Description:

The day Olivia St. Martin's life turned upside down for the second time began like any other. She inserted two slides onto the glass plate of the microscope and bent over the lens, adjusting the magnification until the minute carpet threads became clear. She recognized a match immediately, but went through all the points of commonality for her report and indicated them on the lab sheet. When she was done, she used the microscope's built-in camera to photograph the matched fibers, removed the evidence with latex-covered hands, and preserved it in a sealed case to prevent contamination. She signed the report, then reviewed the file to make sure her team had finished processing all evidence in the Camero murder. Everything appeared in order, though DNA hadn't reported in yet. A foreign pubic hair had been retrieved from the victim and sent to the CODIS unit to be analyzed and run through the database. Contrary to what was implied on popular television, DNA matching was a slow, laborious process largely dependent on staff and resources. Olivia loved her job and had been well rewarded: last year, she'd been promoted to director of Trace Evidence and Materials Analysis at the FBI's Virginia-based laboratory. The door opened and Olivia glanced up as Dr. Greg van Buren walked in. Her ex-husband's grim expression surprised her: Greg was generally either amused or thoughtful, rarely depressed. She arched her eyebrow as she closed the file folder. "Olivia." Greg cleared his throat. Beneath his wire-rimmed glasses, his clear blue eyes narrowed with concern. He shifted uneasily and glanced down. Something was wrong. Her chest tightened. "What is it?" "Let's go for a walk." "Tell me." "C'mon, Olivia." Her legs weren't completely steady when she stood, but she kept her head up as she walked down the hall with Greg. They were on the top floor of the three-story building, but took the stairs rather than the elevator to the main level. Outside, a wave of hot, humid air washed over Olivia. She scrunched her nose. The cotton lining of her skirt instantly stuck to her legs and she resisted the urge to adjust it. She'd never get used to these sticky East Coast summers. She'd thought once Labor Day had passed, the weather would cool; no such luck. She never thought she'd miss the San Francisco peninsula's gray mornings, but she'd trade humidity for fog any day. She studied Greg's demeanor and posture--something was very wrong. Her stomach flipped. She was impatient for him to tell her, yet it might well be something she didn't want to know. They walked past the stone plaque in front of the FBI laboratory, erected when the new facility opened in 2003. BEHIND EVERY CASE IS A VICTIM--MAN, WOMAN, OR CHILD--AND THE PEOPLE WHO CARE FOR THEM. WE DEDICATE OUR EFFORTS AND THE NEW FBI LABORATORY BUILDING TO THOSE VICTIMS. Olivia rarely allowed her emotions to surface, in public or private, but the sign never failed to move her, reminding her there was always more than one victim in every crime. That the dead left behind people who loved them. Family, friends, and oft