“Thank you.” Two words at a time. That was all she’d been able to manage since he’d brought her here to his office in Portland before the pain flared. She wrapped shaking, blood-crusted fingers around the cup, the edges nearly folding in on themselves when she raised the brim to her mouth. Cool water soothed the stinging along the sides of her throat, but it’d take a lot more than a cup of water to help her recover from tonight. “For this. And earlier.”
“I’m just glad I didn’t misinterpret your SOS message for a grocery list.” His lips curled up, and warmth flooded through her. She couldn’t help but lock onto his face with everything she had left before the smile drained from his expression. She just needed a glimpse of something outside of the nightmare closing in. He dropped his gaze to the file in front of her, the one she was sure documented every moment of her life, starting with the attack she’d survived in Chicago and ending right here, and something in her chest tightened. Marshal Reed—Finn—interlocked his fingers on the reflective surface of the table and slid his elbows forward. He pointed to the folder with her name clearly labeled with both index fingers. “Earlier you told me ‘it’s him.’ That he’d come back to finish what he’d started. Tell me what you meant by that.”
“I...” She hadn’t realized she’d said those words aloud. Dread skittered up her spine as she realized the light conversation between them had run its course, and suddenly she was back in that interrogation room in Chicago. Answering questions as to how she hadn’t noticed the man she’d been sleeping with—been engaged to marry—had spent his nights killing women rather than working, as he’d claimed. Camille had known this part was coming. The marshals needed a full account of what had happened tonight. Otherwise, Finn wouldn’t have brought her here after the emergency-room staff had dressed the new gouges on her chest. They’d had to leave the blood on her hands for the forensic tech to collect. Evidence.
She couldn’t deny there were similarities between what’d happened a year ago and tonight. Though the haze of nearly dying in a house that didn’t belong to her hadn’t completely lifted yet. This didn’t make sense. Jeff Burnes couldn’t have been the one in her house tonight. The only reason she’d escaped to Florence, changed her name, resigned from the job she’d worked her entire life for and left her friends and family was because he was still awaiting trial. Shivers snaked down her arms, and she swallowed to lubricate her throat before answering.
“I can’t explain it. Other than it felt like him. I know that doesn’t count as evidence, but when he...” Her lungs threatened to spasm at the memory of those large hands around her neck. She closed her eyes, shaking her head as if that was all she had to do to forget someone had tried to kill her a second time. She’d barely survived the first attack, and it’d cost her everything. How was she supposed to do it all over again? “When I looked into his eyes beneath the mask, it felt like him.”
“You mean the Carver,” he said.
Every muscle across her shoulders bunched when he said the moniker the media had given the man she’d intended on spending the rest of her life with. The fresh cuts on the left side of her chest constricted, and Camille battled the urge to wrap her arms around herself. “I didn’t know what he was doing.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean... I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you after everything you’ve already been through, but the more you can tell me about this attack, the faster we can catch the guy who tried to kill you tonight,” he said. “I can protect you from it happening again, but I need all the facts. Even the smallest detail can make a difference in us finding the man who broke into your house.”
But it wasn’t her house. This wasn’t her life.
Finn ran a hand through his hair, then leaned back in the chair, taking the remnants of heat she’d been holding on to since she’d realized he’d been the one who’d brought her back to life. “Camille, I need to know if you broke protocol, if you reached out to someone. Anyone from your old life, any acquaintances from work. Did you log on to an old social-media account or your email?”
“The marshals monitor those accounts. You know I didn’t.” Her stomach soured at the idea that she’d made a mistake, that she’d brought this on herself, but it wasn’t possible. She’d followed every rule, every guideline he’d handed down to her the day she’d been transferred into his protection. She’d given up a piece of herself for the sake of survival, and it’d all been for nothing. The Carver had still found her. He’d sent someone to finish what he’d started, sent them to carve the rest of his claiming mark into her chest and complete his sick ritual. Who else would’ve known exactly how he’d killed his victims? That information wasn’t available to the public. Bile clawed up her esophagus as she picked at one corner of fresh gauze, and her eyes burned with tears. Anger mixed with fear in a nauseating combination, which only made the pain in her throat worse. “I don’t know why this is happening again. I don’t know who my attacker was or how he found me, and I don’t know how he got inside my house—the safe house. So if you don’t have any other questions, I’d like to go now.”
But the thought of walking back into that big empty house, alone, only made the knot in her chest larger. She was scared. Didn’t he understand that?
“Camille.” Her name, said so deliberately reverent, kept her anchored in the moment. “I have every officer, including the chief of police, combing through the scene for evidence. Sooner or later, we’re going to catch this guy and find out what connection he has to the Car—to your ex... But until we do, you can’t go home. It’s not safe there.”
Safe. She studied the patches of dried blood—her blood—on her hands and slipped them beneath the table. Out of sight. It’d been a long time since she’d felt anything close to safe. The FBI’s case in Chicago was stronger with the help of her testimony, but as long as there was a chance Jeff Burnes could be released, she wasn’t entirely sure she understood the meaning of the word. “Where am I supposed to go?”
Blue eyes quieted the hard pounding of blood behind her ears the longer he leveled his attention on her. “We’re working on that—”
Three taps on the glass ripped her back into reality, and she looked up to see the deputy Finn had been talking to earlier at the door. Behind him, chaos had overtaken the main office space as other marshals and law-enforcement officers loaded fresh magazines into their weapons and fit themselves with Kevlar. The deputy waved Finn out of the conference room, and the marshal sitting across from her stood to leave. The second deputy spoke once Finn was on the other side of the glass, but Camille couldn’t hear the conversation over the soft ringing in her ears. Had the officers at her home already found evidence? Had they made an ID on the intruder? Finn snapped his gaze to the deputy before drawing his replacement weapon from the shoulder holster.
Warning pressurized behind her sternum, and she stood.
Something had happened.
He barged back into the conference room, threading his free hand between her ribs and elbow in order to wrap his arm around her. The scents of clean laundry and citrus dove deep into her lungs as he dragged her to his side. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“What’s going on?” Ice-cold fear worked through her as he walked her back through the Oregon district office in a rush.
“We reached out to the federal team assigned to the Carver’s investigation to update them on your attack tonight. In return, they told us your ex-fiancé escaped federal custody three days ago.” Swinging her around to face him at the elevators, Finn released his hold on her to check the ammunition in his weapon. He pulled back on the slide and loaded a round into the chamber. He hit the button beside the elevator before turning that piercing gaze on her. “The only thing the Carver left behind in his cell was a photo of you.”
Chapter Two
The FBI had kept a vital piece of intel concerning his witness to themselves in the name of avoiding a mass panic. Hell, more li
ke avoiding having to answer for losing one of the country’s most violent and deceptive serial killers of the past decade.
Jeff Burnes—the Carver—had bound, strangled and carved up six women from the Chicago area with the same word gouged into their chests. Mine. Six women that they knew of. Only the last person the killer had expected to fight back had been the one right in front of him.
Camille. The bastard’s own fiancée.
And it looked like her former fiancé wasn’t taking the hint their relationship had ended the moment he’d attacked her that Valentine’s Day evening.
Finn kept his gaze on the road ahead, not on the woman who hadn’t said a word since they’d left the district office. But he couldn’t ignore the slight curve of her shoulders inward, or the fact she’d been picking at the dried blood on her hands since she’d gotten in the SUV. Oncoming headlights reflected off rain pattering against the windshield as he took the shortest route to get her out of downtown Portland. How the hell was he supposed to keep Camille safe if he didn’t have all the information to do so? Jeff Burnes had faked a medical emergency, attacked the guard escorting him to the infirmary and stolen his clothes, and no one had noticed until it’d been too late. What’d started as a countdown until the SOB’s trial date had officially become a manhunt. Marshals, the FBI, local police and every law-enforcement officer in the country had a recent photo of the Carver on their phones, and orders to apprehend, but none of that had done a damn bit of good for Camille tonight. The timing of the killer’s escape couldn’t be a coincidence. Three days. That was long enough for Jeff Burnes to make his way across the country and exact his revenge on the woman he’d manipulated, but the Carver wouldn’t have been able to locate his only surviving victim on his own. He’d had help. “If you’re not trying to make a new and terrifying fashion statement, there are wet wipes in the glovebox.”
Camille leaned forward, extracting the thin package, and pulled a single wipe free. A hint of her signature lavender scent filled the SUV’s interior as she meticulously cleaned her hands, and Finn breathed as much of it in as he could handle.
He’d almost been too late. Almost lost her. He’d done the witness-protection gig before in his ten years as a marshal, but he couldn’t think of a single witness who’d compared to the woman beside him. Two attacks, an entire life ripped out from under her, a serial killer on her trail. Still, he hadn’t ever seen her break. He’d known deputies who couldn’t hold themselves together in the line of duty that long, but Camille could only take so much stress and trauma before the cracks began to show. It was his job to be there for her when they did. “We’re here.”
He angled the SUV into a short alleyway between a dry cleaner and a mechanic shop on the outskirts of Portland. Motion-sensor lights lit up at their approach, highlighting the wild red color of her hair. Shoving the vehicle into Park, he studied the two-story brick building for signs of movement. Dust-caked windows lined the massive rolltop door leading into the abandoned garage on the lower level, but there was no sign of any light from inside. Finn reached back into the second row of seats for the overnight bag he kept on hand, his chest brushing against her arm. Instant heat speared through him, and he gripped the bag’s handle tighter than necessary to counter the effect. As much as he’d enjoyed the rush of endorphins, he had to focus on the job: keeping her alive. After hauling the bag into his lap, Finn shouldered out of the SUV and rounded the hood to intercept Camille as she did the same.
Arms wrapped around her middle, she gazed up at the property with that legendary reserved guard in place. Fresh blood spotted near the collar of her already ruined T-shirt, and he clenched both hands into fists. Hospital staff had cleaned and glued the wound, but they must’ve missed a spot. She was bleeding again. She’d thanked him for saving her life tonight, but he was no damn hero. Not for her. If he had been, she wouldn’t have those fresh lacerations carved into her chest for the rest of her life. “I thought you said you were taking me to a safe house. This is an old garage.”
“When you have as many enemies as I do, anything can be used as a safe house.” The joke was meant to loosen the hard set of her jaw, but it failed. He shouldered the duffel bag, the muscles in his midsection still sore from the fight between him and her would-be killer, and headed for the stairs leading up to the second floor. He dropped the sarcasm he’d relied on to break up the permanent tension coiling through him and adjusted his grip on the bag. “I converted it a few years ago in case I needed a place to hide. It’s off the books. No attachment to the marshals or my name, completely off the grid. I already had a deputy I trust bring a bag from your house. You’ll be safe here.”
“The one you were talking to at the marshals office?” Bruising had already started darkening the column of her throat, shifting as she visibly swallowed. She followed close on his heels as they climbed the stairs. His awareness of her proximity was like a physical pressure between his shoulder blades.
“Jonah Watson. He’s former FBI. We can trust him.” Finn entered the six-digit code to unlock two separate dead bolts to the front door, and the locks retracted. She flinched in his peripheral vision, and he hesitated opening the door. He’d known this was coming. She’d held it together this long, but the barriers she’d set up to keep herself from showing emotion were starting to crumble. Trauma, terror, uncertainty. She’d lived it all in the past few hours. He faced her, discarding the bag at his feet carefully so as not to alarm her further. “Look at me, Red.” Those aquamarine eyes met his gaze, and his gut clenched when the absolute determination to hold it together a little longer set into her expression. “We don’t have to stay here. My job is to protect you, but if you’re not sure about this or sure about me, we can go somewhere else. I can get a new detail assigned to you. Someone you’re more comfortable with. I can work the case from the outside if that’s what you want.”
“No.” Color drained from her face, almost making her skin translucent, and he had to shut down the urge to reach out for her. To put himself between her and the horrifying memories sure to haunt her for the rest of her life. Even if that was possible, he wasn’t the right man for the job. He wasn’t sure he ever could be as long as his own past followed on his heels. “I don’t want anyone else. I trust you.”
“Okay, then.” He picked up the bag and pushed the door inward, trying not to let her words go to his head. She trusted him to keep her safe, and he’d do whatever it took to keep it that way. Hinges protested from the weight of the heavy steel door as they stepped over the threshold. A pool of green lighting from the emergency exit sign above gave the walls an eerie glow. Finn hit the lights along one wall and maneuvered out of her way so she could get her bearings. The space wasn’t very wide. A hallway led from the entryway into a single bedroom and small bathroom at the back, but it’d be enough for the two of them until the feds caught their fugitive. He pointed to the dark duffel bag waiting on the end of the mattress. “I had Deputy Watson pack a few changes of clothes, toiletries from your bathroom and anything else he thought you might want. If you need more, just let me know. We have a set meeting location where we can hand off intel or items near here.”
She moved down the hallway, each step carefully placed along the tile as she approached the main room and stared down at the edge of the mattress. He noted the way she studied the single room, almost as though she was ensuring everything was as he said it’d be. The slim tendons between her neck and shoulders tensed as she ran her fingers over new queen-size bedding, but she didn’t ask about the fact there was only one bed for both of them. She didn’t have to. He’d be sleeping on the floor of the hallway with a few extra pillows and blankets he had stashed in the linen closet. Camille unzipped the bag and rifled through her things inside, then pulled away as if she’d been bitten by something.
Finn stepped to her side. “What’s wrong?”
“He packed my camera,” she said.
“I thought you’d li
ke to have it considering we might be here for more than a few days.” Finn slid his hands in his jeans pockets. “I know it’s not the same compared to the kinds of landscapes you were used to when you worked for Global Geographic, but who knows. You might find something worth shooting.”
He’d researched her work after she’d been put into witness protection. She was damn good. Good enough to work for the country’s leading nature magazine as one of the most sought-after photographers in the industry. Her online portfolio had been filled with the enthralling landscapes of Africa, Antarctica, South America and other locations he hadn’t been able to place. She’d swum with great white sharks, confronted a pack of feeding lions and hiked to the tops of mountains just for the chance to photograph an endangered species of feline that humans had never seen before. While anyone could go out and take a picture of a fox in the middle of the forest, she had the ability to give an animal a personality of its own through the way she focused on its eyes, or the angle she’d shot from. She captured impossible glimpses of what this planet was capable of with a kind of magic he hadn’t seen from anyone else. For years, she’d brought a bit of wild to people’s lives, a glimpse of what else was out there in the world, but now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen any new work. Not even around her home. Dread pooled at the base of his spine. Oh, hell. “Camille?”
“I haven’t...” She backed away from the bag, her pulse visibly throbbing at the base of her throat. She swiped her hand beneath her nose, and everything inside of him went cold at the heartbreak etched into her expression. “My life wasn’t the only thing that the Carver took from me, Marshal.”
* * *
HER LIFE HAD been split into two halves: before Jeff Burnes had tried to kill her, and after.
The Witness Page 2