HIGH-RISK REUNION

Minutes into FBI profiler Bryn Eastman’s first case since a near-fatal shooting, a brazen serial killer sets his sights on her next. Now her life—and career—is in the hands of her new partner, Detective Eric Hale, the man she once loved and lost. Racked with nightmares of the shooting and regrets for the tragedy that tore her and Eric apart, Bryn doesn’t want Eric to discover the secrets she carries—but she needs him. Seeing Bryn brings back memories Eric can’t control. Memories of a once-in-a-lifetime love. But the tough detective knows their only path to a second chance goes straight through a relentless killer...one who won’t quit until he counts Bryn as his fifth victim.

“Do you have any enemies?”

Bryn closed her eyes. “No.”

“The killer’s treating you differently than the other victims. He never threatened them.” Or had they not confided in anyone? No, they were too smart to hide that. But Bryn hadn’t called the police.

He looked at her then as she neared the road, silhouetted by the headlights that came into view. It was the first car he’d seen since their walk in her neighborhood. In the darkness its headlights blinded him. Eric raised his arm over his brows. “What in the world…?”

But it was too late.

The engine roared and the truck barreled straight for Bryn, who stood frozen in the street.

“Bryn!” He sprinted toward her, threw his arms around her and hurled them into a ditch just as the truck disappeared around the corner.

He felt her breath against his cheek but he didn’t move. “You okay?”

She nodded. “You?”

Then it hit him and fear rumbled through him. “He knows where you live…and he’ll be back.”

JESSICA R. PATCH lives in the mid-South, where she pens inspirational contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels. When she’s not hunched over her laptop or going on adventurous trips with willing friends in the name of research, you can find her watching way too much Netflix with her family and collecting recipes to amazing dishes she’ll probably never cook. To learn more about Jessica, please visit her at jessicarpatch.com.

Protective Duty

Jessica R. Patch

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

I know what I’m doing. I have it all planned out—

plans to take care of you, not abandon you,

plans to give you the future you hope for.

—Jeremiah 29:11

For Bailey. I marvel at your strength, courage and determination to accomplish anything you set your heart on.

Thanks go out to

My agent, Rachel Kent, for always being in my corner and believing in my writing.

My editor, Shana Asaro. Thank you for your keen eye and amazing editorial skills.

Incredible critique partners: April Gardner, Jill Kemerer, Michelle Massaro and Susan Tuttle.

Huge thanks to “Mr. Anonymous” for taking time to help me with the law enforcement information. If something’s not right, it’s on me!

And to Jesus. For Your glory always. I adore You.

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

INTRODUCTION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TITLE PAGE

BIBLE VERSE

DEDICATION

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

Dear Reader

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

ONE

Bryn Eastman refused to think about the bullet that had pierced her abdomen. She would not fixate on how her attacker’s gloved hands had wrapped around her throat or how she’d let down her guard and almost died a year ago.

Her nerves pulsed anyway as she slid into her FBI windbreaker. Her first case since the shooting.

Slivers of October moonlight snaked between the autumn leaves. Yellow crime scene tape beckoned her toward the grove of towering trees. Blue lights slashed the dark as flashlight beams swiveled across the ground. Camera crew vans lined the parking lot, morbidly eager for a story.

Special Agent in Charge Towerman had brought Bryn up to speed CliffsNotes-style. She hadn’t been back in Memphis long enough for the detailed version. Tonight’s victim made number four. She’d been left in Overton Park for families, children—the world—to view. An ache thumped in Bryn’s gut and spread into her chest.

She stared at the frenzy.

Would the lead homicide detective welcome FBI assistance? Welcome a female’s assistance? Experience told her he wouldn’t, but she hoped so anyway. This was a man’s world she maneuvered through. And while there were many who accepted her as an equal, there were just as many more who didn’t think a woman had any business in law enforcement.

She’d spent almost a decade validating that she was able, strong and brave.

Until Ohio had shaken her to the core.

This string of murders had Memphis, and the mayor, in a panic. Victimology was Bryn’s expertise. So here she was, even though SAC Towerman had been reluctant to send her in.

She needed this chance to confirm that she was still capable. Still brave. Still strong. Bryn yearned to bring justice for the victims whose lives had been tragically taken, and she needed to be in the field to accomplish that.

The question was, could she rise above the jitters and insecurity and give the grieving families her very best? She owed it to them. And she needed to prove herself to SAC Towerman. Then she could stay in the field, not chained to the desk where he’d planted her the minute she stepped foot in the Memphis field office.

She locked her car, squared her shoulders and strode across the parking lot toward the crime scene. Pausing as she neared the tape blocking civilians and the news crew, she swallowed a hard lump in her throat and stifled the eerie sensation of being watched.

This wasn’t Cleveland.

Showing her creds to the uniformed officer, she slipped under the crime scene tape, ignoring the caterwauls of the news crew begging for information. FBI on the scene had their mouths salivating and their heads spinning.

Did they even know this latest victim was the morning talk show host for Wake-Up Memphis? She strode toward the tree line. The crime unit was in place. A man dressed in jeans and a fitted black leather jacket accenting his broad shoulders—his hair as dark as the jacket—stood near a woman examining the body. She hadn’t admired a man in a long time. Shouldn’t be admiring one now, but he was hard not to notice.

A stocky older man with gray hair stepped from the shadows. Pug nose and potbelly. He held up his badge. Deputy chief of investigative services. “Agent Eastman?”

“That’s me.” She smiled and corralled her flimsy windbreaker. “We appreciate you calling us in. Whatever we can do to help, we will.”

He extended his hand, and she shook it. “We’re glad to have you. Your reputation precedes you. I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect you to be so young.”

She was only twenty-eight, but some days Bryn felt ancient. “I’m up to the task.” She had to be. Lives depended on her. No room for failure.

“I believe you, and we’re ready to work in tandem. Let us know what you need.” No indication he was blowing smoke. But it wasn’t the chief she had to work with directly. It was the lead detective who she now suspected might be the man in the leather jacket—the man whose hair and physique caught her eye and quickened her pulse.

The deputy chief motioned for her to follow him. Yep. Guy in the leather.

“Special Agent Eastman, meet Detective Eric Hale. He’s the lead on the case.”

A needle ripped across one of the many records in her memory. She’d packed that name away. Okay, maybe not packed it away, but she’d definitely not played it on the turntable of her mind in a while. Not since they’d been a serious couple nearly a decade ago. The song was too haunting.

He turned around and she could finally see his face. Time had been good to him. His boyish appearance was masked by a couple of days’ worth of dark scruff gracing his chin and cheeks. It suited him. Appealed more than she’d ever admit. Bryn’s heart skittered.

Guess he hadn’t played her record in a while, either. His eyes were wide and swirling with questions. Bryn had prayed they wouldn’t ever meet again; the pain would be unbearable. Even now she felt the punch, knocking the breath from her. Those prayers, like so many before, had fallen on deaf ears. She’d given up on prayer. Given up on faith. On God. He’d taken too much from her.

She thrust her clammy hand out, hoping for an air of confidence and that Eric wouldn’t refuse it and humiliate her in front of her peers. It wasn’t his style, but he’d have every right to.

Her older brother had murdered his sister, Abby, seven years ago.

Eric glanced at her hand and slowly clasped it. Firm but not crushing. Still warm and encompassing. Her throat dried out. She’d missed his touch.

“Fancy meeting you here.” His eyebrows quirked. Humorous as always, but underneath the light tone he’d tried to pull off, Bryn registered confusion. A truckload of shock. When she’d left Memphis—and him—she’d been on the women’s swim team at Rhodes College thanks to a scholarship. No intentions of ever becoming a cop—like Eric.

But then Abby died, and the world changed. Bryn changed.

She cleared her parched throat and assessed the scene, struggling to find her voice. “Not sure fancy is the right word. But here I am.”

“How?” He scratched the back of his head. “I thought... Weren’t you... Didn’t you... I mean, when?” His brow wrinkled.

“We’ll get to all that,” she whispered, wishing things didn’t have to be so complicated and confusing. “For now, you mind filling me in?” Bryn studied the woman lying atop gnarly tree roots that rose from the sparse grass, fully clothed with hair still damp and clumped to her cheeks. She never got used to this. Hoped she would never become hardened like some agents.

Eric pointed to the victim. “Bridgette Danforth, cohost of the Wake-Up Memphis morning talk show. She appears to have been drowned like the other three women before her. All high profile. The medical examiner will know more when we release the body. A jogger found her. He’s over there if you want to question him. I already have but...”

But was she going to take over his case? Trust him or not? That was the rest of his sentence. “Not right now, no.” She did want to poke around on her own. Besides, she needed the air. Time to process that Eric Hale was about to be her new partner in a sense. Time to escape the enticing masculine smell of soap, cologne and leather that messed with her head.

“But you will want to.” His clipped statement said it all. He had no forgiveness, and the fact she was here to try to solve a case he couldn’t only furthered his irritation. Super.

“I will. And I’ll need everything you’ve got on the previous victims. You can send it over to the FO. I’ll review them in the morning.” She’d rather work at the field office. Her turf. New, but still.

His nostrils flared, and he clenched his jaw before he saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

She ignored his sour jab, switched on her flashlight and stalked across the park. The wind bucked up, whistling through the trees. Crescent moon. Eerily quiet. Her feet sank in the soft ground. The smell of winter coming sooner rather than later enveloped her. She shone the light, hunting for anything that might have been left behind. A fairly clean park. Not much litter. A few cigarette butts. She edged toward a hedge of bushes that opened into a dense wooded area. Secluded. Interesting that he placed the victim in a more open area and not here, hidden from the parking lot and nighttime joggers. He wanted her found, and he was willing to risk being seen. Brazen...or stupid. No. Not stupid or he’d have been caught by now.

Something nestled near the tree line. A scarf? Might be the victim’s or the killer’s. She bent over and caught a whiff of cheap, heavy cologne and cigarette smoke.

Hair spiked on her neck.

From behind, an arm coiled around her neck in a python-like grip. He yanked her against him, pulling her farther into the remote wooded area.

She grabbed for her sidearm, but he was quicker and snatched it from the holster.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he growled as his wiry beard scraped against her ear.

Would he shoot her? Shudders rolled down her back as the scene from Ohio chiseled back into her bones. No. He couldn’t be crazy enough to squeeze off a round. Every officer on the scene would come running. They may not be able to see out here, but they’d hear gunfire.

He tossed her Glock several feet away.

“Who do you think you are? Miss High and Mighty-FBI.” His breath smelled of smoke, beer and mints that hadn’t done their job. “You got no business here.”

Bryn’s heart kicked into a sprint.

Fear slicked down her back in arctic streams; a wave of hysteria clouded her brain, stopped her from reacting.

Spots dotted her vision.

“You better back off before you find yourself dead like those other ones.”

No.

That’s why she was here. For the other ones. To fight for them.

Adrenaline raced, and Bryn rammed her elbow into rock-solid abs. He barely flinched but tightened his grip, and a tattoo covering his hand came into view.

Fight. She had to fight.

She brought her foot down on his. He didn’t budge. She glanced down. Boots. Probably steel-toed.

Her attacker dragged her even farther into the woods as he assaulted her ears with vile, hateful words.

“Agent Eastman! Bryn! Hey...you! I’m not sure how to address you these days.” Beams of light pulsed in their direction. “Where are you? Marco!”

Eric.

If she could manage a sound, she’d call out to him. She dropped her legs like deadweight, refusing to make this easy for the brute.

Bryn’s eyes burned. She needed more oxygen. With this grip, a whimper wouldn’t make it from her lips. She sank her teeth into the bionic man’s arm. His heavy coat would probably protect his arm from the bite. But she’d try. By granny, if she had to break every tooth out of her gums she would.

“That’s your cue to holler back ‘Polo.’ Bryn? You out here? I’ll even take an ‘over here.’”

The savage grabbed her hair, which hung in a low ponytail. “This ain’t over.”

She rammed his rib cage again, but he thrust her in the air and into the cluster of bushes he’d been dragging her away from. Her head popped against the ground with a thud, and white-hot pain seared up her back. Boots pounding and rustling bushes sounded in the distance. He was getting away. Whoever he was. Had he been out here all along, hidden away watching from a distance? Was he the killer? She clawed breath into her lungs. Sweet, wonderful breath. Her throat ached, and pain continued to streak down her spine into her tailbone.

“Over...over here,” she croaked.

* * *

Eric had needed a minute. He still needed a minute. How was Bryn Eastman back in Memphis? And not just back but an FBI agent? He had five billion questions and no time to ask even one.

Fancy meeting you here.

Seriously? That’s what came from his mouth the second he laid eyes on her? He’d rehearsed time and again what he’d say if they ever met again. That line had never made it into the script. He flashed his light, hunting for her through the foliage.

“Eastman!” His voice echoed through the silent park. A secluded place to dump a body or attack someone—like Bryn.

Bryn Eastman. FBI. Eric gave his head a good shake. Chief had said the female agent being sent to assist specialized in victimology and profiling, and had an impressive track record for such a young agent. She’d worked on the Dayton Date Rapist case, the Cleveland Creeper case, a few others in Iowa, plus one in New York.

All successes.

But his Bryn Eastman?

Whoa. Where had that come from? She wasn’t even close to being his. Hadn’t been his since their relationship tanked when she was still in college and he was working as a patrol officer. When her brother had turned out to be a serial killer who had set his sights on Eric’s sister, Abby.

Which was why they could never be together again.

But that fact hadn’t stopped his heart from slamming into his rib cage when she cast those blue eyes on him. Long golden hair secured at her neck. Creamy skin and high cheekbones. She was the epitome of the All American Dream Girl. A California dime—if she were from Cali and not Memphis. Either way she was still a ten.

Where was she? Was she ignoring his calls on purpose?

“Bryn?” Cold pinpricks traveled up his spine. Why wouldn’t she call out? About twenty feet ahead, a flock of blackbirds burst from half-naked maples. He cast his light in the direction.

Was that a figure?

His gut tightened. His pulse galloped. God, please let her be okay.

“Over...over here.”

Eric sprinted toward the sound of her garbled voice and found her slumped against a tree, her hand on her temple. “Bryn!” He knelt. “What happened?” Her bottom lip quivered, and her eyes appeared glassy. “Bryn, talk to me.”

“That...way. He went that way.” She pointed.

He hesitated.

“Go. Don’t worry about me.”

How could he not with her face paler than snow and trembling hands? A mix of fear and utter rage pulsed through Eric’s veins. Someone had laid a hand on her. Hurt her. God had protected her, though. Two things Eric had never ceased doing: thinking about Bryn and praying for her. Looked like God had been listening.

“Go...you’ll lose him.”

Eric touched her cheek, then bolted in the direction of the shadow, radioing backup to help canvass the area and letting them know an officer needed medical attention. Weaving between trees, he followed the sound of footsteps that led up a hill and onto the highway.

No one. Where had he disappeared to? He searched the area for a few more minutes. Pulse pounding in his ears, heart hammering, he raced back to Bryn and dropped to his knees at her side. “What happened? Other than you refused medical treatment.” First responders were leaving the area.

“I didn’t refuse. I politely declined to go to the hospital.” She removed her hand from her forehead; a streak of blood trailed down her temple and cheek. “It’s a minor abrasion.”

It didn’t look minor, but there was no point arguing. “The attacker? What happened?” Eric huffed.

“One minute I was picking up a scarf and then out of nowhere...” With shaking hands, she stared at the blood on her fingertips. “I’m... I’m okay, though. I fought.” Bryn squeezed her eyes shut, and everything in Eric screamed to gather her close to him, assure her that she was safe. But he couldn’t. Instead, he laid a hand on her cheek.

She stood up and winced. “Must have been the killer.”

The thought of what could have gone down, and only a few feet away from his protection, was more than he could stomach. Better to make light than fall apart right here and now. “Or someone who really doesn’t like you,” he teased in a shaky voice.

“Har. Har.” She crossed to the left, bent, then retrieved her gun and holstered it.

“He got your gun?” A thump formed behind his right eye. A guy this crazy could have shot her. Killed her!

She nodded. The expression on her face told him to tread lightly, and behind her narrowed eyes pumped raw fear.

“Promise you at least let them check you out before sending them away?” He focused the beam on her injury. “You might have a concussion.”

“Eric, I’m okay.” She paused, and friendliness coupled with sadness accompanied her half smile. “Thank you, though, for repeatedly asking.” She wobbled a bit, and he grabbed her upper arm to help balance her, the nearness overwhelming him. The scent of oranges was dizzying in an oh-so-good way.

“So you think it was the killer? Out here watching?”

“Who else would it be?”

Now that Eric wasn’t scared out of his mind, that was a good question. The fact Bryn was back in Memphis where so many tragic things had transpired might mean she was running from something—or someone—in Ohio. “You tell me.”

She paused again and peered up at him. Confusion clouded her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” He swallowed. “Why are you back? Why here of all places?”

Squinting, she studied him until he wanted to shift his feet. “I know I’m the last person you want to see—”

“I didn’t say that.” He had mixed emotions about seeing her.

“You didn’t have to.” She rubbed her temple. “I don’t know who it was. I can only assume the killer. I don’t have any answers right now. I haven’t even had time to look at the case files.”

Fine. “He say anything? You get a solid look at him?”

Bryn shook her head. “Got me from behind and put me in an iron headlock. I tried every defense I knew—”

“Even the whistle?” He couldn’t help but chuckle. In college, Bryn had carried a shiny silver one on her key ring. Once she’d blown it in his ear. He might have deserved it. She’d always been a hothead. He’d always liked that about her.

She grimaced. “No, not the whistle. Not like I would’ve had the breath to let out more than a faint tweet.”

“I thought you could go like twenty minutes without breathing.” Bryn had been a stellar swimmer back in the day.

“Eight, and that’s after being pumped with oxygen for thirty minutes and hydrating well. Besides, you can’t blow a whistle without air.” She tossed him the “duh” look. “Maybe they need to check your head.”

He hid his grin. Bryn hadn’t lost her feisty tongue. She might not have a concussion after all. “Back to the guy.”

“He was tall,” she said. “Over six feet. Beard—scraped against my cheek. A fairly full one. Steel-toed boots, so he might be a blue-collar worker. And he had a tribal tattoo on his hand. I think I can draw it.”

“Way to observe, Sherlock.”

“Thought I was Marco.” Her lips twitched. “How about plain old Bryn?”

There was nothing plain about Bryn. Never had been. She stormed up ahead of him, but he spied the tremor in her hand before she shoved it inside her coat pocket.

Eric caught up with her at the crime scene. He put a few techs on the area surrounding Bryn’s encounter. Maybe he left a shoe impression. A cigarette butt. An address and phone number tacked to a tree with an arrow.

Bryn picked leaves from her hair and put on a brave front. He’d known her long enough to know when she was hurt. Known her since he and her cousin Holt McKnight were in the Academy together. She was in high school. Too young for him. Until she turned nineteen, and he made his move. Two years together after that, heading straight for the altar and forever. If Rand hadn’t heinously intervened.

“What do you have so far?” Bryn asked.

All business. Trying to pretend she hadn’t almost been killed with dozens of officers nearby. This guy was either a complete idiot or entirely too confident in himself. Both were dangerous attributes. But he’d run down the trail with her. She might need a few minutes to collect herself. Focusing on the dead victim—not the living one staring straight at him with eyes that had always unraveled him—would help. God, thank You again for protecting her.

“I only got here fifteen minutes before you.” He stared at the victim. “I’m not a fan of morning TV.”

“Because you aren’t up.” Bryn snorted and shoved her other hand in her windbreaker pocket. “Wind’s gonna kill us. We better get while the gettin’s good or we could lose evidence.”

“Yup.” Eric wasn’t sure how all this was going to play out. “So, you’re assisting? Just assisting?”

Bryn flexed her jaw. “I don’t want to take over your case. I’d like to work together. But if you go getting a chip on your shoulder, I can’t promise to play nice. Our past—”

“Won’t dictate the case.” Eric ground his teeth. Over the years, he’d made peace with what happened. Lots of prayer and extra time in the Word had helped. Some days were harder than others, but he didn’t blame Bryn for Rand’s actions, and he would work with her to catch the killer. “I’ve labored for months on this. My partner and me. I want to be the one to get this guy.”

“Where is your partner?”

“Honeymoon.” Must be nice. “Holt never mentioned you’d gone into law enforcement.”

“Why would he?”

Why would he indeed? After things crumbled—no, disintegrated—Eric hadn’t even mentioned Bryn’s name. Not to Holt. “I guess he wouldn’t.”

“You see him much?”

“Some. He helped out in a case a few months back when he was working undercover to take down a drug dealer who was a suspect in one of our cases.”

Bryn raised her chin in a nod. “Here’s my card with my email address. I’ll make sure a major case room is set aside for us. We can work from there.”

Assisting, huh? Felt like taking over. “I’ll send the case files tonight and meet you in the morning. You drink coffee?”

Bryn gave a tight-lipped smile. Was she struggling with their nearness as much as he was? Was it regret or resurfaced attraction? Because he was feeling a bit of both. Or maybe she was just loopy from the attack. The one she was shrugging off as if it hadn’t happened, which scared him a little.

“Nothing fancy. Just black with a couple creams and a sugar.”

She never had been fancy. Didn’t need to be. She stood out without all the bells and whistles. Well, minus the whistle. He chuckled again.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She grunted. “Once we get set up in the room, we’ll need to track down Bridgette Danforth’s family. Does she have any?”

Eric inhaled the chilly air, struggling to ignore her scent that he’d once loved. “Divorced. No kids. Workaholic.”

“How long she been divorced?”

“Few years. You think her ex copycatted the other killer’s work?” Eric scratched the back of his head. “The dramatic display of laying her out looks identical to the other three, and we kept that from the public, as well as the fact he takes a token of jewelry. Bridgette is missing an earring.”

“Could have come out during the struggle or if he dragged her.” She touched her own earlobes. Two simple gold studs in each ear.

“No drag marks. But maybe.” Or the killer had taken a trophy like he had with the others.

Bryn scanned the area, ignoring the shouts from the media begging for a statement and asking if she was the new lead on the case. Eric’s ears heated. He swallowed his pride. He had to. He needed some assistance.

“I don’t want to make any assumptions. Not until I’ve read the files.”

Cautious. That was new. Anything else new? He glanced at her left hand. No ring. His was achingly bare, too. Or maybe she didn’t carry the ache of their failed relationship. But then, he knew that wasn’t true. The way it had ended between them had affected more than just their hearts. Two families bore the pain.

“I doubt the man who roughed you up was her husband. Which brings me to the fact we can’t ignore.” He stressed the word ignore. “Did he say anything directly to you?”

Bryn cleared her throat and scuffed her toe along the ground. “Besides some nasty name-calling, apparently, I have no business here, and if I don’t watch my back, I might end up like the other four victims.”

Why would the killer follow her? If he’d been on the scene watching all along, what made her his focus? Was it chance? She did go off alone. But why come at her? Here? “That makes you a target, Bryn. Where are you staying?” Eric wasn’t going to risk this guy attacking her again. He couldn’t.

“Holt’s letting me shack up in his rental for a while. At least until I can settle in. Why?” Her tone carried wariness.

“Is he staying there with you?”

“No, but I carry a gun, and I know how to use it.”

What if the attacker got to her before she could get to her gun...again? Her cousin was a DEA agent, and if he was in between cases Eric had full confidence that Bryn would be safe. Holt was pretty hard-core. “Maybe you should have Holt stay with you.”

“Maybe you should get me those case files.”

Hardheaded woman. Some things never changed. Not only did he have to worry about solving this case, which had been nagging him for months, but now keeping Bryn safe nipped his heels. “At least let me follow you home. Make sure no one is tailing you.”

“’Cause I can’t spot a tail?” She glared and whipped her hand into the air, brushing him off.

“Because this guy’s no joke. He’s gutsy. I don’t want him finding you alone again. Do you?”

She raised her chin. Unease darted through her eyes, softening her tough exterior. “I wasn’t prepared for that. I am now. I can take care of myself, Eric.”

He didn’t doubt it. She was strong-minded and strong physically, with a swimmer’s body, but Bryn was in danger.

She matched his stare. Nope. The woman wasn’t going to change her mind. If she wanted to go it alone, fine. He’d tail her without permission. Watch her get inside safely. And pray with extra fervor.

TWO

Sleep hadn’t come for Bryn. For those first few moments in the park, she wasn’t sure if she was going to live or die. This was the very reason SAC Towerman had requested she see the bureau therapist. She hadn’t had time to see one in Ohio because of the quick transfer after her surgery and recovery from the gunshot wound.

But she’d fought last night in the park. Just like in Ohio. And she’d survived.

Only because Eric had shown up. What if he hadn’t? She had to believe that she’d have retrieved her complete mental faculties and escaped, taking the attacker down. However, it hadn’t stopped every crack and pop in her house from keeping her wide-awake, adrenaline racing until she broke out into a sweat.

The only thing comforting about the night at all was cuddling with her golden retriever pup. She’d stopped by Sport’s Authority to purchase a new bathing suit after joining a nearby gym with a pool, and she hadn’t been able to resist the puppy. The pet adoption agency had set up in the parking lot, and this fluffy, blond pup had barked his way into her heart.

After consuming half a pot of coffee and walking her new little love, she’d come on in to set up a major case room. Table. Whiteboard. Space to tack maps and charts to the wall. Whatever was necessary to track down this monster, and a monster he was. Bryn had pored over the case files Eric had sent in the middle of the night. Didn’t appear his sleeping habits had changed over time. When they’d been a couple, some nights he’d call her as late as two in the morning. Just awake and bored. Although he’d said it was simply because he’d missed her voice, even if they’d been apart for less than three hours, and it had melted her every single time.

Enough trailing down a path of wilted and dried-up rose-petal memories. Back to the case at hand. Bryn sipped her lukewarm coffee and checked her watch—almost 8:00 a.m. In the past five months, four women had been drowned and left in a public park. Bryn had connected the same few dots Eric had. While the women shared similar features, such as thin noses and lips, blond hair and blue eyes, they didn’t fit age-wise. The youngest victim was midthirties while the oldest and most recent victim—Bridgette Danforth—had been forty-six. Two were married. Two were divorced. The divorced women had no children. The married women did.

Last night’s victim had left her car in the parking lot at the station after the morning taping. Like the other victims, she had seemed to walk away with the killer without a single person noticing. Vanished. Question was, did they know their killer or was he simply a charming man and able to catch his prey off guard, using something to draw their compassion, all the while luring each one into a trap?

The guy who had attacked her held zero charm.

Bryn tapped her pen on the desk and stared at the victim photos she’d tacked to the board. She’d drawn a line to the connections they had, but not a single line joined all four women. What had Eric missed? What was she missing?

“I come bearing coffee.” Eric swung into the case room with two cups in hand. So much better than the burned brew she’d been slurping from the bureau pot. He sat it on the conference table near her, his scent revealing a fresh shower and a man who knew how to wear cologne—the expensive kind. But then he had money. A lot of it. Trust-fund cop. Her pulse betrayed her and rode off at a steady gallop. She refused to admire his full lips—extremely kissable lips, surrounded by scruff that concealed two deep-set dimples.

“Thanks.” She worked to appear professional, to mask the way his presence did a number on her stomach. Last night, when he’d brushed her cheek and showed concern, it had brought up so many things about him she once loved, including their shared faith. Now hers was shaky at best. Had Eric lost his after what happened to his sister? She wouldn’t fault him for it.

This morning, she had to shove the emotions that surfaced back down where they belonged. She didn’t have the heart to get rid of them entirely.

He surveyed the room. “You’ve been busy.”

She sipped the fresh coffee, set it aside and eyed him. “You, too. After tailing me home and sitting outside for an hour, you must have been up half the night sending the files over. But you’ve showered, so I thank you.” She mimicked his raised eyebrows. She’d had half a mind to march out there and blow a gasket on him, but civility won out and a tiny sliver of her had been grateful. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”

“Technically...” He cocked his head and grinned.

Bryn held back an eye roll and opened Bridgette Danforth’s case file. “We’re missing a connection between the victims. I want to go back over the investigation with a fine-tooth comb. Talk to friends and family.”

Eric opened his mouth, no doubt to erupt in protest, but Bryn held her hand up. “I trust your work. But I need to step into their lives. I need them to put me in his head. This is how I do my job.” Not her favorite part—stepping into a killer’s mind—but necessary.

His protest petered out, and his eyes softened. He had the best eyes with long, thick lashes. “I heard through the grapevine you’ve been very successful. And for being so young.”

Young. Old. It was about determination and perseverance. Passion and motivation. She wanted justice for these victims. For all the victims she championed. She’d always been intrigued by Eric’s job as a police officer and Holt’s DEA work. But death and evil hadn’t been real for her. It was something that happened to other people. Until it raised its ugly head in her own home. She’d been almost twenty-one.

“Just so you know, I’ve heard good things about you and your work. Me being here isn’t about you not being capable.”

His eyebrows flashed upward. No, to him it probably felt like a punch to the groin.

“I didn’t ask to take over. Okay?”

If Abby hadn’t died, they’d likely be married. But then she may not have followed the career path she was on now, and she was supposed to be burying old emotions.

“Okay.” Eric cleared his throat. “You really like this job, don’t you?”

“I like putting a dent in evil’s fender.” She rubbed her clammy hands on her pants. “I... I had to do something. I couldn’t just hop in a pool and pretend if I kept swimming laps what happened to your family, to mine, wouldn’t exist.”

“So you moved to Ohio with your parents?”

“After Rand’s trial. Yes. We all needed...new.” And yet she was back. For another fresh start.

Eric popped the lid off his coffee cup and sipped. “Why did you come back to Memphis?”

She hadn’t answered him last night. Wasn’t sure she had the answer. And him asking had hurt. Was he sorry she’d come back? How could a place with so many horrifying memories also provide her with some comfort? Familiarity? Or because her best memories—many of them involving Eric—were in Memphis? “Point is I’m here. And we have a job to do. Can we try to set aside the pain and our past? At least to get through this case?” She’d crumble if she didn’t build a wall.

Eric’s nostrils flared, and he flexed his right hand—a hand that used to stroke her cheek often or meld with her own, fingers laced together. “Compartmentalize. I’m good at that.”

Didn’t she know it, and he generally used humor to do it. “Okay, I can read the files all day long, but I want to hear about the investigation from you. By the way—” she stole another sip of her brew “—your handwriting is atrocious.”

Eric walked to the board. “We got a call on our first victim on a Friday morning back in the beginning of May. Female in a park in Collierville. Thirty-eight. Hair and clothing damp. Turned out to be a professor at Rhodes. Cat Weaver. Married. Daughter in high school.”

“Taught sociology.”

Eric nodded. “No assault. Just drowning. No drugs in her system, but then we didn’t know of anything specific to check. Stomach contents showed it was regular ol’ city water she drowned in. Same with the other two and I’ll guess same with our newest victim, Bridgette Danforth.”

Bryn flipped through reports. “Victim two was found in early July. Victim three in early September, but he broke pattern by striking again now in October instead of next month.” Something must have triggered the escalation, giving Towerman and the mayor reason to pull her in so quickly.

The killer’s pattern had changed now, making him unpredictable.

“Wish we knew why. There’s nothing to indicate they’d been bound. Just walked off willingly with this guy. All cars abandoned, like Bridgette’s. We snooped on the husbands and the exes. Didn’t find anything. Alibis checked out.”

Would any of them have gone willingly with the guy that had assaulted Bryn in the park? Which reminded her. “I drew that tribal tattoo. Had one of our analysts run tattoo recognition software through NCIC and the Department of Homeland Security. Maybe we’ll get a match. But I made a copy in case you might have seen it or heard about it when interviewing family and friends.”

She showed him the picture and he shook his head. “No, nothing ever mentioned about a tattoo. Man, I’d love a break in this case. Been praying and trusting God every day for one.”

Looked as if Eric’s faith hadn’t been destroyed. She almost asked him how he’d stayed strong. Instead she focused on the case and stared at victim number two’s photo. “Tell me more about her.”

Eric pointed to her photo on the board. “Kendra Kennick. She worked for a PR firm. Tulley & Comer. They handle everything from campaigns to scandals. She had a few angry letters.”

“I read them. Nothing I’d red flag. Steam blowing mostly.”

“Still, I chased those leads.”

“And?” Bryn cocked an eyebrow.

“Steam blowing.” Eric smirked. “She left behind a husband and two children. Eight and five. The mayor jumped in at that point. Family friend. Kendra helped him with his last mayoral campaign.”

“Hmm. Was the mayor at Rhodes’s fund-raising gala? The one our sociology professor vanished from?”

Eric tipped his head. “He’s a piece of work, but I’m not sure he’s a serial killer.”

Bryn shrugged. “Was he there?”

Eric’s neck flushed. “I never checked.”

“Check. Can we link him to the other two victims?” Bryn wasn’t ruling him out. Darkness often masqueraded as light.

“He knows Bridgette Danforth. He’s been a guest on Wake-Up Memphis.”

Bryn stood and crossed to the board. “And what about victim three, Annalise Hemingway? Can we connect them?”

Eric inhaled. Exhaled. “I wouldn’t think directly. She’s a divorce attorney and he’s still with his wife—”

“But he kept Kendra Kennick, the PR specialist, on retainer. What if she wasn’t only helping him with his campaign? What if he had marital issues? Maybe his wife gave Annalise a visit. She does specialize in high-profile divorces. Maybe the threat of Annalise scared him faithful...or more discreet.” She only represented wives, which was also interesting. “How long was Annalise divorced? Ten years?”

“Yes. From Alan Markston. He’s remarried to a girl fresh out of private-school-plaid skirts and oxford shoes. Like I said, alibi checked out. But I got a gut feeling he was a real tool.”

“Lovely.” Bryn would like to pay him a visit. “I guess it’d be a dumb question to ask if she had enemies.”

“She was the go-to attorney if you wanted to squeeze blood from a turnip out of your not-so-better half.” Eric reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a package of Twizzlers. “You want?” He held one out.

Bryn heaved a sigh. “Strawberry?”

“Is there any other flavor?” An incredible, lady-killer grin filled his face.

“Cherry for one.” She held her hand up and passed on the chewy strip of licorice.

“Ones that count.” He popped the edge in his mouth like a cigarette and stared at the board. Sweet strawberry flavor wafted into her nostrils.

“Let’s swing by and chat with Bridgette’s ex-husband and then hit the station and talk to her coworkers. See if we can figure out where she was the night before. Tomorrow or later tonight I can interview past victims’ family and friends. And we’ll need to cover her condo.”

“I already had her cell phone sent in to one of your analysts. They’re pulling calls and texts. Her purse and contents are in Evidence.”

“If her purse was in her car, then she was likely taken from the station. Security footage?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice. None.”

“Thanks. For...being so cooperative. I appreciate it.” She tried not to get too lost in those brown eyes.

Eric shifted a shoulder up, chewed, swallowed. “You driving or me?”

“How about you? I need to reacquaint myself with the city.” She grabbed her purse, slipped on her knee-length charcoal-gray trench and belted it at the waist. When she glanced up at Eric, he turned away. Had he been checking her out? The thought stirred a flutter in her stomach. The last thing she needed was to feel flutters over Eric Hale.

* * *

Eric’s throat turned to sawdust. He’d told himself a thousand times he wasn’t going to appreciate her femininity. It was all professional. He was going to pretend she was his real partner, Luke—with a scruffy jaw and the annoying habit of popping his knuckles. But when she cinched the belt at her slender waist and her hair fell past her shoulders, the five o’clock shadow disappeared, and he caught himself admiring her. Looked as though she’d caught it, too.

He held the door open, refused to cast his eyes anywhere that would be disrespectful, then wiggled another Twizzler from the package to occupy himself. They ambled down the hall to the elevator. If she’d been offended, she hadn’t let on.

Eric rolled his licorice around his lips. “You know if we start digging into the mayor’s life, we’ll have to be invisible about it.”

Bryn punched the elevator button and stared at the steel doors. “Yep.”

Maybe he had offended her.

They walked through the parking lot to his work Durango. Unsure if she’d appreciate him opening her door or not, he paused near the hood of the vehicle. This was work. He hit the fob key and unlocked the doors, then rounded to the driver’s side, feeling like a total schmuck for not being a gentleman.

Bryn climbed inside and strapped on her seat belt. “I can’t see any of our victims willingly going with a gruff thug like the one who attacked me. Unless...” Bryn adjusted the radio, and he ignored her music choices. She had eclectic taste. Or at least, she used to. Minus country. How could a native Memphian not have a love and respect for country music?

Eric darted a glance at her. Her thin index finger tapped against a full bottom lip. “Unless?” So far, he’d been impressed with her ability to get up to speed at a rapid rate.

“Unless he was at the scene in disguise. In Cleveland...” Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed, her neck bobbing.

“In Cleveland, what?”

Bryn’s face paled, and she gripped the canvas belt of her coat and stared out the window. What had happened? Eric mentally ran down her cases before transferring to Memphis. The Cleveland Creeper was her last. Whatever had happened might be the reason she left Ohio. And it might be the reason she was attacked.

“Many offenders like to come to the scene and watch, even participate.”

“So he might not have a beard or tattoo?” Eric jumped off 385 into Collierville. Bridgette Danforth’s ex lived out here on a golf course. Golf. His stomach soured.

“No, I’m certain the tattoo was real, which is why I think the beard and boots were his style, not disguise, but... I don’t know.” She shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. Was she second-guessing herself? Overthinking? Bringing up Ohio had flustered her. A sheen of sweat beaded around her forehead, and her long lashes fluttered against her skin as she rapidly blinked.

“So, you up for some barbecue later? We gotta eat, and if I remember right you can tear up some ribs.”

She frowned, then grinned. “No, you like ribs. I like chicken. You have a terrible memory.”

But she’d smiled, and the lines across her forehead had smoothed out. “Maybe it was me that liked ribs. Either way, by the time we finish here and the studio downtown, we’ll be close to the Rendezvous. And they should be open by then.”

“Hmm... I somehow feel set up to satisfy your pork habit.”

Technically she had been set up, but not for food. Note to self: do not bring up Cleveland. If and when Bryn wanted to tell him what happened and why she transferred, she would. Unless it was the reason she’d been hurt, and if that was the case he’d find out the details on his own. “What can I say...the stomach wants what the stomach wants.”

Her cell phone rang, and she snagged it from her coat pocket. “Agent Eastman.” She shifted toward the window and lowered her voice. “Yes, I remember. Thank you for calling.” She hung up and went to town clutching the belt on her coat again, leaving wrinkles in the fabric.

“So this is me being nosy.”

“This is me telling you to mind your own business.” She flashed a mock smile and batted her lashes, but distress filled her eyes. How long could he go without pressing her to share what happened in Cleveland? Everything in him wanted to lean over and comfort her, to tell her whatever it was she was safe now. But it wasn’t his place anymore, and that bothered him. They were partners only. Not that partners didn’t care or worry about each other, but he couldn’t see himself reaching over and stroking Luke’s hand. Picture her with scruff.

Nope. Didn’t work. He flashed his badge to the attendant working the booth and entered a gated community set on a golf course. Brick homes with French shutters dotted perfectly manicured lawns. Fall wreaths graced front doors, pots of mums and whatever else those fall flowers were lined sidewalks and weaved between bushes. The kinds of homes and communities Eric had grown up in.

“You still play?”

“Harmonica?” he joked.

Bryn gave him a wooden look. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Golf. “Sometimes. But only when I want to.”

Eric could have gone pro. Almost had. But he’d attended a Royal Family Kids’ Camp sponsored by his church and things changed. Seeing so many abused and neglected children had tugged his heart in ways golf never could. People who hurt children—abused anyone for that matter—deserved justice. So he’d entered the police academy. But Dad and Mom didn’t quite understand the concept of God’s leading. According to them, life was what people made it. Destiny was acquired by going after dreams and desires without the need for God’s plans.

“Good for you, I guess. I always enjoyed watching you play.”

He turned and grinned. Sadness mixed with regret. “I always knew you were there for me. No ulterior motives. No pressure if I won or lost.”

“Kinda like you attending my swim meets.”

This was winding down a serious path. Emotions were surfacing that he couldn’t allow. Too much damage had been done when Abby died. “Well, I have to admit, I was mostly there to see you in a swimsuit.”

She laughed. “You’re such a guy.” Bryn had let his remark go, but Eric knew that deep down she didn’t believe that for a second. He’d been there to support her because he cared about her. Her drive and passion were contagious. Even now, he felt it in her skills as an agent.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Whatever lights your fuse.”

“Do you still swim?” Eric weaved through the subdivision. Large sweet gums towered overhead. An array of gold, red and orange leaves swayed with the fall breeze. Not the best day for golfing.

“Yes. As therapy.” She frowned at the word therapy as if it coated her tongue in acid. “I joined a gym not far from Holt’s rental house. Bought a new swimsuit...and a dog.” She sighed. “You golf with your partner? Luke?”

“Luke? Golf? Hardly. But if I wanted to suffer some punishment and box, I’d call him first. I play a few games every now and then with my dad.”

“Really?” Surprise lit her face.

“He stopped hounding me about getting back into the game when my profession became useful to him.”

The air in the SUV grew thick. He hadn’t thought his answer through. He’d said he wouldn’t bring up the past and then did anyway.

Bryn rubbed her hand against her thigh. “How...how are your parents?”

Eric pulled into a circular drive and cut the engine.

Brave question.

“Our lives were altered forever, Bryn. How do you think they’re doing?”

“Just for the record,” she said, “our lives were altered, too. We live with the guilt of what Rand did to not just Abby but the three girls he murdered before her. I grew up with him, and I never knew the darkness in him. I feel guilty for that, as well.”

Eric clenched his jaw. “I know. Let’s just not talk about it right now, okay?”

He’d rather focus on finding the man killing these women than reliving the tragedy in his own life.

THREE

Bryn white-knuckled her steering wheel as she drove to the therapist’s downtown office. The stop at the Danforth residence had been a bust. Mr. Danforth was out of town at a conference until next week. The housemaid had been charmed by Eric. He was good at that. Naturally sweet to everyone. He even had the woman promising to make him empanadas next time he swung by. After that, they ran by the station that taped Wake-Up Memphis.

Bridgette Danforth’s cohost, Anderson Tawdle, was as plastic as they came, and it was clear there was no love lost on his part, but then Bridgette had been trying to get him fired so she could bring in an all-female cast. That gave Anderson motive to kill her but not the other three victims.

Turned out Bridgette had a massage appointment with her lifelong friend, Sandra Logan, who owned an animal clinic in Germantown. Animals happened to be one of Bridgette’s many causes. Causes that she promoted with boldness on her TV show, creating many reasons to hate her. She had mail to verify it.

The interviews had taken longer than Bryn expected, so she canceled on lunch. Eric seemed disappointed and pried to find out why she had to leave in the middle of the day.

Seeing Dr. Elliot Warner wasn’t anyone’s business. She didn’t need colleagues thinking she was unstable or incompetent. Even if seeing a therapist was protocol, it was still humiliating, especially since she wasn’t either of the two.

Bryn parked in a lot a block down from Dr. Warner’s. Downtown could stand to be cleaned up some. There were abandoned warehouses with cracked windows on one side and trendy places to eat on the other. Grabbing her purse, she stepped out of the car and headed toward his office.

Cracks and loose gravel caught the toe of her shoe. She righted herself, crossed the street and inhaled.

By granny, she had this. She’d prove to Dr. Warner that keeping her behind a desk wasn’t utilizing her well, that Towerman hadn’t made a mistake by sending her into the field. Maybe the city’s and the mayor’s panic had been to her advantage. She’d keep her fears buried and only give him information on the case, which he already possessed anyway. As the session progressed, he’d see she was on top of everything. And he’d give a glowing recommendation to Towerman.

The semi-decaying brick building held some old charm. She opened the tinted-glass door. Inside, the building transformed from decrepit and broken to fresh and classy.

Violins harmonized to Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major and filtered through hidden speakers. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus wafted through the front lobby. Her shoes clicked against polished hardwood flooring as she crossed to the circular mahogany desk to the left of the foyer. Should she wait for a secretary?

She strummed her fingers along the desk, then sank onto the chocolate-colored leather couch while the violins began their crescendo.

Bobbing her knee and flicking her nails, Bryn gnawed the inside corner of her mouth.

A door down the hall squeaked open. Floor joists creaked and squawked, and then a man in his midforties, attractive, smelling like new money, loomed in the door frame leading into the foyer. Thick chestnut hair cut in a trendy style matched the thin lawn of scruff on his face. Warm amber eyes greeted hers. “I’m Dr. Warner.”

“Bryn Eastman.”

He glanced at his expensive watch and raised an eyebrow. “You’re early. Eager to start?”

Eager to get out. Bryn cracked a shaky smile. “Sure.”

“Follow me.” He led her down the hallway past a men’s restroom, then a women’s restroom. His office was to the left. He opened an espresso-colored wooden door and slipped inside. Bryn followed.

Set like a formal living room with a large comfy couch and two leather club chairs surrounding a decorative table, his office was masculine and inviting. A large ornate desk rested in front of a built-in fish tank that lined an entire wall. The tank had to hold at least a thousand gallons.

“Have a seat, Agent Eastman.”

Bryn settled in a club chair. No lying on the couch for her. Dr. Warner chose the couch, leaning back comfortably, ankle cocked over his knee. Muscular. Probably from tennis or rowing.

Other than the sounds coming from the filter on the fish tank, silence filled the room and dragged. Was she supposed to start? She had nothing to say. “I like your fish tank. Salt water?”

He glanced at the tank. Schools of fish swam in colors ranging from banana yellow, silver, violet and turquoise to an array of multicolored ones. “Fresh actually. Easier to clean.”

She admired the coral, the sand, a small elegant ship and a treasure chest in the corner. The bubbling eased her jumbled nerves. Peaceful.

Bryn studied the blur of colorful fish. “They’re beautiful. Eye-popping.” So many. How did he keep them from overcrowding? That’s how she felt. Overcrowded. With being back in Memphis, working on the rental house, the new puppy, this high-profile case and Eric—working with him and old feelings poking at her.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “They’re all male. They tend to have more color than the females.”

“Huh. No one fights for alpha status?” She examined the fish as they weaved in and out of each other’s way. She fought for it every day, not so much dominance as equal footing. In her line of work, she was the minority.

“I did my research.”

Probably did his research on her, as well. She didn’t want to talk about herself. “I like the quiet water, too.” Bryn leaned back in her chair. “Which ones are your favorites?”

Dr. Warner checked his watch again. “This session is about you. Do you want to talk about you?”

No. Not in the least. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

Time crept along as silence hung.

Uneasiness broke it.

“I can do this job. I know the risks. I knew them when I pursued this career.”

“Do you want to talk about why you pursued this career?”

“You already know why. You know everything.” As a contracted therapist by the FBI, he was privy to all of her case files, as well as her dossier. He knew what happened in Ohio. What happened on her first night in the field—the attack. It would all be there in black and white. She couldn’t hide any of the facts from him. Her feelings were an entirely different matter. “And as you can see, I’m fine.”

If she kept repeating that, he wouldn’t believe her. He scribbled on his notepad. Was he writing that she was uncooperative? If she wanted her permanent freedom from the desk, she needed to toss him a bone. SAC Towerman had already had a lengthy discussion with her after the attack in the park. Was she okay? Could she keep up out there? Blah. Blah. Blah. He needed her out there as much as she needed to be out there, but she hadn’t missed the skepticism in his eyes and hesitation in his voice.

“I was nervous walking on the scene. And I was afraid when the attacker grabbed me around the neck. Who wouldn’t be?” Being an FBI agent didn’t make her superhuman.

Dr. Warner kept writing, then looked at her again.

Bryn held his gaze. “It had nothing to do with what happened in Cleveland. I did my job there. You know that.” But flashbacks and that same fear had resurfaced. To tell the good doctor that meant to tell him she wasn’t healed.

Well, she wasn’t. Never would be. She’d thought about praying but was fairly certain God had stopped listening to her prayers. He definitely had stopped answering them, or she and Eric would be together. Happy. With a family.

She pointed to the file in his lap. “Can’t you just sign off on my paperwork and let me do what I do best? I don’t see the need for these appointments.”

The giant obstacle between her and the career that compelled her to take risks stared into her eyes. “You don’t see the need in talking to someone about almost being murdered...twice? Or about the past events that drove you to this line of work?”

“I saw a family therapist at my mom’s request after my brother...” She couldn’t even bring herself to go back in time. It had been excruciating and pointless. “And, yes, that’s why I pursued this career. I can catch this killer. But I can’t do it behind a desk.” Time to show him she could cooperate and be compliable. “Scared or not, we have to push past the fear for the greater good. Every agent has some level of fear.”

“You think pushing fear aside is dealing with it?” His voice was low. Calm. Nonjudgmental.

It was the best she had to offer. He made a strong point with the question, though. Eventually, her fears and stress would snap, and she might put herself or others in danger if she slipped. She just wouldn’t slip. Wouldn’t let “eventually” come.

“You think by keeping silent you’ll get clearance from me. I understand that. I see many agents who think the same thing, but it’s not true. However, if you want to sit here every Friday for an hour and say nothing or talk about my fish, then we can do that.”

If she talked, if she spilled it all, he might think she was weak and unfit. But if she didn’t divulge, he’d assume she was burying feelings and a ticking time bomb. She bobbed her knee, debating what to do. “I... I have trouble sleeping sometimes. Right before I doze off, I see Scott Mulhoney’s face, and I might have a mild panic attack—but I assure you it’s getting better.” She’d long stopped calling Mulhoney the Cleveland Creeper and put a name to his face. Made him human. Even if he’d seemed superhuman.

Hopefully, sharing this much was enough to keep her on the case but not enough to make him think she was incompetent or unfit for field duty.

Dr. Warner nodded. “That’s normal. I’d be more concerned if you said you were sleeping like a bear in winter.” He crossed to his desk and laid the notes on top, picking up a prescription pad. “I can prescribe a mild sedative.”

“Sure.” Bryn took the prescription and tucked it in her purse. “Dr. Warner?”

“Yes?”

“You’ve seen the files. You know what he’s doing to those women. They deserve justice.”

He crossed his arms, muscles pulling the sleeves of his white dress shirt taut. No wedding ring. Quite the catch. She tamped down a laugh as she caught sight of the fish tank. A catch. Eric would have loved the joke. But Eric wasn’t going to know about these visits.

“I did see them. I can’t help you if you don’t let me. Understand?”

Bryn nodded. Her time was over, and they’d barely had a conversation. If she kept that up, she’d end up exactly where she didn’t want to be. But she didn’t want to talk about her feelings. She didn’t want to unearth what she’d buried. She didn’t want to air her weaknesses and most private thoughts. “I’ll do better next week.”

“If you need to talk before then, you have my card. After hours, a service will forward your call to me.”

“Thanks.” Opening the door, she stepped into the hall and turned right. Dr. Warner laid a hand on her shoulder and steered her left.

“Back door for anonymity. No one sees you. You see no one.”

She slipped down the back hallway, out a side door and down the street to the parking lot.

She pressed the fob key and unlocked the car. Something white fluttered on her windshield. Restaurant menu? Coupon for a car wash? Maybe a tract explaining the way to salvation and claiming God’s love. Bryn hadn’t felt God’s love in a long time. All she’d felt lately was abandoned, unwanted, uncared for, and she couldn’t figure out why.

She grabbed it and started to crumple it in her fist when she noticed the words. She smoothed it open, hairs rising on her neck. A hollow chill whistled through her body. Head buzzing, she read the block-style words.

Miss High and Mighty FBI,

You’re dead!

A crack sounded, and a spray of concrete exploded near her feet. She dropped to her knees, using the car to shield herself from the bullet. Fear rocketed into her throat and sent her head into a dizzying spin.

Grabbing for her gun, she aimed it toward a building, but she wasn’t sure where the shot had been fired from. Shooting aimlessly wasn’t smart. Safety was.

Heart hammering, sweat popped along her upper lip and forehead.

Metal clinked as another bullet connected with the passenger door. Bryn fumbled for the keys she’d dropped when the first shot unloaded on the pavement.

The shooter’s position was high. Probably inside one of the abandoned buildings twenty feet away.

Another bullet hit the hood of her car. She bit back a shriek, and with quaking hands opened her car door just enough to slide inside. She worked to get the key in the ignition and crank the engine. Staying low, she gunned it and peeled out of the parking lot as one more bullet connected with the trunk of her car. Was this the same man who had attacked her in the park? He’d used the same words: High and Mighty.

He’d followed her here. How did she miss that? She had to call in backup. Although, the killer was probably long gone by now. Probably took off the second her car squealed from the lot. The law enforcement agent in her screamed to get the crime unit out here, to call Eric. To go straight to the field office with the note and the bullet that was lying on her floorboard.

Then they’d all know she’d been at a psychiatrist’s office. But mostly Eric would know. He’d pry into Ohio and discover the truth.

No, she’d definitely turn the bullets and note in, but she wasn’t bringing anyone out here.

* * *

Eric’s entire afternoon had been a bust. From the interviews he’d accompanied Bryn on to the lack of hits in the tattoo recognition database.

To top that stellar display of uselessness, he had driven to Edgewood Golf Club—Dad’s golf club. Nothing like driving out to be surrounded by workaholic, money-hungry, narrow-minded men—one being your own father—just to bring great news. Revealing that Bryn Eastman was back in Memphis and working with Eric on this case. Better he’d heard it from Eric than the five o’clock news.

It had gone over like no cake at a six-year-old’s birthday party.

“How dare she come back here! To show her face after what her...her brother did to our family.”

“Dad, she’s an FBI agent and she’s successful. She’s trying to make up for the past.” It wasn’t a stretch to make that deduction. Why else would Bryn end a career in professional swimming and diving and her dreams of coaching a girls’ swim team? She’d always been a fan of saving the whales or dolphins. She’d studied biology. Major shift to criminal justice.

Dad hadn’t cared.

A steely glare had formed in his eyes. “If you even think of dallying with that girl again—who’s beneath us to begin with—you won’t have a family anymore. Is that what you want, Eric? To hurt your mother all over again by losing a son? You’d kill her if you did that. You know she has a heart condition.”

Dad’s fist of hate and truth had sucker punched his gut. Mom’s heart had always been weak, but after Abby she’d had two stents. Eric was the only child left. Could he do that to her?

His answer had flown off his tongue with record speed. “Dad, that’s never going to happen, but I do have to work with her. I thought you should know. I’d never intentionally hurt either one of you.” He never had. Intentionally.

Now he was parked on the street in front of Bryn’s house, taking her the lunch that had become dinner. What obligation had kept her from eating? What was she keeping from him? It nagged at him. Right along with the fact she had yet to mention her faith, which had once been a huge part of her life. Had Rand robbed her of that, too? Eric’s faith had been shaky for a while, as well. He hadn’t let it stay that way, though. Lord, if she hasn’t let You heal her completely, please open her heart up to allow it.

Eric clambered from his car with a bag of food—chicken for her as requested and BBQ ribs for him with sides and rolls. Her car parked in the drive caught his attention. He crossed over and bent at the waist. Was that a bullet hole?

Storming to the front door, his heart suffering from arrhythmia, he pounded. A dog yipped. Bryn’s scolding followed.

The door opened. She’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt the color of island waters. A dolphin jumped an ocean wave on its front. “What are you doing here?” She eyed the food sack. “You brought food?”

He ignored the question. “Why do you have a bullet hole in the trunk of your car?” Eric stepped inside. “And why did I not get a phone call?” The scent of vanilla rode over the smell of an older musty home. A candle burned in the corner on a rickety table by the sofa—the source of vanilla.

Bryn groaned. “I haven’t been home but long enough to change my clothes. I intended to call you.”

After the fact.

That ate at him.

Bryn stood before him, avoiding eye contact. Fidgety. She’d been shaken. “Something happened today.”

Eric’s temper rose out of fear. “Yes. You were shot at!” She could have died. He pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen, then held it up for her to see. “No missed calls. No texts.”

She grabbed the bag of food and took it to the kitchen. “Calm down. I know that look.”

Eric balled his fists and edged up behind her. She turned around and smacked into his chest; a flustered expression filled her face.

“Calm down? You left me with no explanation of where you were going, then you got shot at! And you want me to calm down?”

The dog jumped on Eric’s pant legs and barked. He ignored the ball of fluff.

Sighing, she collapsed on a kitchen chair and tented her fingers on the table, her hair draping over her face. “I needed a few minutes to clear my head, and I might have ripped my pant leg diving from the bullets.”

Eric steeled his jaw as the image sent a wave of nausea through him.

“I got a letter.”

“What kind of letter?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“The kind that didn’t need postage or a return address.” Bryn grabbed her purse hanging on the chair and handed him a Ziploc bag with a crumpled sheet of copy paper inside. “The short, sweet and to-the-point kind.”

“And the gunfire?”

“Happened while I was reading the note. Three shots. One by my feet. The second at the passenger side door. The last on my trunk when I drove away.”

Eric needed to sit down, run his hands over Bryn’s face and hands and convince himself she was okay. The killer had never left his victims a note or shot at them. Just like making himself known in the park, this was different. “Where was your car?”

“In a parking lot downtown. I was on personal business...an errand.”

Eric glanced at her. Straight face. What kind of errand? What kind of personal business?

She handed him a pair of latex gloves. He carefully extracted the letter from the plastic bag and read it.

The knot in his gut turned into a glacier, freezing him from head to toe. Blood rushed into his ears. The glacier slowly melted as fury boiled until it broke out into a sweat on the back of his neck.

He had to cool off. Be levelheaded. Carefully, he replaced the note inside the bag.

Bryn twisted her fingers. “Well?”

“What parking lot?” He pinned her with a glare.

She shifted in her seat, then handed him another plastic bag from her purse. “I dug the slugs out when I got home.”

“Before you called me? You said you only had time to change clothes.”

“I needed to get my bearings together. We can get that to ballistics ASAP.” Her cheeks had lost their color, and she hadn’t stopped tapping her foot against the linoleum.

As frustrated as he was, Eric couldn’t let her feel alone, and clearly she was afraid and nervous. Eric grabbed her clammy hands. “It’s gonna be okay. I promise.” He gave them a gentle squeeze. “Why won’t you tell me where you were? We could go check it out or send a unit.”

Bryn freed her hands and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Doesn’t matter. He entered an abandoned warehouse and probably wore gloves, which means we won’t find prints on the note or the casings—if he didn’t take them with him.”

He hadn’t worn gloves the night he strangled her. Of course, that hadn’t been calculated and planned like what happened today. Bryn had obviously thought this through, and it was even clearer she didn’t want him or anyone else in that parking lot. What was so secretive about it? For now, he’d let it drop because they had a bigger issue to discuss.

“He’s following you. You missed it. Or he knew where you would be. Anyone else know where you were today?”

Nostrils flaring, Bryn snatched the evidence bag out of his hand. “My personal business is mine alone.”

She avoided the question. That meant someone might know where she’d been. It gnawed at him and then struck a solid blow to his abdomen. What if she’d come back to Memphis for someone? Met someone. What if he lived downtown or worked there? How did Eric feel about that?

About as good as he felt about kale.

Why else hide her location? She must think it’d cause a rift in their working or personal relationship—not that they had anything more than a professional relationship, but they weren’t fighting. Was that enough to go against protocol, though?

“You need to tell Holt if you haven’t already.” If Eric couldn’t camp on her couch maybe she’d let her cousin.

Bryn tossed her hands in the air. “I knew you’d say something like that. What if it was you? What if you got tossed into the bushes and shot at? Would you ask Holt to spend the night?”

“Well, no, that’s weird.”

“You’re making my point. Would you move out of your house and stay with someone?”

“Probably not.” But he was a man. And as a man who wanted to keep all his parts, he kept that last statement in his head where it belonged.

“Double standard. And I hate it!” Bryn slapped the table. The dog jumped into her lap. “He’s a good watchdog. He barks at anything and everything. I’m a light sleeper. And I have a gun at my bedside. What more can I do besides go into witness protection?”

“That last question was rhetorical, right?” He massaged the back of his neck. “Okay, I get it. Bryn is a big girl. Doesn’t mean I won’t be concerned.” The normal amount, of course.

“I’ll be extra careful.”

“I’ll put a few unmarked cars out here at night.”

“I’m not gonna say no to that.” She shuddered. Not quite the confident crusader she made herself out to be. At least she could give him that. Didn’t feel like enough, though.

“So what’s the dog’s name?”

“Newton.”

“Fig?”

“Wayne.” Bryn smirked, and her shoulders relaxed.

“You have weird taste in names and celebrities.” He leaned in, elbows on his knees. “You okay?”

Her nod didn’t convince him. Not at all.

Eric wasn’t okay, either.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.