've done something. It's only been a short while for her," I said while moving her file to the top. "What agency?"

"Miller and Miller Investigations." His brow furrowed. "Think it's the same Miller?"

"Probably. But Miller's a common name." I shrugged then hopped up. "Gonna go harass Stiles and Moreno. You coming?"

"Double team or tag team?" He stood up with me and nodded.

"How about tag team? You hound Moreno first and then we'll swap. Same with Stiles."

"Deal."

That's how it usually went when it came to the old cases. Zayan and I bouncing around the precinct hounding our coworkers who turned the cases cold, or galivanting off into the community to talk to our retired comrades about their work. Most of the time, the latter enjoyed the visits, especially if they were of the older generation. Sometimes it didn't go over so well, though.

I found Stiles in the breakroom, leaning against the counter while sipping a steaming cup of coffee. His gaze, downcast and distracted, told me his thoughts were a million miles away. I glanced at the vending machine with my favorite samplings of energy drinks and pondered imbibing in the spirits of hypomania.

"Nice hair," mumbled Stiles, his day-dreamy expression unchanged.

"Thanks." I ran my fingers through the long strands of the left side and exposed the shaved right side, now painted in a muted burgundy. "Jordan's work."

"Always is. Why are you hanging around staring at me?" He finally looked at me before sipping his coffee.

"Waiting for the opportunity to bug you."

"Task completed." He smirked before setting down his mug. His eyes flickered toward my right hand then met my eyes again.

I wiggled my fingers at him. "Looking for residue?"

"I mean…every time I pulled you off the streets for tagging, you wore the evidence on your hands. Like that Shakespearean murderer. What's her name?"

A laugh escaped me at his insinuation. "Lady Macbeth."

"Yup." He shook his head and nodded in my direction. "The nails though. Dead giveaway."

"Yeah." A half-smile tugged the corner of my mouth as I showed him the blueish-purple still caked around my fingernails. "Still are."

"Literal dirty grunt." He scoffed and folded his arms over his chest. "What do you want, Jag?"