by Lara Lacombe
It was a powerful temptation. But one he couldn’t risk. Not now.
Just focus on the case, he told himself. Thinking about Hannah Baker was a nice distraction, but that was all it would ever be. Maybe, when this was all over, he’d try to find out what was between them. But until he solved these murders, she was off-limits.
With a sigh, he grabbed a legal-size pad and divided it into columns—one for each of the victims. Then he started filling in details: name, age, sex, race, where they’d been found, their injuries. They were a disparate lot, but most of them had been patients at the Thomas Street clinic. He was willing to bet the other victims had some connection to the clinic as well—he just hadn’t discovered it yet. He added a note to his growing to-do list: get the victims’ medical records. Hopefully the clinic would surrender them without a warrant.
He flipped the page and wrote “nitrogen mustard,” then drew a circle around it. Then he wrote “ChemCure” and linked it to the center circle with a line. It was so simple on paper, but until he figured out just how the company was connected to his victims, it was all just speculation.
Could he use Marcia Foley to get what he needed? The thought of spending more time with the woman made his skin crawl, but if it got him the information he needed, it would be worth it. She had been all too willing to play the part of the temptress. What would happen if he called her bluff?
He stared at her card, debating his next move. This could go one of two ways: he could call and suggest they meet again, over dinner, as she’d suggested. They’d share a meal, he’d talk her up and try to keep her expectations down, and he may or may not walk away with useful information. That was the extreme version of “good cop.” The alternative was to set up an official meeting with Nate in tow, which would make it very clear he had no personal interest in her. It was probably the smarter thing to do, but if she felt as if he was blowing her off, she could retaliate by refusing to talk. He knew from experience that a scorned woman was not someone to be messed with—he’d seen several women who had turned in their husbands or boyfriends once they discovered the men in their lives had done them wrong.
Before he could make up his mind, his phone buzzed, signaling an incoming text. He glanced at the screen, frowning when he didn’t recognize the number. But the message got his attention: Someone is in my apartment.—H
He shot forward in his chair, adrenaline spiking in his system. H had to be Hannah. She was in danger.
Without stopping to think, he grabbed his weapon and shoved his feet into his boots. He typed with one hand, hardly stopping to look at the screen. Address?
He held his breath while he waited for her to respond. If she didn’t write back, did that mean the intruder had discovered her? And if that was the case, could he get there in time to keep her from being hurt?
A few seconds later, his phone buzzed again. Good. She didn’t live too far away. It shouldn’t take him too long to get there, but he knew better than most that in this type of situation, every second counted. He dialed in to the office while he drove, keeping one eye on the road so he didn’t hit anyone.
“This is Detective Owen Randall, badge number 5921. I’m calling to report a break-in in progress.” He rattled off Hannah’s address. “I’m en route and request assistance.”
“Roger that.” He heard the clicking of a keyboard as the dispatcher worked. “There’s a 911 call in progress from that address. Officers have already been dispatched.”
A swell of satisfaction rose in Owen’s chest. Good job, he thought, appreciating the fact that even in what had to be a terrifying situation, Hannah hadn’t lost her head.
“Understood. Please alert the officers I’m on the way.” The last thing he needed was to spook his own team and get shot for his troubles.
“Copy.”
He hung up and pressed on the accelerator, speeding to beat the yellow light. He could put his light kit on the roof to give him an excuse to drive recklessly, but he didn’t want the flashing strobe to alert the intruder to his presence. While he wanted Hannah to be safe, part of him hoped the intruder would still be there when the officers arrived. There was nothing quite as satisfying as catching a bad guy in the act.
I’ll be there, he texted, hoping the message would reassure Hannah.
Hold on, he thought, banking hard around a corner. Just hold on...
Owen didn’t bother to question the magnitude of his reaction after hearing Hannah was in danger. Later, when things had calmed down, he could stop to wonder just why he was so worried about a woman he barely knew. What it was about her that had broken through his professional detachment. But there was no time for that now. He had to get there, to try to protect her.
Before it was too late.
Chapter 6
Hannah huddled on the couch, trying to make herself as small as possible. Although the officers assured her there was no longer an intruder in her apartment, she didn’t feel safe. Sitting in her living room made her feel exposed and vulnerable, and she desperately wanted to crawl into her bed and wrap up in the covers.
A female officer sat next to her and offered her a gentle smile. “Ms. Baker?” At Hannah’s nod, she continued. “I’m Officer Benton. Can you tell me what happened here tonight?”
“Someone broke into my apartment,” Hannah replied, her voice shaking. “And they did this—” She gestured with her hand, encompassing the mess the intruder had left behind.
Her television had been pulled off its table and smashed on the floor. The lamps had been knocked over, their shades dented and crushed. Even her furniture hadn’t been spared—her kitchen table was on its side, and the chairs were in pieces. The floor was covered in a thin, sparkling layer of broken glass that crunched underfoot. I’ll never be able to clean up all the slivers, she thought numbly.
Officer Benton winced sympathetically. “It does look like whoever did this was going for maximum damage. I know it’s hard, but can you tell if anything is missing?”
Hannah glanced around, trying to see through the mess to determine if anything had been stolen. With so many things broken or out of place, it was almost impossible to know.
“I— I’m not sure,” she said. How could she be expected to focus at a time like this? It was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears—asking her to account for all of her possessions was too much to handle right now.
“Okay.” The officer’s voice was soothing. “Can you tell me if you have any enemies? Anyone who would want to hurt you?”
Hannah blinked at her. Enemies? The thought was almost laughable. She was a college professor who led a quiet life. Sure, the occasional student would get angry over a grade, but they tended to vent their rage in scathing reviews, not by breaking into her home and trying to destroy everything she owned.
She settled for shaking her head. “No. Not that I know of. I can’t imagine making anyone this angry.” She glanced around the room again and shuddered. The destruction was methodical and total, as if someone had tried to erase her very existence by smashing her things.
It took a lot of rage to do that. And anger like that wasn’t something a person could hide. Surely she would have noticed if someone had that kind of hatred for her.
Officer Benton looked as if she wanted to ask another question, but her attention shifted to the door of Hannah’s apartment. Hannah followed her gaze, and her heart kicked into high gear when she heard what had distracted the officer: heavy footsteps in the hall, growing louder by the second.
Hannah shrank deeper into the cushions, desperately hoping the couch would swallow her up. She glanced over at Officer Benton. The other woman looked alert but not panicked, a fact that made Hannah feel a little better. After all, what were the odds the intruder would come back now that the police were here? It was probably just one of her neighbors, or maybe another officer comin
g to help. Nothing to worry about, she told herself, trying hard to believe it.
A moment later, Owen’s tall frame filled the doorway. His eyes scanned the room, taking in every bit of the damage before landing on her. Hannah nearly cried out in relief at seeing him—in the aftermath of the police arriving, she had totally forgotten he was coming.
He crossed the room in a few long-legged strides and knelt in front of her. She reached out to grab on to him, and he folded her hands in his own. The feel of his warm skin against hers drove some of the chill from her body, and she felt her muscles relax. The tight band of panic that had kept her from drawing in a deep breath loosened and she inhaled, pulling in the comforting scents of summer night and warm male.
“Are you okay?” His voice was laced with concern, and her eyes prickled with unexpected tears. The thought that he genuinely cared about her welfare touched her deeply, and with her emotions already so close to the surface, it didn’t take much to make her cry.
Hannah settled for a nod, not trusting her voice. She already felt weak and powerless, sitting on the couch in her robe in the middle of her destroyed apartment. If she started crying, she’d lose what little dignity she had left.
“You must be Detective Randall.”
Owen spared the woman next to her a glance. “That’s right. Have you found anything?”
Officer Benton shook her head. “The perp was gone by the time we got here. We can try to dust for prints, but in this mess...” She trailed off, and Hannah realized the problem. With so much damage, it would be hard for them to find any evidence. And even if they did, there was no guarantee the person who’d done this was in their system. Without fingerprints on file to match against, it would be next to impossible to discover who had wrecked her home.
“Give it a shot,” Owen instructed. “I want to catch this guy.” He rose to his feet and gave Hannah’s hands a gentle tug. “I’m taking her with me so your team will have time and space to work.”
Hannah gingerly put her feet on the carpet, scanning the ground for broken glass before she put her weight down. She didn’t want to slice her foot open on a hidden sliver of glass. Owen noticed her hesitation, and before she realized what he was doing, he swept her up into his arms. The breath whooshed out of her, and her head spun from the quick change in position. “Which way to your bedroom?” His chest vibrated pleasantly against her side, and she fought the urge to squirm closer against him.
“Down the hall.” She pointed helpfully and he set off, carrying her over the debris with practiced ease, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. Perhaps he did, but for Hannah it was a novel experience. She’d never been held like this before, never been carried in a man’s arms or felt such a casual display of strength against her body. It was a heady sensation, and had the circumstances been different, she would have enjoyed it more.
Owen set her gently on the bed and took a step back. The loss of his body heat against her side left her cold, and she shivered slightly. Without even stopping to ask, he grabbed a blanket off the chair in the corner of the room and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Better?”
She didn’t have the courage to tell him that her chill had nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with him. Instead, she nodded. “Much. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He looked around the room, and Hannah followed his gaze, trying to see it through his eyes. She’d never been much of a decorator, instead favoring simple patterns and neutral colors. Her bedroom was no exception. The curtains in front of the sliding glass door were the color of beach sand, and they matched her bedspread. The only splashes of color in the room were the sea blue blanket wrapped around her, and her grandmother’s phoenix figurine.
“Doesn’t look like the intruder had much time in this room before the cops scared him off.”
It was true; her bedroom had been left largely intact, spared from the berserker destruction of the rest of her apartment. He had knocked a few books onto the floor, and her bedside table lamp was askew, but other than that—
Hannah sucked in a breath as she realized what she wasn’t seeing. The phoenix.
Owen raised a brow at her expression. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She lifted her hand while she walked around the bed, her steps slowing as she approached. She knew what she would find, but if she didn’t see it, she could still pretend everything was still okay.
Except it wasn’t.
Her grandmother’s phoenix sculpture lay in a glittering pile next to her bed. It had been smashed so completely, so thoroughly, there was no chance she could glue the pieces back together. Such a beautiful gift, gone in the space of a few careless seconds.
This time, Hannah didn’t try to hide the tears. They coursed down her cheeks in warm, wet streaks to drip off her chin. Then came the sobs, loud, pitiful sounds that she couldn’t stop. She was dimly aware of Owen’s arms around her, of him guiding her away and then lowering her back onto the bed. She didn’t try to fight, didn’t care where he took her. Nothing could change the fact that her grandmother’s gift, the symbol of her new life, had been wrecked into a million tiny pieces.
He probably thought she was silly to get so worked up over a broken glass figurine, but what he didn’t understand, what she couldn’t explain, was that it felt as if she had lost some of her fondest memories. Her grandmother had died not long after gifting the sculpture to her, and every time Hannah had looked at it, she’d felt the comfort of childhood memories wrapping around her. Now that was gone, and it felt as though she’d lost her grandmother all over again.
Gradually, Owen’s presence pierced the fog of her emotions. He held her close, his hand stroking her head and down her back while he murmured words of comfort. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to savor the contact for a moment. He was such a perfect combination of gentle and strong, and she marveled at his ready display of those seemingly disparate qualities. Jake, her former fiancé, had hated it when she’d cried. He’d always gotten a deer-in-the-headlights look and had searched for any excuse to get away, claiming he found her tears upsetting. Never in a million years would he have gathered her up and held her close while whispering soothing nonsense words in her ear. But Owen—strong, stoic Owen—hadn’t hesitated. He’d given her the space to cry and hadn’t tried to make her stop by offering false comfort or telling her that her tears were unnecessary. He just accepted them, and her, with no sign of annoyance or impatience.
Hannah took a deep breath, and he loosened his grip. She leaned back, feeling suddenly shy. What could she say now?
“You’re back.”
She nodded. “I am. Sorry about that.” She gestured to the floor with one hand while wiping her eyes with the other. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“You don’t have to explain.” His dark blue eyes were warm with understanding. “Sometimes you just have to let it all out.”
She tilted her head to the side and offered him a small smile. “You sound like you have some experience in that regard.”
“I do.”
Hannah remained quiet, hoping he would elaborate. When he didn’t, she said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. But she could tell by the set of his mouth that something had happened to him, something that had caused him to break down. And while she’d never want someone to experience pain, the fact that Owen had faced some kind of loss made her feel closer to him. He wasn’t just a tough, hard-to-read cop. He was a man, one who let a woman cry on his shoulder and seemed to understand why she might need to.
“Why don’t you get a bag packed. A few days’ worth of clothes and toiletries should do it.”
He was trying to change the subject and she let him, grateful for the distraction. “Where am I going?”
“There’s an extended-stay hotel down t
he street. I thought you might be more comfortable there for the next few days, while we gather evidence here. Unless you’d rather go somewhere else?”
She considered the question for a moment. There really wasn’t anywhere else for her to go. Her parents lived in Fort Worth, which was a six-hour drive north. And Gabby had just moved in with her long-term boyfriend—no way was Hannah going to crash on the couch while Gabby was setting up house. The hotel was as good an option as any.
“That will work,” she said, moving to the closet to swipe blouses and pants off hangers. Owen stepped out of the room to give her some privacy while she packed, a fact she appreciated as it gave her a few moments to gather her composure.
She hadn’t broken down like that since her accident, when she’d woken up in the hospital and the doctors had told her about her injuries. And while she normally hated to cry, she had to admit Owen was right—there was something cathartic about just letting all the emotion go. Definitely more healthy than trying to keep it all in.
The low rumble of Owen’s voice drifted into her room while she packed. Even though she knew he was waiting on her, Hannah spared a moment to close her eyes and listen. He was too far away for her to make out what he was saying, but the sound of his voice was reassuring.
When did that happen? she wondered. When did she start finding comfort in a relative stranger’s presence?
She shook her head. Now was not the time to worry about her growing dependence on Owen. After all, a stranger had invaded her home tonight and tried his level best to wreck everything she owned. Was it any wonder having a strong, protective man around made her feel better?
With a sigh, she zipped the duffel bag closed. Time to go to the hotel. Even though she felt too keyed up to sleep, it would be nice to spend some time in a quiet room, away from all this destruction.
“Ready to go?”
Hannah nodded, grabbing her bag as she turned to face the door and the man standing there.