Obsessed

Chapter 3

Veronica gripped the wheel tightly as she drove her burgundy Cadillac Escalade through the gray-toned morning streets of Detroit. Despite the city’s bustle, her mind was razor-focused, ticking through her notes, cases, theories. Her long platinum blonde hair was pulled into a sleek low ponytail, a few stray strands tucked neatly behind her ears. Her ice-blue eyes were big and animated, full of expression. There was a softness to her face that drew people in but that softness was deceiving. It masked strength, intelligence, and the haunting weight of a past she never spoke of.

She stepped out of the SUV and straightened her black two-piece pantsuit—sharp, clean lines. The long-sleeved blazer was open, revealing a crisp white fitted top underneath. Her slim-fit high-waisted black pants paired perfectly with sleek black heels that clicked with quiet confidence as she made her way toward the precinct.

Heads turned the moment she walked through the doors of the Detroit Police Precinct.

Not because she demanded attention—her presence didn’t shout. It whispered. Subtle power, unshakable poise. Beautiful in an unassuming way that made people look twice.

Mark Marshalls sat at his desk, half-buried in case files and crime scene photos. He was scribbling a note when he asked without looking up, "Jackson, did we ever get that full forensics report from the last scene yet?"

Detective Jackson didn’t answer. Mark looked up and followed his partner’s frozen gaze toward the front desk.

There she was.

The Police Commissioner stepped out of his office, already smiling, and approached her with a firm handshake. “Dr. Veronica Summers, pleasure to have you here.”

She smiled, her expression animated and warm but measured. “Please, call me Ronnie.”

“Of course,” the Commissioner said, leading her through the precinct. “Let me introduce you to Detectives Marshalls and Jackson. They’ve been leading the task force on the case you’re here to assist with.”

Mark stood up, brushing his hands off on his black thermal shirt, his brows furrowing slightly as Ronnie approached. Jackson was already flashing his best grin, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket.

“This is Detective Jackson,” the Commissioner gestured. “And this is Detective Marshalls.”

She extended a hand to Jackson first. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine." Jackson replied smoothly, shaking her hand.

Then her gaze shifted to Mark. Their hands met. His grip was firm, but not forceful. His blue eyes—intense and guarded—met hers for just a second too long. Something unspoken passed between them.

“Detective Marshalls,” she said with a nod.

“Dr. Summers,” he replied simply.

Her gaze lingered on him for a breath longer before she turned back to the Commissioner.

“Well, now that introductions are made,” the Commissioner said, “Dr. Summers and I will go over the case files in my office.”

She nodded politely to the detectives. “It was nice meeting both of you.”

“Absolutely,” Jackson said quickly, eyes still trailing after her as she and the Commissioner walked off. As the office door shut behind them, Jackson let out a low whistle. “Oh my God, she’s f*****g hot, man.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Jackson.”

“No, seriously,” Jackson said, leaning back in his chair. “We get to work with her? Dude, she’s like some kind of real-life Bond girl meets brainiac. You know what I’d do for a date with her?”

Mark shook his head, "We have work to do."

Jackson wasn’t deterred. "I mean, come on. That’s not just hot—she’s like, movie-star hot. But not in a fake way, you know? She’s got that real look. Like... brains and s*x appeal. Dangerous combo."

Mark didn’t respond, going back to flipping through the autopsy photos, though the corner of his mouth twitched with a hint of annoyance.

"I’m telling you," Jackson continued, stretching his arms behind his head, "I'm gonna show her around town. Take her to that jazz club I told you about. Then maybe back to my place. You think she likes jazz? She seems like she’d appreciate it. She’s classy. But freaky. You can just tell."

Mark slammed the file shut. "Jackson."

"Yeah?"

"You sound like a f*****g teenager."

Jackson raised his eyebrows and smirked. "Just saying what everyone else is thinking."

Mark shook his head and stood up, slipping the file into a folder. He glanced toward the commissioner’s office, where Ronnie and the chief were.

"Just don’t make an ass of yourself."

"Too late," Jackson smirked. “Come on, you saw the way she looked at you. A little longer than she looked at me, if I’m being honest. Not your type?”

Mark shrugged. “She’s here to help solve a case, not be your weekend fantasy.”

“Oh, come on, man. You’ve got eyes. She’s smart, classy, and those eyes? She could make a grown man confess just by staring at him.”

“She’s a professional,” Mark said firmly. “Keep it in your pants.”

Jackson raised his hands in surrender, still grinning. “Alright, alright. But I’m telling you—there’s something about her.”

Mark didn’t respond, but his eyes flicked once more toward the closed office door, his jaw tightening just slightly.

Whatever it was—her presence, her quiet beauty, the weight in her eyes—something about Ronnie Summers already had his full attention.

Behind the glass-paneled office door, Ronnie sat across from the commissioner, listening intently as he went over case files, photos, and the psychological profiles compiled by the department. Her expression was composed, professional—but when she spoke, her words were sharp and precise, layered with insight.

She asked about victimology. Patterns. Forensics. Behavioral anomalies. And the commissioner, clearly impressed, nodded along.

"You’re the best there is, Dr. Summers. That’s why we brought you in."

"Ronnie," she corrected again, softer this time. "And I appreciate the confidence. I just hope I can help."

The commissioner leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. "I also want you to talk to one of our own. Detective Marshalls. He’s been leading this case from the beginning, and he’s got a mind for detail—but he’s seen a lot. And he’s not talking to anyone about it. Not even the department shrink."

Ronnie’s brows lifted. "You want me to psychoanalyze your lead detective?"

"Only if he’ll let you. Just… keep an eye on him."

She didn’t respond right away. Her fingers fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeve—a subtle, soothing motion.

"Alright," she said eventually. "I’ll see what I can do."