Ivy woke up to the sound of screaming.

Only after reaching for the gun she kept in her bedside drawer did she realize that the screams were remnants of a dream. Fragments of trauma that had haunted her sleep since she was a little girl.

She looked over at her alarm clock, seeing that it was only half past four in the morning. There was no use in trying to fall back asleep. Her nightmares would make sure of that. If she was already awake, she might as well stay that way. There were only twenty four hours in a day, and Ivy Auden liked to milk them for all they were worth.

She turned off her alarm, making sure it wouldn't go off when it hit the time she'd set it for the night before. She wasn't sure why she even bothered setting it anymore. She hadn't woken up with the alarm since college. She supposed it was a force of habit.

Slipping the gun back into its hiding spot, she got out of bed and stretched, wondering if other women her age hid guns in their bedside tables. Probably not, but then again, not everyone her age worked for the FBI.

She picked out some clothes, a variation of the same pantsuit she wore every day. Gray trousers, a matching blazer, and a white button-down blouse. She got in the shower, where she let the steaming water permeate her skin until it turned a bright red. She lathered her legs with shaving cream as flashes of her dream radiated through her brain.

A woman laid dead on a sofa, blood circling her head like a halo. Two bullet wounds, one in her chest, one in her temple. The first had missed all major organs. If not for the second, she would have lived.

The woman's own gun had been used in the attack. The security cameras were down that day. There was no clear motive. Nothing but straws for the helpless detectives to grasp at.

So. Much. Blood.

For a second, the blood materialized in Ivy's real world, mixing with the soap and water in her shower drain. Then, she realized it wasn't a figment of her imagination.

"Shit!"

She set down her razor, inspecting the cut on her leg. The razor's blades had slipped over her skin in such a way that they'd sliced the back of her knee. She flushed it with water before hopping out of the shower, pressing a tissue to it as she stumbled around her bathroom for a bandage. Locating one, she placed it over the cut, letting out a string of curses as it immediately fell off, not sticking to her damp skin. She tried again, drying the area before applying a second bandage.

She dressed and smoothed some mousse into her dark locks, before wrapping her hair in a towel. Ivy considered hair dryers to be a waste of money, especially when they did something nature could do in a little more time.

She went back to her room, strapping her work pistol to her belt. She clipped her ID badge to her lapel, then went to the kitchen where she turned on her coffee maker and popped a bagel into the toaster. She scrolled through her phone, idly scanning the numerous emails that were already in her inbox.

After eating her breakfast, she packed a lunch and grabbed her keys. She wasn't supposed to be in the office until eight, but the extra time would give her some much-valued silence that her coworkers never afforded her.

Ivy's therapist told her she had an unhealthy attachment to her job. Ivy disagreed.

She loved her job. It was what kept her going day to day. She didn't have a significant other, or kids, or pets. She wasn't especially good at keeping friends, and her parents and siblings were out in California.

Ivy left her apartment and headed down to the garage, where her work-assigned car was parked next to her personal vehicle, which rarely left the building. She didn't leave her apartment much for non-work things, and if she did, she often utilized public transportation. She really wasn't even sure why she still had her personal car.

She listened to NPR on the drive to the office, which, in addition to her coffee and bagel, was another treasured part of her morning routine. It allowed her to tune out her thoughts and just take in information as she focused on the drive. Plus, it was important to be an informed citizen, and public radio had its merits.

Given it was only quarter past five in the morning, the roads weren't too busy yet. There was still enough traffic, as the D.C. area always provided, but nothing compared to what it would be in a few hours. Ivy wished she could live closer to the office, but there wasn't much housing close to Quantico. Besides, she enjoyed being in close proximity to the Smithsonian.

By the time Ivy got to work, the sun was just starting to peak over the eastern horizon. The parking lot was mostly empty, except for the few individuals that worked the night shift, like the custodians and security guards.

She tapped her ID badge at the door, then strolled down the long hallway that took her to the elevator. She rode up to the sixth floor, which housed the cold case unit, and specifically, Ivy's homicide team.

There were only three of them on the homicide team in Ivy's homicide team, and she liked it that way. Her boss, Geoff Murray, had been working cold cases since he'd graduated from the academy, just like Ivy. The other agent, a woman named Anna de Silva, had been hired a few months after Ivy.

Agents Murray and de Silva were the closest things Ivy had to friends, beyond her therapist, Dr. Taft, and her siblings. Even though they didn't talk outside of work, it was still nice to see them every day in the office.

Ivy stopped by the kitchenette on the way to her office, depositing her lunch in the fridge. She turned on the coffee maker, knowing both Geoff and Anna would need it as soon as they got in. She then sat down at her desk, sorting through emails. There was an invitation for a baby shower for a woman Ivy had only met twice, a message from Human Resources about her 401K, and other useless correspondences that didn't get her any further in the cases she was working on.

She went through her phone messages next.

"Hi Agent Auden, this is Pamela Scott from the Washington Post, calling to see if there would be a time we could chat regarding —"

Delete.

Ivy knew what the journalist was calling about — she had already talked to the Post three times regarding that case, and each time she'd said that there wasn't any additional information.

"Hey Ives, it's Owen. Figured you were at work anyways, so that's why I'm calling here. Haven't heard from you in a while, so ... give me a call, would you?"

Delete.

Ivy groaned. She'd told her family not to call her on her work number, and they did anyway. She'd have to send her brother a text later, if she remembered.

"Hello, I'm not sure whose number I have here, but my name is Ryan Bates, and I found this business card in my father's collection of junk mail. He just passed away, and we're going through his things. I'm just a bit concerned, I guess, about why he had this number, and why the FBI wanted to talk to him. If you could give me a call back, I'd really appreciate it."

Bates.

Why did that last name sound familiar?

She searched the carefully-organized set of folders on her desk, scanning for names of victims and suspects. Finally, she located it on the "suspects" pile. Edward Bates.

Ivy had been trying to get a DNA sample from Edward Bates for months, and each time she tried to contact him, he fought back voraciously, calling her every name in the book. If the man was innocent, and she was fairly certain he was, she didn't see why providing a DNA sample would be such a big deal. He was a suspect in a homicide from the 70s out of central Virginia, but he had a pretty decent alibi. She needed the DNA sample to confirm he wasn't a valid suspect, so she could cross him off of her list. But, based on his son's message, Edward Bates was dead.

If he was dead, maybe her son could get the sample for her.

Ivy glanced at the time, wondering if it was too early to return Ryan Bates' call. It probably was. She wrote a note to herself to call him later, and got back to work listening to the rest of the messages.

An hour went by, and before she knew it, Ivy heard voices in the hallway. Geoff poked his head inside Ivy's office, saying good morning.

"Morning, Auden."

"Good Morning, Agent Murray," she replied. "Oh, I have an update on Edward Bates," Ivy called out, her boss's head reappearing in her doorway.

"And what's that?" Geoff asked.

"He's dead."

Geoff let out a loud laugh, having been caught by surprise by Ivy's statement. "Sorry, that's not funny."

"His son called, he found my business card. I figured maybe there was something in his house with his DNA on it, or maybe the son would give DNA. If there's no match, then we can eliminate him from our suspect pool," Ivy said.

"Good idea," Geoff said, smoothing down his tie. "Actually, Ivy, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. I'm reassigning the case to da Silva."

Ivy's face fell. "What?"

She'd been doing so well on the case — why the sudden urge to reassign it?

"I'll be reassigning all your work, actually. Something's come up," Geoff said, taking a seat in front of Ivy's desk. "In New York."

"In New York?" Ivy repeated.

Geoff nodded. "Some new information has come up in a case from the 90s. As the FBI was assisting the NYPD then, we're going to assist them now."

"So I'm going to New York?" Ivy asked.

"Yeah. We can't afford to send two agents, and you do the work of two people anyway," Geoff said, chuckling. "So I figured you were the best option."

The corners of Ivy's mouth turned up in a semblance of a smile. "Wow, okay. When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow," Geoff said. "We've got your ticket, and the New York office already has you set up with a place to live."

"Will I be working from the New York office?" Ivy asked.

Geoff shook his head. "No. You'll still be reporting to me, from the NYPD. I think it's the ninety-ninth precinct, out in Brooklyn. You'll be working with their detectives on the case."

Ivy's eyebrows went up. She wondered how eager the NYPD detectives would be to work with an FBI agent on this case. There was often some hostility between the federal agents and the local officers any time there was a collaborative case. The local officers didn't like the government agents hoarding in on their cases. For the most part, Ivy understood. Some of her colleagues were a bit much to handle. She considered herself, on the other hand, to be minimally invasive, and the work she contributed to be impactful and critical.

"Anyway, as soon as da Silva gets in, I'd like you to spend the day going over your cases with her. We'll be splitting up what you have so far until you get back," Geoff said.

Ivy nodded. "Will do."

Geoff stood to leave, but before he did, he turned back to Ivy, a smile on his face. "I wonder if I shouldn't have assigned you to this case. They're going to want to keep you in New York," he joked.

A smile twitched on Ivy's face. "I doubt that, sir."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ author's note ✫・゜・。.

i'm very excited for this story. i have the plot mostly fleshed out, and i have the main crime that ivy will be solving planned out as well. i'm super excited! i grew up watching police procedurals and enjoy true crime documentaries/podcasts now, so i'm hoping that experience will help me in writing this. also, i'm a huge b99 fan and am psyched to finally be writing a b99 fic.

are any of you fans of true crime? if so, what type of true crime media do you consume? what books/shows/podcasts give you your fill?

thanks for reading!

xx,

madi