"I don't like this."

Luc smiled. "You've said as much."

"What's to stop them from locking you up? Again?"

"Evidence."

Jordy snorted. "Didn't stop them last time."

Luc sighed, turning his face to the window. "You looked into them, Jordy," he reminded the other man quietly. "They have a good record."

Jordy blew out his breath in frustration. "I know you're trying to do the right thing," he said, "but this is not your problem."

Luc took a moment to listen to the sounds around him. The other cars around them. The radio playing inside with them. And Jordy's strained breathing. He was genuinely frightened for him.

"I need to do something," he explained again. "I can't keep seeing these...things. It's affecting my work."

Jordy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, cutting a look at the man beside him. Luc wore dark glasses and rested his hands on his lap. He was relaxed, not fidgeting at all, and what Jordy could see of his face was smooth and calm.

"It didn't help last time. You should at least have a lawyer with you," he suggested -again- knowing the answer already.

"I have nothing to hide," Luc told him, turning toward the window again as Jordy pulled over. "And no reason to expect the same result. It was a long time ago."

"Not long enough," Jordy muttered, earning a smile. "Just call me if they start acting squirrely in there, okay?"

Luc nodded once. "How many steps?"

"Straight shot from here," Jordy told him. "I'll find a spot and wait."

Luc nodded and opened his door. The afternoon was cool, and he took a shallow breath through his mouth. The kaleidoscope of smells and noises hit him all at once and he clutched the top of the door for a moment to center himself.

I'm safe...I am in control...I am safe...

"This is why you should have called," Jordy reminded him quietly. "Do you need me to go with you?"

Luc shook his head. "Don't get a ticket."

He let go of the door and pushed it shut behind him.

***

"Excuse me."

"Yes?"

Luc arched a brow at the terse response.

"I'm looking for Detective Hunter Carlisle and Detective Kai Fitzgerald."

"Got an appointment?"

"I didn't know I needed one." Luc's carefully controlled anxiety tried to rear its head. He cleared his throat.

How long did it take for Xanax to kick in, again?

Too long, apparently. Even with a vodka chaser.

Being outside of his comfort zone, in a place he couldn't bring to order, was always unnerving. He focused on the trickle of sweat running down his back.

"I would like to speak to the Detectives about the case they are working on."

"Which one?"

"The killer that takes his victim's eyes," Luc said quietly. "I believe I have information that might prove helpful."

"Call the tip line."

Luc tapped his gloved fingers on the folded cane in his hands.

Keep breathing. ...Slow and deep...I am safe...Jordy is right outside...I'm safe...

"I did. Weeks ago. I don't think they got the message."

The clerk sighed and stopped typing. Luc knew the exact moment the man saw his face. His breath stopped, then started again. "Follow the signs to the elevators, then go up to the third floor."

Luc nodded and the clerk started typing again.

"Is there anything else?"

"Yes," Luc answered slowly, maintaining an outward calm despite the tremors underneath his skin. "Could you spare someone to show me the way?"

The clerk stopped typing again. "Just follow the signs," he snapped. "Unless you're blind, they're pretty self-explanatory."

"Well," Luc held up the cane. "Funny story."

***

Hunter frowned at the report and flipped through it again. No new information, barely anything forensically speaking.

The scene was disgustingly clean.

Again.

This killer was too damn good.

He sat back, glancing at the empty desk across from him. Fitz was out on bereavement, but he would bet his favorite boots his partner would be back there within a day after his mother's funeral.

Hours, maybe.

Fitz didn't do leave well. The man hadn't taken an unscheduled day off since they made Detective five years ago. And he often came in on those days off, anyway.

He fired off a quick email to update Fitz and looked up at the knock on his door.

"Come in."

"Detective," Sergeant...Willis? Hunter thought... stuck his head in the door. "There's someone here to see you. Mister... uh....Lucien St. John."

Hunter smirked. "Funny," he grunted. "Now what do you really need?"

"No, uh," the sergeant stepped in and stood aside while another man moved through the door.

"This is Mr. Lucien St. John. He says he's got info on the eyeball plucker. Mr. St. John, Detective Hunter Carlisle."

Hunter's smirk became a smile, excitement sparking in his belly. Holy shit...

"Oh, that Lucien St. John. Mr. St, John," he said, hoping he didn't sound too breathless. "Please come in. The chair is two steps to your nine then a half-step to your one."

"Thank you, Detective," Lucien spoke with a light Italian accent as he navigated to the chair, and carefully sat, collapsing his sleek silver cane, and folding it into his lap. He placed hands encased in thin black gloves on top of it.

"Would you like anything to drink?"

"Sparkling water with lime, please."

"Could you bring that for Mr. St. John, Sergeant?" Hunter drew a slow, quiet breath as the sergeant slipped out, leaving the door cracked behind him.

The sergeant did not know the man he escorted was a contemporary local artist whose work was meant to be experienced by people that shared his visual impairment. Most of the colors made little sense visually, but it wasn't created to be looked at.

Lucien's sculptures and paintings were meant to be appreciated by touch, sound, and smell. Hunter owned three pieces, personally, and his family commissioned two for his sister, Hannah, and another for Carlisle International Conglomerate national headquarters downtown.

The man himself peered through dark glasses and arched a brow. They were lighter on the bottom half of the lenses and wrapped around the sides to cover his peripheral as well. "So, you know my name."

Hunter allowed himself to stare fan-boy style for a moment. He saw grainy pictures and found blurred videos of the man before him, but none of it did him justice.

Lucien was long and wiry. Images failed to capture the sparkle of intelligence in his bright green tiger-striped eyes. Video didn't begin to convey the slope of the jawline, the high cheeks, and the full lips. And there was simply no duplicating the softly curling platinum blonde hair, falling below his shoulders, covering his ears, and dusting his forehead above his eyebrows.

He was taller than Hunter thought, carrying the soft ivory coat he wore over a dark gray turtleneck sweater on broad shoulders, and a wide, leanly muscled chest. Charcoal gray tweed dress pants cinched his narrow waist with a silver belt, molding his thighs and calves all the way down to the black suede ankle boots.

"I'm familiar with your work. It is awe-inspiring."

Lucien smiled, and Hunter blinked. The man was simply beautiful, a hidden dimple in his right cheek turning his already arresting features into a living masterpiece. Across his forehead and down his cheeks burn scars marred his otherwise unblemished skin. Studying the man closer he spotted more scars tapering down his throat into his collar.

Hunter wondered how and when he got those. It must have been painful.

"May I presume you are that Hunter Carlisle?"

Hunter chuckled. His teen years were spent touring with his twin sister Hannah, lifelong friends Kai Fitzgerald, and triplets Dane, Dana, and Yurika, as teen pop band Carlisle. None of them stayed in show businesses, he and Fitz moved on to law enforcement. Hannah designed clothes tailored to help visually impaired people dress without assistance.

Yurika was a geologist, Dana designed jewelry, and Dane was a psychologist that often worked with the police.

"That's me," Hunter admitted, "and my sister Hannah is the reason why I know your work."

Lucien gave him a gracious nod. "I hope it brings her as much pleasure as I had creating it."

"It does," Hunter assured him. "But this is not why you're here."

Hunter nodded to the Sergeant when he returned with a cup and a bottle of sparkling water. He added a plastic bowl with a lime wedge.

After he left, Lucien confidently reached for the water and opened it. Hunter watched him carefully position the cup with the neck of the bottle against it with the tip of his index finger inside the cup. He poured; head tilted. Once the water touched his finger he stopped, and put the top back on it, dropping the lime inside the cup.

"You will want to record what I have to say, Detective. You may want to go over it again in the future."

Hunter opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out his digital recorder. He plugged it into his computer and tapped to cue it up.

"Ready when you are."

Lucien closed his eyes.

"Your killer sees the eyes as his due," he said. "He takes them to capture his victim's vision of their world. He feels wronged by those around him, disregarded, and they do not see him. He needs their eyes, so he feels seen, feels like he matters.

"He stalks them for weeks, watching for them to be complacent and easy to take. He waits for them to see him, and when they do not, he takes them and makes them see him.

"He uses a soft, shiny cloth, oily with some chemical that makes them sleep. He uses a strong, rough rope to bind them, a black ball gag to silence them, and wax in their ears to deafen them, but he allows them their eyes.

"He chains and cuts them, drugs, and beats them, all to be seen. Even when they break and say they see him, he does not believe them. He does not feel seen."

"He takes them in alleys, or narrow streets," he went on. "He blocks them in with his car and turns a bright light on them. He does not make any attempt to charm them, he just takes them.

"He is merciless," Lucien whispered. "Their pain pleases him; their fear feeds him.

"He will keep going until he finds what he's looking for."

Lucien drew a slow breath and blinked his eyes open.

"You will find one of his victims in a small car. It is dull and the lights are broken. It is in a yard with other broken cars. You'll find another under a bridge with dark lights and heavy growth. There is another inside a small house at the end of a bumpy road, surrounded by tree stumps and stones."

Hunter laced his fingers together and rested them on the desk beside the recorder.

"Mr. St. John," he said quietly. "I have to ask you how you know these things."

Lucien nodded, pressing his lips together. "I have seen him take them, steal their eyes, and kill them."

Hunter chose his words carefully. "You were there when he did these things?"

Lucien shook his head once, firmly. "Never."

"Then," Hunter said quietly, "how can you have seen him?"

Lucien stared at him, his eyes darkening. "I dreamt it. All of it."