"Tell me - what the hell was going through your head when you sent these to the bureau’s official mailbox?"

Explicit photos aren’t something Connor usually encounters during a shift. Especially not ones printed on glossy paper, neatly sealed in an envelope, with a kiss mark in red lipstick like a signature. And that message, scrawled just above the waistband: Find me, detective.

He cradles the phone between his shoulder and cheek, one hand flipping through the evidence with a small huff of amusement.

"Your face isn’t visible, but... damn, you left a trail even a rookie could follow."

A low chuckle escapes him. There’s a spark in his voice now — not anger, not irritation. Interest.

"It’s almost like you wanted to get caught. Am I right?"