Harper wanted to laugh. Really, she had been with the FBI for several years before she changed jobs. They had never seen a ritualistic killing of a child—she had—and it still haunted her. However, break her—never. She was the master of internalization. She put on a front, or as most people said, she channeled her ‘Inner Mistress of a Bitch’ too well sometimes. That was her nickname around the department, one she was sure the LT started—the miserable son of a bitch. Ever since Harper started, the muther fucker had been trying to get into her pants. Although she didn’t see it, she apparently was attractive. How shit like that seem to matter when you smelled like a corpse at the end of the day, she didn't know. So she didn’t put on makeup, or do her hair, unless she was going out. Which meant maybe once a month, she had moved to San Diego only six months before, and she had met very few people and since she hung out a bunch of janky-ass pricks, it meant for a lot of lonely dinners.
