by Tess Diamond
Gavin couldn’t tear his eyes off her. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch her—any part of her, just to remind himself what it was like. “I remember everything about you,” he said quietly.
Her tongue darted out, licking that lush lower lip, a nervous little tic that he found adorable.
The door to the back room swung open, disrupting the moment. “Here we are,” Mr. McCord said. “I’m afraid it might not be much help. The serial numbers do match the first set of earrings I sold to the gentleman I mentioned,” he said. “But he paid cash, both times. And it was two months ago, so I have no video of the sale. I’m so sorry.”
“How many pairs did you sell him?” Grace asked.
“Four in total,” Mr. McCord said. “I—Do you really think he killed a girl?” The old man looked very troubled.
“It’s just one of the leads we’re following,” Grace said. “Do you remember anything about this man? Age? Height? Weight? Coloring?”
“He was white,” Mr. McCord said. “Older. Not as old as me, but in his fifties, maybe? And he wore a hat—I remember because I said something to my wife about how men don’t wear hats anymore.”
“Like a cowboy hat or . . . ?” Gavin asked.
“No, one of those newsboy caps. He had it pulled down over his eyes. He . . .” Mr. McCord’s frown deepened. “He was trying to hide his face from my cameras, wasn’t he?”
Gavin sighed. “It’s likely,” he said.
“Oh, God,” Mr. McCord said. “This is horrible.”
“Do you think, if we brought you an FBI sketch artist, you could describe him?” Gavin asked.
“I can try,” Mr. McCord said. “I don’t know how helpful I’ll be, but I will try my hardest.”
“Here’s my card,” Gavin said. “We’ll give you a call to set up an appointment with the artist.”
Mr. McCord nodded. It was obvious the jeweler was shaken. “Why don’t you call your wife,” Gavin suggested. “Maybe close up early today. Spend some time at home.”
“I think I’ll do that,” Mr. McCord said.
“You’ve been very helpful,” Grace assured him. “We’ll be in touch.”
Grace and Gavin left the jeweler’s shop, the cheerful sound of the tinkling bell following them out into the street. But their expressions were anything but cheerful.
“Four pairs,” Grace said, voicing exactly the thing he was thinking. “That means . . .”
“He’s got two more kills planned. At least,” Gavin finished. “And who knows if this was the only jeweler he bought from?”
“He’s escalating. He went from killing far away to face-to-face in just twelve hours. That fast of a kill cycle usually means the killer’s devolving, but here . . .” She frowned, worrying at the edges of her silk cuffs as she thought. “I don’t think he’s devolving. He’s not getting sloppy or panicking.”
“He’s getting more violent. More personal,” Gavin said.
“He’s got plans,” Grace said, looking up at him, her face worried but determined. “We need to get in the way of those plans. Quickly. Or more people are going to die.”
“We’ve got to convince Harrison,” Gavin said.
“We’re going to need more than an old man’s recollections and a few serial numbers on diamonds,” Grace said. “And if we do it from headquarters, Paul’s gonna stick his head in to check on us and get pissed when he finds out I ignored him.”
“So what’s your suggestion?”
“You take Janice’s case. I take the Andersons. We comb through the evidence separately. We present our findings to Paul separately. But they’ll be the same profile. The same guy. He won’t be able to deny it when all the facts are in front of him in black and white. And he won’t be able to say we’re just feeding off each other’s take on the cases.”
“Good idea,” Gavin said. “That means I should drop you off somewhere so we can get to work. Where to?”
“My place,” Grace said. She punched in the address to the GPS.
“So you think Harrison’s gonna be pissed?” Gavin asked as he made a right toward Logan Circle, where she lived.
“I think he’ll get over it,” Grace said. “This thing he’s doing? The stubborn thing? It’s not an ego thing. Paul isn’t like that.”
There was a softness in her voice that made him pay attention, dread building in his stomach. Were she and Harrison an item? He hadn’t picked up on any heat between them, but maybe she was really good at keeping that away from the job.
“You two are close,” he said, and he knew it was awkward, but he couldn’t help it. Was she taken? He found himself hating the idea with a fierceness that shook him.
“He and my best friend used to be engaged,” Grace said, and something like relief flooded him. Grace was not the type of woman who would date her best friend’s ex-fiancé under any circumstances. “We’ve spent a lot of time together through the years.”
“You’re worried about him,” Gavin said, realizing this was where all her softness came from: concern for Harrison’s well-being.
“PTSD’s a bitch,” Grace said. “I see it in some of my kids at the center, and I’ve done work with vets and with agents who’ve suffered trauma or worked undercover. It can be a long road back. And there are always bumps in the road.”
“Harrison’s a good guy, and if he’s got a support system with you in it, I wouldn’t worry too much, Grace,” he said.
She smiled, a grateful, sweet smile that he’d never seen on her face before, and it made his heart thump too hard in his chest, like it wanted to tear right out of his rib cage. “I hope you’re right,” she said.
“Arrived at your destination,” the GPS chirped as Gavin pulled up to a well-kept brownstone. The place was beautiful, with a long flight of stairs leading up to the dark blue door.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
“Tomorrow,” Grace agreed, getting out of the SUV, but then she turned back, hesitant. “Thank you,” she said.
He frowned. “For what?”
“For having my back. For seeing what I did at the crime scene. For understanding about Paul.” She shrugged, her cheeks reddening. “For being you.”
Before he could say anything, she spun and hurried up the steps, then bent down to pick up a package on the porch before disappearing inside.
Gavin sat there for a moment, feeling both warm and dumbfounded. Grace Sinclair had a way of yanking the floor out from underneath him when he least expected it. He wanted nothing more than to march up those stairs, knock on her door, and kiss her the minute she opened it.
But it was too soon. There was too much work to be done.
She wasn’t ready. And he wanted to make sure the next time she was in his bed, she was there for good.
He pulled away from the curb and was driving down the block when his phone began to ring. When he saw it was Grace, he frowned.
“You miss me already?” he said into the phone.
“I’m really counting on you being a sneaky, very prepared former spy right now,” she said and everything inside him went cold, because her voice was shaking.
“Grace, what are you . . .” he started. He was already turning the SUV around, his fingers numb.
“Because I’m pretty sure someone sent me a bomb,” Grace interrupted. “And I’m holding it.”
Chapter 10
“I want you to stay very still,” Gavin said.
Grace licked her lips. They were dry, and she could feel her lipstick wearing off as she worried her lower lip with her teeth.
“This is really bad,” she said, trying to keep her hands motionless. She was still holding the package she’d picked up from the porch, trying to keep it as level as possible.
“What tipped you off it was a bomb?” he asked, bending down to stare at the box in her hands.
“The corners on the paper,” she said, her voice cracking as anxiety filled her. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, trying to cl
ear her mind. She had to stay calm. She couldn’t let the adrenaline take over. Her hands would shake.
Her hands couldn’t shake.
“The corners were folded too neatly. And then the handwriting . . . as if he wrote it with a ruler under the letters. They were too straight. It was meticulous and deceptive . . . like him. I knew the second I glanced down at the address.” She was babbling. She couldn’t help it.
“You should go,” she told him, her eyes darting around the room. “There’s no cover here if it goes off. You’ll—”
“Grace,” Gavin cut her off softly. He didn’t touch her—he couldn’t—but his voice wrapped around her like a blanket. Comforting. Soothing. “Breathe. Nice and slow. I will get you out of this. I promise. I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you.”
“But—”
“Grace,” he said again. “I’m in charge now, okay?”
Her eyes fluttered shut. Breathe, Grace, she thought. Trust him. You can trust him.
“Okay,” she said.
“Bomb squad’s on their way,” he reassured her. “They’ll be here as soon as they can. But we need to get it out of your hands and into the blast container.” He nodded at the bucket-like container he’d brought inside with him. “We don’t know if it’s pressure sensitive, so we need to do this carefully. Okay? You’ve gotta do everything I tell you, when I tell you.”
She almost nodded but then forced herself not to. No movement. “Okay,” she said again as sweat trickled down her collarbone between her breasts. “So, do you travel with bomb disposal equipment in your SUV all the time?” she asked, a pathetic attempt at a joke. “Is that a retired-spy thing?”
“I’m known for my explosive humor,” he said, deadpan, and it cheered her more than it should have as he grabbed the container and set it down at her feet. “Let’s just say there’s a story behind my bomb disposal kit. It involves unstable chemicals, chewing gum, ice cubes, and cheap dollar-store hair spray.”
“Who do you think you are, MacGyver?” Her voice trembled and he looked up, his eyes serious and sympathetic to her panic.
“We’re gonna do this nice and slow, Grace,” he said. “You’re gonna get as low as you can without moving your arms, and then you’re gonna carefully lower it into the container, nice and level, and set it down as gently as you can. And then you’re gonna scramble the hell away, as fast as you can. On my count, okay?”
“Wait,” she said. “Um . . .” She let out a deep breath, trying frantically to think. It could blow in her arms. It could wipe her out. Wipe them both out. Pink mist. That’s what bomb squad called it when there was nothing left of you.
“If you tell me to get out one more time, I’m gonna be pissed,” Gavin said. “I’m not going anywhere. I am not leaving you.”
“My art collection,” she said.
“You want to talk about your art collection right now?” Gavin asked, gaping at her.
“It’s worth a lot of money. It was my grandmother’s legacy. I just—Please, make sure that it gets dispersed the way it’s outlined in my will, okay? It’s supposed to go to the counseling center after I’m gone. And the royalties from all my books. They go to the center too. A special college fund for the kids. My friend Maggie Kincaid is the executor of my estate. I need you to make sure—”
“Grace,” he interrupted. “No,” he said firmly, reaching out and then stopping himself before he made contact with her cheek. His hands fisted, like it was physically painful not to touch her. “No dying today. You are not finished. We are not finished.”
“I just—” Grace didn’t know what to say. If these were her last words, they should mean something. Shouldn’t she be thinking about her parents? Her work? Her friends?
But all she could see was him. His eyes, reassuring and steady, his face somber and determined.
This was a man who would never let her fall. He would always catch her.
Trust him.
She licked her lips again. “All right,” she said. “Let’s do this. Get low. Then lower the box. Nice and steady. Set it down gently. Then scramble.”
“You got it,” he said. “On three. One. Two.”
Grace took a deep breath.
“Three.”
Chapter 11
He’d been through countless do-or-die scenarios. Four years in intelligence. Two years on bomb squad. Eight years in homicide. He’d been tortured. He’d been shot three times, stabbed twice, and he had the scars to prove it. Plus there was that one pesky failed poisoning incident during his Army years.
But he realized he’d never known true fear until he’d walked into Grace’s home and seen her holding what was very likely a bomb.
It had taken all his training, all those years of dangerous days, to keep himself steady and calm as he talked her through getting the box into the blast container. When she lowered the bomb inside, he closed it and grabbed her by the arm. He picked her up off her feet in his haste and she leaned into him as he ran out of the building.
The bomb squad truck pulled up just as they got to the bottom of the stairs, and the agents streamed out, half of them marching into Grace’s house, the other half scattering to alert the neighbors.
“Jeremy,” Grace said as a burly guy with silver hair and a scar through his eyebrow trotted up to her.
“Grace, you okay?” he asked, grabbing her arm, looking worried.
“Agent Walker covered me,” she said. “He talked me through it all. He has bomb squad experience.”
Jeremy’s eyes shifted to Gavin. “What’s the situation?” he asked.
“I found the package on the porch. I was so stupid. I didn’t think—I just picked it up,” Grace said. “It’s about the same size as the box the tea I buy from India comes in.”
“She got inside, realized what it could be, and called me,” Gavin finished. “We got it into the blast containment unit I keep in my rig. It doesn’t seem to be pressure sensitive, which means it’s probably on a timer.”
“Or our bomber’s around, with a detonator,” Jeremy said.
Grace shivered, looking over her shoulder. “I want to go back inside,” she said.
“No way,” Gavin and Jeremy said at the same time. The two men glanced at each other, sharing a rueful smile.
“Let me take care of it, scan it, and make sure it’s totally contained,” Jeremy said. “I’ll come right out when I’m done.”
“Be careful,” Grace said. “Jessica will kill me if anything happens to you.”
Jeremy smiled. “That she will,” he agreed. “I’ll be right back.”
“His wife’s a friend,” Grace explained. She folded her arms across her chest, feeling unbearably cold. “God, this is surreal,” she said. “Bomb squad milling around my rare books and antique couches.”
“You have a nice place, by the way,” Gavin said, trying to lighten the dark cloud on her face. “At least, what I could see of it before I started focusing on the bomb.”
Her lips pressed together, like she was trying not to smile. “Thanks,” she said dryly.
“It’ll be okay,” he said.
“I know,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just . . .” She looked up at the brownstone. “It’s my home,” she said.
This place was her sanctuary. The few glimpses that he’d gotten told him that in spades.
And someone had tried to violate that. Someone was very possibly trying to violate more than that. Gavin felt a burst of anger roar to life inside him as she let out a shaky breath, hugging herself. He wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to track down the man who’d scared her so much and make the bastard pay.
He wanted to never let Grace out of his sight again.
“Who would do this?” she murmured, seemingly to herself.
Gavin couldn’t help it any longer. He reached out and his hand settled in between her shoulder blades. She didn’t tense or move away. Instead he felt the muscles underneath his fingers relax for the first time as she looked up at h
im.
“Gavin—” she started.
“Grace!” Footsteps pounded toward them as Harrison came running up, looking as if he’d gotten the shock of his life. Gavin’s hand quickly fell away from Grace’s shoulder, and he stepped back a little, just in case. “I heard over the radio—are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Paul,” she said.
“Bomb squad’s in there?” he asked, making a move toward the steps.
“Paul, no!” Grace said, her voice so sharp that even Gavin’s head jerked toward her. “You are not going in there.”
“But I—”
“No,” she said firmly. “Do you want to trigger yourself?”
Gavin stared down at the ground, uncomfortable. This was a private conversation he had no right to be involved in. Grace was a psychologist. She understood this stuff better than he did. She was clearly worried about the PTSD that Harrison was dealing with after his last case, and he didn’t blame her. Sending a guy with bomb-related PTSD into a building with a bomb was a terrible idea.
Harrison was keeping it together well enough, but everyone in their line of work had triggers—things, sometimes innocuous ones, that reminded them of the worst moments, of the trauma, of the death that they saw. Gavin couldn’t stand the smell of oranges—they reminded him of his first homicide, where the father had murdered his entire family at the breakfast table. The orange juice had been knocked over, the smell rank and putrid by the time the bodies were discovered.
He’d remember that until his dying day. And every time someone offered him orange juice, he’d shake his head and he’d be back in that horror, just for a second.
“Give me a radio, then,” Harrison said curtly. One of the agents who’d evacuated the neighbors handed him one. “Jeremy, it’s Harrison. Where are we?” he asked.
“Looks like the box is lined with foil.” Jeremy’s voice crackled over the radio. “We can’t get a scan on it, so we’re going manual. Stand by.”
“Standing by,” Paul said.
“We’re hot, boss,” Jeremy said a moment later. “The device is crude as hell. Explosives are blast dynamite. He got them from a construction site, my bet. Two lead wires. Very basic. He probably put it together from diagrams online. Cutting the wires now. Stand by.”