8 hours earlier...

"Okay, how 'bout this one..."

Veronica rolled her eyes so sharply that she could have seen the contents of her skull. Luckily she hadn't or else she would have ran the red light on the corner of 5th Avenue. She placed the blinker on to turn left.

Miguel was doing it again. That thing where he would stop at nothing to get a reaction out of her. Everyday it was something new. Yesterday, he insisted on driving the cruiser - typically Veronica's function - and tailed a group of bike-riding school boys playing hooky until one of them broke down crying and volunteered for arrest. Even though her placid expression did not break, she had to admit that it was fairly comical.

Veronica turned from 5th onto Main. It was usually the busiest street in the city, with all of its swanky boutiques, the French and Italian and anything-but-American restaurants, and the Starbucks on the corner. However, on this day, far out of the realm of normalcy, it was almost completely devoid of life, save for a flock of birds perched on the telephone wires and Kathy.

Kathy, who owned the "high-end" fragrance center, Scentimental, that was nestled between the Starbucks and Ceila's Closet, flipped over the sign on her plate glass door. The pink, floral sign that usually read "Open" in its convolutedly fancy lettering was now "Closed" in a harshly bolded font. Kathy looked desperately tired, but managed a wave at the passing cruiser.

Veronica spared a glance overhead. The sky was just beginning to gray. Miguel's window was rolled down; the breeze that slithered in was chilly with the premonition of rain. She would have told him to roll the window up, but she remembered how he was always hot. Even in the dead of winter, he managed to sweat.

"I was thirteen at the time," Miguel said, turned towards Veronica with a wild excitement in his dark eyes, "the prime age for a growing man to explore his sexuality-"

Veronica cringed, lifting her hand off of the wheel in a motion for him to stop. "Just stop. Right there."

"Oh, come on. I haven't even gotten to the goods yet," he said, flashing her that winning smile.

If it were anyone else, she would have threatened to leave them on the side of the road. But it was Miguel, and whether she liked it or not, she had a soft spot for the sturdy, bronze Mexican with a crew-cut and the looks of a military man to match. When she first got partnered with him three years ago, after the ironic incident of both of their former partner's retiring, she thought he would be the strict, authoritarian type... Until he opened his mouth. The first thing he ever said to her was, "Are you a parking ticket?" Then he flashed that sly smile of his, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and whispered, "'Cause you've got fine written all over you."

"You're thirty-four years old, Mig." Veronica turned off of Main, onto a residential street with houses crowded closely together as if they were afraid of the chill in the breeze. "Grow up already."

"If you wanna see some growth," he said, reaching his left hand over the center console, landing it on Veronica's thigh, "then I got somethin' for ya'."

She smiled for a moment, her detached demeanor dissolving into absolute nothingness of what it previously was. Miguel was the only person that could do that to her. Make her forget all of the genuine tragedies she was forced to bear witness to throughout her career of protecting and serving. All of the nights they had spent together over the last three years, illuminated by candle-lit dinners, satin bed sheets, and wine that was far beyond Miguel's pay grade, played and replayed in loops in her memory. It was like all of those romance novels, save for the part where they fall in love. They did almost all of the things that real couples did, except that their relationship was uncomplicated by the investment of adoration. It was a clockwork affair determined by when they were on duty, and when the other engagements of their lives, like Dax, swelled in importance. Their affection for each other could be turned on and off, the lines only blurred on the rare occasion, like now, when Miguel forgot where they were and who they were in the moment. It was then that they were police, and they were on duty, and, by the glint of the sun that peeked from around a bundle of clouds to reflect on Miguel's ring, he was a married man. Veronica and Miguel were not in love.

The glint was distracting her from the road. She pulled her leg away.

Miguel looked wounded. "What's wrong?"

She could not disclose to him that it was his wedding ring. After all, with a three-year affair between them, she would sound like a hypocrite saying that she had a problem with his marriage now. If anything, she should have spoken up in the beginning. But he was attractive enough, and charming, and she needed something to steal her mind away from everything else. That's not to say that she felt no remorse for the woman that sat at home waiting for his shift to end with a clean house and a hot dinner prepared for him. But after spending nearly half of her life in positions where her feelings were not the priority, and having to hide them away in some compartment of her subconscious, she often forgot where she put them. She forced herself to believe that Miguel was the problem, and that she was not an accomplice. She knew that belief could not be any further from the truth. So she lied. She lied through her teeth.

"The dash-cam," she whispered, nodding her head toward the camera on the dashboard. "Do you want everyone in the department to know about us? We'd never hear the end of it, and we'd probably lose our jobs."

A crease appeared between Miguel's brows. He retracted his hand. "Ya' know, for being in SWAT for years, you ain't a convincing liar."

She actually was a good liar. One of the best. It was Miguel that was not. He suffered from the same egocentrism that Dax did. He was also no better at reading people. He just got lucky.

"Says the world's worst poker player," she scoffed.

His grin was palpable. "What the hell does that mean? I'm a great poker player!"

"You think you are, but your face tells a different story."

"Now what's that supposed to mean?!"

"Your poker face sucks," she said. "Just by glancing at you for half a second, I know when to fold and when to raise."

"Bullshit," he exclaimed.

She shook her head. "The next time we round up the boys for poker night, I'll stick a mirror in front of you so you can see for yourself."

Miguel burst into loud laughter. It reverberated throughout the car, panging hard against Veronica's eardrums. She cringed.

"Alright, alright, ya' got me," he chuckled.

Veronica cruised down Robin Street, one of the better looking residential areas on that side of town - considering that some of the surrounding neighborhoods were overrun with tagging, burglaries, and drug trafficking that threatened the commerce of Main Street, to say that this neighborhood was "better" was not that much of an improvement. Robin Street was just as quiet as Main was. It almost looked abandoned. There was a blue bicycle left on its side in a small house's front yard, and a ball, reminiscent of a tumble weed, rolling across a drive way. The sky seemed grayer over the surrounding neighborhoods, too, but maybe that was just Veronica. Everything seemed gray some days. Dax diagnosed her with depression, per his taking of a Psychology class - Veronica had enrolled him in weight lifting, but retracted and let him choose his own Junior-year schedule. She wished she had made him take weight lifting.

Miguel chewed noisily on a strip of gum. He made a series of bubbles before he asked, "So, how's my boy doin'?"

"Dax is okay," Veronica grunted.

She did not mean for it to sound so forced, but by the time she made to correct her tone, Miguel was already staring expectantly.

She sighed. "His grades are good, but I think he owes that to choosing the easiest classes he could without making his counselor too suspicious. But he's been acting out a lot lately. He's been on the soccer team since third grade, but he quit this year. Then, last week, he skipped a couple of classes, and the football coach found him and a bunch of his friends lighting smoke bombs in the gym. Luckily, the coach got there before the fire alarms went off. If he hadn't, Dax would have gotten more than just a couple of detentions... And then, the cherry to top it all off, his attitude towards me has been damn-near unbearable. I've had to resort to threatening him."

Miguel inhaled sharply and shook his head. "Ain't fun raisin' a teenager, is it?"

"That's the understatement of the year," she muttered.

"I'm glad I don't have kids," he said from around another bubble. Then he popped it and turned to Veronica. "Ya' know, it's probably 'cause of Victoria. It's hard for a kid to lose a parent, ya' know. Especially their only parent. Ya' think his recent behavior might have sumthin' to do with the upcoming anniversary of his mom's death?"

"Maybe."

Veronica never liked talking about her sister much. Not even when she was alive. Being raised by a single father, Eddy, who was as good a father as could be expect from a man that often worked 16-hour days split between two jobs to feed three people and keep a roof over their heads - despite its leaks when the weather was exceptionally bad, - and watching all of the hell Victoria put him through hardened the part of Veronica where she stored the care for her sister. It only became worse when Veronica, seventeen at the time and half-way out the door to the police academy, listened in on a conversation between a then fourteen-year-old Victoria telling their father that she was pregnant by a man should could not remember. Nine-months later Dax arrived, and Veronica was gone from everything that remotely reminded her of the degenerate sister she left behind in Ohio. Not too long after that, Veronica was in Los Angeles. She could not fathom even entertaining the notion of ever going back until she could no longer handle being on the SWAT team. Then she got the call from Eddy that Victoria was sick. It was lung cancer from all of those years she spent smoking cigarettes and having a little too much fun in the backseats of boys' cars. Veronica officially quit the team, came back to Ohio to help her father cover the medical bills, and rejoined the police force. Victoria passed a month later, and Veronica was "awarded" custody of Dax. She was thrown into the realm of instant motherhood. She would be lying if she ever discredited that it was the biggest shock of her life. After all, Eddy had been taking care of Dax for most of his life, and Veronica had no idea how to care for a child. Especially one that was nearly a teenager, and had only ever seen Veronica on a handful of occasions since his birth. But everything worked out the way it should have, Veronica supposed, because a year later Eddy was involved in a car accident that took both of his legs. Until his death the previous summer, he had to live in a nursing home. Either way, Veronica would have been stuck with the temperamental teen with all of the tact of a bull in a china shop.

"Well, ya' know, it's been four years since then, so he should be over it by now," Miguel added. "Maybe his bad attitude is because of Eddy's death."

"No." Veronica swerved, nearly hitting the carcass of a squirrel in the middle of the road. "Eddy's health had been bad for two years since the accident, so Dax had been preparing for it for a long time. Victoria was more sudden. From the time she was diagnosed to the time she died was only five weeks. I don't think Dax has been able to get over how sudden it was. That was also the first loss he ever had to deal with. He never had any pets that died, and he never knew his father, so he didn't really know what death and loss were until his mom passed. Her death will always be significant to him."

"That's depressing, man," Miguel sighed. "I can't imagine how hard it is for you white people at funerals. Us Mexicans just throw a party. We celebrate life and shit, ya' know. You people wear all black and cry. We do the macarena and drink Tequila."

Veronica's stoicism cracked into a smile. Miguel really was a fool.

As she sat at the stop sign at the end of Robin, a call from dispatch came through the radio.

"Respond to 2-3-2-7 Redwood Avenue for a possible B and E in progress. Three suspicious persons busted out a window to get into the home. Stand by," crackled the female dispatcher's voice.

"That's only twenty blocks away, give or take," Veronica said.

In a heartbeat the siren of cruiser one-on-nine was blaring and Veronica was speeding eastbound.

"One-zero-nine responding," Miguel enunciated through the mic. "Repeat, 2-3-7?"

"Negative. It's 2-3-2-7," the dispatcher said. "All three suspicious persons are still in the house. Race unknown. Two males, one female. One may be white."

"How long have they been in the house?" Miguel asked, bracing his seat as Veronica slid around a busy street corner.

"Unknown. Call came from a young female hiding in a coat closet. It's her, her parents, and two younger sisters in the home. She described the suspicious persons as 'vicious.' Stand by."

"Vicious?" Veronica said. "A dog is vicious. A raccoon is vicious. I've never heard 'vicious' used to describe a person."

"Can she get out of the house?" Miguel asked.

"Negative," said the dispatcher. "One of the suspicious persons is attempting to break through the closet door."

"Step on it," Miguel hollered.

Veronica grimaced. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"Shots fired," said dispatch. "Possible 4-1-9."

Miguel's eyes widened. "Wait a minute, that's a..."

"Dead human body," Veronica finished. She felt a surge of cold twist through her spine like a wire.

"Requesting back-up," Miguel practically shouted into the mic.

As he pulled his Glock 22 from its holster, he said, "A buddy of mine back at the department, Officer Cortez, said he heard of several 4-1-9's reported over the last couple of weeks."

That didn't help Veronica's nerves. The last time she saw a dead person was the week before she resigned from the SWAT team. She knew being a cop had its risks, but she hoped with every fiber of her being that she would never have to see another dead body. Especially one that belonged to a child.

"Received. One-oh-two responding to request for back-up on 2-3-2-7 Redwood. Coming up Main right now," said a male officer through the radio.

Seconds later Veronica slammed on her brakes outside of 2327, the small, off-white home of a single family. The houses were tightly packed on either side of the street. They looked cold, huddled closely together as if to generate some heat between them. They all shared the same layout, exact in even the most minute details, except for 2327. Its differences were alarming. The wide living room window had been reduced to jagged shards hazardously dangling here and there from the frame. A blue curtain defiled in dark, blood-like spots was snagged on a shard, billowing in the morning breeze. There was blood splatter around the window, running down the siding as well. Veronica unholstered her gun.

"We waitin' for back-up, or goin' in? It's your call, Officer Tyler," Miguel said, clutching his gun between both of his hands.

"Shots were fired, and if someone's already dead, then we better get in there before someone else dies."

Veronica took the lead, creeping up the porch steps almost soundlessly. Miguel wasn't too far behind.

Veronica held her ear up to the door. Everything was eerily silent on the other side.

She pressed against the knob and the door popped open slightly.

The living room was in a state of absolute hell. The old, tattered couch was flipped on its front. The tall bookshelf was leaning dangerously against the wall; if one was to breathe to heavily near it, it looked like it would coming crashing down in a heap of books, records, and family photos on the scarred hardwood. Glass from the front window was spread across the floor like a collage of prisms that captured the yellow light of the shadeless lamp.

Veronica quickly entered the doorway, her Glock held in front by bent elbows and a finger held steady over the trigger. She pointed the barrel of the gun left then right, and once she felt secure that the living room was devoid of a threat, she signaled for Miguel to enter.

"It's clear," she whispered. "You take the kitchen, I'll take the hallway."

He nodded. Then he disappeared through the archway on the other side of the living room, across a series of pastel green tiles.

Veronica crept to the left, down a hallway that looked far too long considering how small the house seemed from outside. It reminded her of an optical illusion. The first door on the right was the coat closet. The handle was ripped out of its position. Veronica kicked the door open, her gun held firmly before her, ready to empty the mag if something were to lunge her way. But it was vacant, save for a series of wire hangers that clanged noisily together like rusted wind chimes. There was no young girl inside clutching the landline that was absent from the receiver beside the couch. Instead, there was a wide trail of crimson gore that lead from the closet to the door at the end of the hall. There were small hand prints in the blood. They looked as if they belonged to a child. Veronica hoped it was an adult with unbelievably small hands.

Veronica braced herself outside of the next door. It was left ajar, a slight creak in its hinges. She swung it open, her Glock leading the way. It must have been the oldest daughter's room; it was dripping with pre-teen angst. Posters of bands whose "singers" screamed, a noteworthy collection of CDs, and innumerable accents of black haphazardly strewn around the originally white bedroom reminded her of how Dax was immediately following his mother's death. The only difference was that this room belonged to a girl, as told by the bright pink dollhouse she tried to conceal behind a bean bag chair in the corner. Despite the evident signs of a struggle, like the scuffs on the floor and mattress halfway off of the box-spring, there was no one inside. Veronica closed the door.

The next bedroom was in much the same fashion, what with its upturned bed and the disheveled rugs, minus the angst and that this room was shared, for there were two beds. It belonged to the younger daughters, but like the last bedroom and the closet before that, there was no one inside. Veronica closed that door behind her as well.

Miguel appeared at the end of the hall, beside the coat closet. "All clear," he whispered.

Veronica crept towards the next room.

Miguel made to follow her, before he slipped, narrowly losing his footing, in the trail of crimson that began at the closet. He caught himself with a loud bang on the closet door.

"Holy shit," he muttered, lifting his shoe and shaking droplets from it. "This looks like a fuckin' massacre."

"Focus," Veronica snapped, "and clear the next room."

He nodded.

Veronica knew that the next bedroom was the master bedroom. The room of the girls' parents. It was the final bedroom before the door at the end of the hall. She figured that she would save the last one for as long as she could. Miguel must have felt the same way, for he spent twice the required time clearing the master bedroom. He came out minutes later, closing the door behind him.

"Clear. You take the lead on the last one."

"Of course," she scoffed, slinking passed him with a shove thrown his way. He caught it on his shoulder and winced.

The consistency of the crimson before the door at the end of the hall was thick. Miguel made sure to take wide strides around, or else he would end up in it.

This door was left ajar as well. Veronica slowly pushed it open on its wailing hinges, her gun held at the ready. Miguel stood tensely beside her.

Behind the door was a staircase that lead down into a room of infinite darkness. Veronica had feared it would be the basement, and it was. She palmed along the wall for a light switch, and felt the small nub of a switch. Slowly, almost regretfully, she flipped it up. A light bulb hanging from a naked wire at the bottom of the stairs sparked to life after a moment of half-dead flickers. The same blood coated the stairs in their descent.

"Police!" Miguel shouted deeply. "If there's anyone down there, make yourself known!"

There was a pause of silence. No response.

"You've got five seconds to respond," he added.

Veronica counted to five in her head. She even gave them the liberty of counting to ten.

Still, no response.

"We're coming down!" she shouted.

They began to dash down the steps, but only made it halfway. The partners stopped dead in their tracks on the stairs.

From their position, the entire basement was in view. It was an open plane of gray concrete, undisturbed by the presence of anything else but the washer, dryer and a hamper full of dirty laundry that sat in the corner...

And the row of five gory, lifeless bodies on the opposite side of the basement. It was the family. The husband, his wife, and their three young daughters splayed out in the middle of the floor like forgotten toys. The couple couldn't have been over forty. Their daughters ranged in age from six to twelve.

Veronica had hoped that she would never again see the body of a dead child. Instead, she got three.

The girls resembled dolls with their small noses, big eyes and thick hair. But the porcelain skins of their noses were now freckled in crimson, their eyes as dark and lifeless as sink drains, and their hair like bloody storms around each of their faces. The blood dripped from the strands to mingle with the pools that seeped out from the ripped and gnarled flesh beneath their pajamas.

Dead dolls, Veronica thought.

It was then that she remembered something her mother said to her. "You can never get a blood stain out." She had said that after Veronica fell off of her bicycle when she was four. She tore her knee open, the blood flowing out in waves that tinged her jeans. Her mother had heard that running it beneath cold water would get it out. So Veronica sat there in her underwear beside the kitchen sink, watching her mother scrub at the jeans for an hour. When she finally gave up is when she told Veronica that you can never get a blood stain out.

Veronica didn't know why she remembered that at a time like this. She never thought about her mother. Never.

Miguel stood close to Veronica. So close that she could hear every small hitch in his breath, and the crescendo that thumped rhythmically in his chest, the soundtrack of his terror.

"Dios mío," Miguel gasped, licks of his native tongue lashing out as he held onto the railing to steady himself. "Sumthin' was eatin' them. Look at the wounds."

Veronica strained her eyes in the dim light.

They were, in fact, bites. Chucks of flesh were missing from each body; caverns carved into their flesh deep enough to expose the bone and their innermost anatomy. In a wound that extended across the entire midsection of the youngest daughter, where ripped flesh mingled with the intestines that were bored out of her abdomen, a few teeth were left behind. They didn't look inhuman.

Miguel fought a losing battle with the remnants of breakfast that crept up his throat.

Veronica pivoted sharply on her heel. She climbed the stairs with the motion of a human replicant, like wired mechanisms had replaced the natural anatomy that allowed for a fluid stride. She was rigid, constrained. And there was still that ghostly chill in her spine.

She waited a moment for Miguel at the top of the stairs. She thought they should be moving along. The back-up brought along with them a squadron of other policemen whose sirens mingled in a chorus that vibrated the house's foundation, vanquishing her belief that they needed to stay. So, she stowed the basement scene, and all of the sentiments that came with it, away in the file cabinet of her mind. She did not fully understand the significance of the scene, nor did she care to. As far as she was concerned, she had a report at the department waiting to be written.