Carla saw the pile of crushed Froot Loops in the corner. A bright yellow smiley face painted on the wall behind it bled over the baseboard.
Need to clean my baseboards, she thought.
As she snapped latex gloves over her tattooed knuckles—L O V E T H E E, a mantra repeated whenever she gazed down at her hands or when she slathered lotion onto her chapped skin—she called out to Riggs. “It’s a copycat.”
Riggs hoisted his belt up with his thumbs. “Gotta know it shouldn’t bleed.”
She sighed. “Amateurs, Detective.”
Soon, she’d be the evidence being collected.