Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9)

by Laura Griffin

  Water seeped into Tara’s eyes, and she blinked it away. Her nose felt raw, and her ears ached with cold. Inside her gloves, her fingers were stiff.

  The CSI switched off her flashlight. “Okay, that’s it,” the woman said.

  They’d reached the trailhead again. In the nearby parking lot, giant white klieg lights illuminated the scene as the last members of the evidence response team packed their kits into vans and collapsed the open-sided tent that had served as their temporary headquarters.

  “Agent Rushing?”

  She turned around to see the team leader, a lanky forty-something who looked skeletal in the glare of the lights.

  “We’ll start with that tire impression.”

  Tara looked at him numbly.

  “I should have something for you by late morning,” he added.

  Something, such as a vehicle. Likely the same pickup truck the UNSUB had used before. Tara wasn’t sure what good it would do, but she nodded anyway. “Thanks.”

  “And let me know if you recover anything new at autopsy, trace-evidence-wise,” he said. “I have some pull at Quantico, so I can put in a call, speed things along for you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  He gave a crisp nod. “No problem. Good night.”

  It was a pointed statement, and she knew what he really meant was that she needed to leave now. It was after two, and she’d been testing the team leader’s patience by hanging around until the bitter end, as if she might be able to show some of the world’s most highly trained crime-scene technicians a thing or two.

  Tara trudged to her SUV just as the lights went out, throwing the parking lot into darkness. She climbed behind the wheel and looked around. Everyone was gone—the police, the sheriff’s deputies, the other agents, including Jacobs with his grim mouth and disappointed eyes.

  Tara navigated her way back to the main road and saw that even the last pushy reporter had packed it in for the night. Only a lone police unit remained stationed at the park entrance. The officer sat in his vehicle, his face aglow as he gazed down at his cell phone.

  The rain picked up. Tara adjusted her wipers. She headed back to town with her fingers frozen on the steering wheel. Several rigs passed her, splashing copious amounts of water at her windows as they roared by.

  She took the exit for Dunn’s Landing and drove through town. The gas station was dark. The Waffle Stop. The motel. Even the neon sign was off, probably because no one at Big Pines had given a thought to turning it on after the sheriff pulled up to break the news.

  Tara parked at the edge of the motel lot and sat there in the dimness. She pictured Leo Marshall in the interview room at the police station. He’d looked pale and wet and stricken, as though a lifetime’s worth of grief had rained down on him in the few short hours since he’d learned of his daughter’s death.

  Tara pushed her door open and leaned out, sure she’d be sick. But it wouldn’t come.

  She crossed the parking lot, not bothering to bow her head against the rain as she was already soaked to the skin. M.J.’s room was dark, but a light glowed in Brannon’s window.

  “Hey.” She turned to see him stepping out from the vending-machine alcove. He still wore his suit, but the tie had disappeared. He held up a bag of Cheetos. “Join me for dinner?”

  She stepped beneath the overhang, which offered only slight protection from the drizzle.

  “No. Thank you.”

  “You okay?” He walked closer.

  “Fine. Just tired.”

  “You sure?”

  It was a loaded question, and they both knew it. This was a familiar setup for them. All that pent-up tension after a raid or a takedown, all the suppressed energy that wanted release. But the thought of touching another person right now made Tara’s skin crawl.

  “I’m sure.” She turned around and dug for her key card, hoping to hear receding footsteps as he returned to his room. All she heard was rain on the blacktop.

  “Tara.”

  She turned around.

  “There was nothing you could have done.”

  Her stomach tightened as she looked at him standing there in the light of the Coke machine. “Good night,” she said, and let herself into her room.

  She shut the door and leaned back against it. The room was cold and silent. Wan light from outside seeped through the gap in the curtains, casting a band of gray over the bed and the wall. Tara tipped her head back and stared up at the water-stained ceiling. She felt wet and frozen to her very bones. Her gaze drifted over the dismal space, and she remembered another cheap room and another cheap dresser with a yogurt cup sitting on top of it. Her mind flashed back to a pair of wide, dark eyes.

  Where are they? You can tell me. Where are all the girls?

  They’re gone.

  Tara bit her lip. Too late that day and too late now.

  Her chest squeezed, a tight fist of panic. She pushed away from the wall and stripped off her windbreaker. It was drenched. Her blazer, too. She pulled off her shoes and her holster, her shirt and her pants and her bra and her panties and her sodden socks. And then she stood naked in the frigid room, engulfed in silence except for the drumming rain and her own chattering teeth.

  In the bathroom, she turned on the shower. Before it could heat, she stepped into the stall and stood under the spray as the water went from cold to cool to lukewarm. Her legs quivered. Her stomach roiled. She leaned her forehead against the stall and squeezed her eyes shut as the fist in her chest tightened again. She slid down to the floor, pulling herself into a ball as the spray pummeled her back, but the tremors wouldn’t stop. Finally, she reached up and turned the knob. The bathroom went silent, and she huddled in the darkness in a cloud of steam. She wanted to retch. Or cry or punch or scream, but all she could do was clutch her knees to her chest and shiver, and she felt like the girl, the one she’d found beneath the sink, and she knew she was that girl, at least sometimes, more often than she could stand to admit. And she felt like her now, small and shaken, without the faintest spark of will left to overcome the dark.

  This requires a new best.

  Mark was right. And there was nothing she could do besides get up in a few hours and throw herself into the work and try to do what she’d failed to do today. And the day before. And the day before that. And she didn’t know whether she had it in her. She felt so alone—all her life she’d felt it, the deep chasm that separated her from other people.

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the burn of tears. They came anyway, sliding down her cheeks and chin and neck as she hugged her knees and felt the sobs well up in her throat, great heaving sobs that made her ribs ache as she fought to hold them in.

  Something pounded.

  She lifted her head and blinked into the darkness. It came again, a persistent thud from the other side of the room.

  She closed her eyes again, futilely wishing it away, but it didn’t stop. It grew louder as she climbed to her feet and fumbled for a towel. She wrapped it around herself and padded across the carpet.

  She stood at the door swiping the wetness from her cheeks, and she knew it didn’t matter at all.

  “Tara.” His voice was muffled.

  She pulled the door back, and Liam stepped inside, bringing about five gallons of rainwater with him. He turned on the light, and she flinched.

  “Shit,” he said, gazing down at her.

  She switched off the light, and those big arms came around her, wrapping her in the cold leather of his jacket. She tried to pull away, but he squeezed tighter.

  “Hey.”

  “I want to be alone,” she said against his shoulder.

  “Bullshit.”

  Her knee came up fast, and he turned, shielding himself even as his arms trapped her.

  “Let me go.” She pushed against him, but his arms tightened until it wasn’t an embrace at all but a hold. “I mean it, Liam.”

  “Just calm down a minute.” He loosened his grip a fraction. “Okay?”

&nb
sp; She closed her eyes and stood rigid as the cold wet of his jacket saturated her towel. He tucked her head under his chin.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  She jerked away from him and punched his shoulder. “Stop saying that!” She swung again, but he caught her fist.

  “What, you think you’re the only one trying, Tara? Win or lose, it’s all on you?”

  “It isn’t a game.”

  He forced her arm down to her side and pulled her in close again, and the tears were back, mixed with fury now because she could practically feel the pity emanating from him. He was here out of sympathy, and it ticked her off, and she tried to pull away, but he kissed her.

  He smelled like rain and wet leather. His clothes were freezing. But his lips were warm, and she kissed him back, wishing she didn’t want what he was offering, wishing she didn’t need it, but she did. He’d called her a liar, and he was right. For once in her life, she didn’t want to be alone. She wanted him, and the sharp intensity of it scared her. He smelled so good, and she was so tired of feeling alone all the time. She needed the connection with him, however brief, even if it was only about lust or tension or pity. She needed it anyway.

  She kissed him deeper, and his arms loosened as if he sensed she was done resisting. His hands slid down to splay across her back, pulling her close, and she felt the cold pressure of his jacket through her thin towel. She slid her arms around his waist, feeling the warm flannel of his shirt and the hard body beneath. She felt cold to her core, but he was vital and alive, and she wanted to burrow against him and absorb his heat until the shivers went away for good.

  He pulled back and looked down at her, breathing hard, and she saw the tense outline of his jaw in the dimness. He caught her hand and pulled her to the bed. The old mattress gave a loud squeak when he tipped her back and hovered over her as he struggled out of his jacket and threw it aside.

  And then he was kissing her again, only it didn’t feel like kissing but a feverish fusion of mouths and bodies. She twined herself around him and let her hands run over all the warm flannel. The space between them seemed filled with humidity as they kissed and groped, and then he pushed her towel away and she felt a rush of cool air against her skin. He stroked her breast, gazing down at her, then dipped his head down to kiss her with his hot mouth. She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him in. There was something thrilling about being completely bare under him while he was fully dressed, and the cold denim of his jeans rasped against her thighs. His hands glided over her breasts, her hips, her knees, rubbing warmth into everything as she struggled to pull him closer, as close as she possibly could.

  He leaned back again, and her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt until her hands could access the firm planes of his torso. His skin was damp—from rain or exertion, she didn’t know—and she leaned up to lick the column of his neck. He tasted salty, and she nipped him there. He reared back.

  “Hey, now.” He clamped her wrists beside her head and smiled down at her in the dimness, and she pushed against the heavy weight pinning her. “Wait.”

  “No.” She arched against him again, and his smile fell away, replaced by a determined look. He dipped his head, and the stubble of his jaw scraped against her sensitive skin as he kissed her and teased her until her body started to throb and she felt the tremors coming.

  “Liam.” Her hands were trapped, and all she could do was arch against him. “Liam.”

  He pulled back and seemed to read something in her face. He released her hands and tugged the wallet from his jeans, taking out a condom as she hurriedly went to work on his belt.

  “Wait,” he said tightly.

  She heard the rasp of his zipper as she waited, breathless and dizzy. He planted his knee between hers and wrapped his arm around her waist, shifting her back on the bed. She pulled his head down to kiss him as he pushed roughly inside her.

  She clutched him as hard as she could, pulling him in closer as he struggled to pull back. He won the battle again and again, but the fight kept going as the tension built. He made a low moan deep in his chest, and she felt a sudden swell of relief because however this had started, all trace of pity was gone now, and what she felt from him was pure male desire as he drove himself into her over and over until his powerful body quivered under her hands. And she felt a rush of excitement knowing that she could push him to the breaking point. She surged against him even harder and felt his control snap, and they both went over the edge together.

  He fell against her, crushing her under him. But it was a blissful crushing, and for a moment she lay utterly still, not even breathing.

  He pushed himself up on his elbows and gazed down at her, letting a cool draft of air between them.

  The bed creaked as he climbed off and the two sides of his shirt fell together, making him look totally clothed as he gazed down at her naked body. He combed his hand through his hair, then turned and stepped into the bathroom.

  She lay there, catching her breath and listening to the rain thrumming outside. She gazed up at the ceiling as a chill swept over her skin. The warm oblivion was gone almost as quickly as it had come, and she was once again by herself in a bleak hotel room with the sadness bearing down on her. She closed her eyes and felt the searing guilt and knew nothing would fix it. No distraction was big enough.

  Tears welled again, and a lump of frustration lodged in her throat. Would it always be this way? Being a woman and a cop? She tried so hard to be like the men, who could brush off catastrophe by pounding back a few beers or hitting the range or having sex. She could do all those things, and she did, but at the end of it all she still wanted to cry.

  She rolled onto her side and listened to the faucet go off. Then he was back again, and she heard him picking up his jacket from the floor. He was leaving now. Which was good. A relief, really, because she didn’t want to hash it all out.

  She heard a dull swoosh as his jacket hit the chair. The sound was followed by a high-pitched clatter and then a low rumble as the heater switched on beneath the window. He stood beside the bed and stripped off his shirt.

  She sat up on her elbows. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting some heat going.” The bed squeaked as he sat down to take off his boots. “It’s a damn icebox in here.”

  She watched him undress, slightly shocked to realize he’d made love to her with his boots on.

  Made love. She felt a dangerous flutter in her heart. What the hell was this? She never used words like that, not even in her own head.

  His gaze settled on her. She watched him, heart pounding, hoping he didn’t share his brother’s seeming ability to read minds.

  He scooped up her legs and pulled down the covers. He slid into bed beside her, and she felt a pinch in her chest. He was staying. And she wanted him to.

  She turned to look at him as he eased onto his side, propping himself on his elbow. He rested his palm on her stomach, and she felt a warm shiver.

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “No.”

  She shifted her gaze to the ceiling, and the goddamn tears were back. She closed her eyes and fought against the burn, concentrating on the rain outside as she waited for the knot in her chest to loosen. After a few moments she was pretty sure she had control.

  She avoided his gaze and rested her hand on his chest. It was beautiful and sculpted, the obvious result of hours and hours of work. She traced a finger over his shoulder and the raised welt on his deltoid. An entry wound. Brannon had one, too. A souvenir from Iraq.

  She felt guilty for thinking of someone else while Liam was naked beside her.

  “Is this why you took a medical discharge?” She looked at him in the shadows, and his eyes were dark and luminous.

  “You’ve been checking up on me.”

  She didn’t respond. She wanted him to talk so she could hear the low timbre of his voice.

  “It was Afghanistan.” He folded his arm behind his he
ad and seemed to settle in for the story. “I was on PSD for a visiting congressman. We were ambushed by some local police.”

  It was years ago. She remembered seeing the event in the news.

  “Basically I’m alive because Jeremy was on overwatch that day. He’s a crack shot. Never misses.”

  A chill skittered down her spine. “So Jeremy killed him?”

  “Took out both of them, two shots. But not before they got off a few dozen rounds. There were civilians everywhere, lots of injuries.” He paused. “It was a bad day.”

  His tone was solemn, as though it was still hard to think about all these years later. And yet here he was telling her about it, opening up as though . . . as though what?

  Tara wasn’t good at these kinds of exchanges—pillow talk where people bared their souls. But she’d asked him. So maybe she wanted more from him, more than she dared to admit to herself. She wanted to know about his scars, his fears, what made him tick. She knew some things, but now she was deeply curious.

  She looked at his strong profile in the dimness and felt his fingers tracing gently over her arm.

  He turned to look at her. He brushed a curl away from her eyes and kissed her forehead. His gaze on her was dark and intent. She could see the concern there, maybe even tenderness, and it sent her mind in wild directions. This wasn’t what she’d thought or expected. She didn’t have a playbook for this.

  And only hours ago he’d been dodging her calls. She’d thought he never wanted to speak to her again, and she’d actually been fine with that.

  Or at least she’d told herself she was.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I thought you were mad at me,” she said softly.

  He slid his hand around her waist and pulled her close. “I was.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR