by Cynthia Eden
The doors closed before Samantha had to answer. Because I’m trying to put some distance between us. You’re getting too close to me. I’m letting you past my guard.
I can’t do that. It isn’t smart. It isn’t safe.
Not for either of us.
* * *
THE ELEVATOR DOORS dinged when they opened in the parking garage. Samantha hurried out, her gaze automatically sweeping the area. It was early, so the visitors’ parking section contained only a handful of cars. The air was crisp and her steps seemed to echo against the concrete as she marched toward her vehicle.
She was almost at her car when she glimpsed the other woman. Standing against a heavy stone column, positioned under the security camera, the woman with the red hair and long black coat seemed to just be...waiting.
Samantha stilled. Her head turned as she moved to face the threat. “Are you all right?” she asked the woman. “Is there something I can help you with?” But her words were guarded because alarm bells were going off in her mind, triggering her instincts.
The way she’s positioned, as if lying in wait... This isn’t some woman who is having car trouble or—
“You’re an FBI agent, aren’t you?” the woman asked, and what seemed like excitement flashed in her eyes.
Samantha’s shoulders straightened. “Who needs to know?”
“You came to visit the victim.” A quick smile spread on the woman’s face. A pretty woman, classic features, porcelain skin and blue eyes. “Is she doing all right? Will she survive?”
Samantha took a step back and assessed the woman once more. The lady wore designer clothes—high-end, definitely pricey. Her red high heels gave her an extra three inches, but Samantha figured the woman was about five foot three. The way the redhead held herself, the confidence in her stare, the directness of her speech... “Are you a reporter?” Samantha asked. The obvious assumption, but...
“You were at the scene last night,” the woman said, nodding. “I recognized you. But you left before answering any questions. Did you leave because of your injury or because you were the one who pulled the trigger and killed George Farris?”
Samantha’s gaze swept over the woman, memorizing her. She didn’t know all of the reporters in the DC area, but she’d make a point of learning everything she could about this lady. “I have no comment for the press.”
The redhead’s lips thinned.
“What’s your name?” Samantha asked her.
“Hannah Broderick, with Channel Seven.” Her smile was broad. “You sure you don’t want to tell your side of the story? In cases like this, the last thing you want is for the public to think that they’re dealing with some trigger-happy agent.”
“We’re done with this conversation,” Samantha said flatly. She turned on her heel and headed for her car. She didn’t hear the sound of footsteps behind her. As she approached her little coupe, Samantha saw her own reflection in the driver’s-side window. Her fingers reached for the door handle and she found herself hesitating. Samantha glanced back—
The woman was gone.
The elevator doors dinged as they closed. Her gaze jerked toward the elevator bank and she saw the light gleam above them as the elevator rose. Her jaw locked and Samantha dug out her phone. She pressed the contact button for Blake, and when he answered, she said, “Watch yourself, partner. A reporter named Hannah Broderick is coming your way.”
CHAPTER FIVE
BLAKE CROSSED HIS arms over his chest and stared at the elevator bank. The doors dinged, and when they opened, he found himself gazing at a redhead with vivid blue eyes. She blinked when she saw him, surprise flashing on her face.
“Hannah Broderick?” She fit the description Samantha had given to him.
She nodded.
“Took you a little longer than I expected to arrive.” He glanced at his watch. “What happened? Did you have to search a few floors while you were looking for the victim?”
Her breath rushed from between her lips as she slipped out of the elevator. She came right toward him and touched his shoulder. “You spoke to the other agent.” Her voice was low and smooth. Probably supposed to be sexy, but he just found it annoying.
Mostly because a reporter was trying to sneak her way into an injured woman’s hospital room? Annoying as hell.
The elevator doors had closed behind her. He reached around the lady and hit the button to get those doors open once more. “You’re heading back down.”
Her eyes narrowed on him. “Was your partner the one who pulled the trigger or was it you?”
“Get on the elevator,” Blake ordered. “This is not the time or the place for a reporter.”
The fury in her stare probably should have burned him. “Don’t you think people deserve to know what happened?”
He advanced toward her. She backed up, seemingly an automatic reflex, and he walked her into the elevator. Then he pushed the button for the parking garage. “A killer was stopped, ma’am. That’s what happened. When the victim has recovered, if she feels like talking...then I’m sure your station will be contacted.” He backed out of the elevator. “Now, you have yourself a good day.”
The doors slid closed.
* * *
“FUCKING ASSHOLE.”
The elevator was playing some lame classical music that just grated in her ears. She hadn’t found the identity of the shooter, but...
I got close.
Going to the hospital had been pure genius. The news had just served up the name of the hospital for her in their last report, and she’d thought, If the victim is there, maybe the FBI will be there, too. She’d been right. The female agent had just walked right up to her.
She’d recognized the other woman. And since the big, dark-haired agent had been lying in wait for her in front of the elevator bank on the third floor...
The lady from the parking garage must have called him and tipped him off. Maybe he’s her partner.
A partner who would have been with the other woman when she stormed George’s house.
So she had two agents in her sights—one male and one female.
Which one had pulled the trigger?
Which one deserved payback?
She didn’t know, so maybe she’d just punish them both.
* * *
THE OFFICE DIDN’T feel right without Samantha there. The place just seemed...empty. Blake steepled his fingers as he stared at her empty desk chair. She’d be cleared in the shooting, of that, he had no doubt. He’d already told his side of the story that morning. Samantha should be back in action right the hell away and then—
The office door swung open. “She doesn’t exist.” Samantha stood there, her chest heaving, her eyes gleaming, faint spots of pink color on her cheeks.
His brows shot up as he rose to his feet. “Bass gave you the all clear to get back to work?” A smile curved his lips. When Samantha was close, there was more excitement in the air. More focus. More—
“Hell, no. I haven’t heard a word from him yet.” She just waved that matter away.
Blake blinked. “What?”
“The woman. The reporter.” She hurried toward him, nodding. “She doesn’t exist. There is no Hannah Broderick at Channel Seven. I went down there and talked to the producer myself. She doesn’t work for them.”
Tension snaked through his body. “Then who the hell was she?” He reached for the phone. He’d call the hospital and warn the guard to be extra vigilant just in case the lady came back.
But Samantha snagged his hand. Heat seemed to lance him at her touch. “I already contacted the hospital. They’re moving Missy to another floor and putting a second guard on her.” Excitement sharpened her voice. “I think it’s her.”
He stared at her.
“George’s trigge
r? Come on, you know I mentioned this to you only a dozen or so times. His victims were all a certain type.”
“Young, blonde, beautiful.”
“Petite,” she fired right back. “Delicate builds. Fragile in appearance.”
“She had red hair, Samantha.”
“Like that couldn’t be a dye job.” Samantha nodded. “Actually, the hair was what made me suspicious in the first place. Do you know how many redheads with blue eyes are roaming around? Natural ones?”
He shook his head, not having a clue on that one.
“Those are recessive traits—the red hair, the blue eyes. I read a story on this once, and only, like, one percent of the population has that combination. It’s like finding a freaking four-leaf clover or some crazy shit like that. Needle-in-a-haystack odds.”
Samantha had a photographic memory. He’d learned that early on. If she read something once...she had the facts forever.
“I’m wagering she’s a natural blonde.” Samantha nodded. “More than that, she’s the trigger. I know it. She was waiting for me in that garage. She wanted to know who’d killed George. She was there for a reason.”
He remembered the woman’s eyes. “Because she was pissed.”
Samantha nodded. “Anger like that is personal. We need to find her.”
She’d already found them.
“She’s tied to George Farris. We have to dig in his files...search his house... We have to find the connection to her because I think she’ll be coming after us again. Only, I don’t think it will be for a little chat this time.”
She was still touching his hand. Blake cleared his throat. “You think she wants vengeance?”
“She wanted to know if I’d killed George.”
His shoulders tensed. “She asked me the same thing.”
A faint line appeared between her brows. “She’s trying to figure out which one of us killed him, because she needs to know which of us she will kill.”
Sure as hell seemed that way. “Repercussions,” he muttered.
Her hand pulled back from him. “What?”
“That’s what your friend Latham warned me about.”
Surprise flashed on her face. “Cameron warned you about something? When?”
“Outside of your apartment last night. We had a little chat.” One that still didn’t sit well with him. Cameron Latham wasn’t a guy he’d ever see as his friend. Too much tension was between them. We both want Samantha. His voice was low as Blake said, “Cameron warned that George’s death could have repercussions. That someone close to George would react. Only, I didn’t think there was anyone left close to the man.”
“Someone was left,” Samantha said. “His trigger. The woman he’s been systematically trying to kill over and over again. The woman who helped to turn him into the killer he is.”
The woman who seemed to be gunning for them. “I don’t get it. If she’s the woman Farris really wanted to kill, then why didn’t he go after her? Why hurt those other women? Why torture those victims if the mystery lady was the one he actually wanted under his knife?”
Her gaze dropped. Samantha licked her lips, a quick, nervous swipe of her tongue. “Maybe he was afraid of her...or maybe he loved her.” A bitter laugh slipped from her. “Could be both. Loved her and feared her and he couldn’t take that last step, not with her. Because if he killed her, if he pushed her out of his life, then there would be no going back. She’d just be gone.” Her lashes lifted and she gazed at him once more. “She’s dangerous. We have to find her.”
The woman had been stalking Samantha in a parking garage. Fuck, yes, they were going to find her.
* * *
A YELLOW LINE of police tape sectioned off the entrance to the little house on the cul-de-sac.
The broken window had been covered with cardboard. All of the lights were off. The house appeared...dark.
Beaten.
Dead?
Samantha slammed her car door and walked around the vehicle. They hadn’t hidden their ride this time. They’d parked right in front of the house. Secrets were in there—secrets that she intended to find.
Their mystery woman wasn’t going to stalk her through the streets. That wasn’t a game that Samantha intended to play.
Blake gave a low whistle as he turned and looked at the quiet neighborhood. “Bet the neighbors here will be having nightmares for weeks.”
And they’d be trying to sell their property. No one wanted to be the one who lived next door to a serial killer.
Just not the kind of fame folks wished to have.
She didn’t head for the front door. Instead, Samantha went to the back of the house. A patio waited back there. Chairs. A fire pit. A wind chime. It was blowing with the evening breeze, an oddly peaceful sound in the middle of the madness.
The screen door was a few feet away and...
Samantha’s eyes narrowed on the screen. “Was that screen cut yesterday?” A small sliver, one near the lock.
Blake had followed her. His arm brushed against her shoulder as he pulled out his gun. “Don’t remember, but I’m not taking the chance that it wasn’t.”
She started to pull her own gun, but...
I don’t have it. Hell. Bass still had her gun.
Blake met her stare and nodded. “You stay behind me.”
Right. She’d be happy to follow the guy with the gun.
He reached for the screen door. It slid right open. Someone had definitely been inside. Could be some curious neighborhood kid who was a little too interested in death. Could be a nosy reporter.
Could be our mystery lady.
It was dark in the house, but light still spilled in through the windows. The chalk outline of George’s body was on the floor. A chair was overturned. But...
Everything else looked normal. Eerily so.
No one was in the living room. The kitchen was empty. Blake began to advance down the narrow hallway.
And Samantha heard the low moan. A weak cry, almost one that sounded pain-filled. Adrenaline flooded through her body. Blake rushed forward.
A weak cry. A woman who’d seemed deceptively fragile.
A woman who knew how to lure her prey to her?
“Don’t!” Samantha cried out.
Blake looked back at her. He was a few steps ahead of Samantha in that tight hallway.
The moan came again. And then...“Help...”
Blake nodded toward Samantha. Then he raised his voice and said, “FBI! This is a crime scene. Come out now, with your hands up!”
Silence.
Then...
“Help...” Faint. So weak.
Blake pressed his body against the wall. Samantha did the same. Their eyes met for a moment. She knew he was about to run into the room, gun aimed, ready to face the threat. She’d go behind him, unarmed, yes, but not defenseless.
He gave a fast hand signal to Samantha, and then he was rushing into the room, shoving the door open.
And Samantha heard a faint creak behind her. The softest of sounds.
Her head whipped around and she found herself staring into gleaming blue eyes.
“Shh...” The redhead whispered.
What in the hell?
“Got you,” the woman said.
Then she sprang at Samantha with a knife.
CHAPTER SIX
THE DOOR SLAMMED into the wall. “FBI!” Blake roared, but...
No one was in that little back room. No desperate victim. No scheming redhead. Just...
A phone was on the floor and—
“Help...” a voice said, a voice that came from the phone. A freaking recording. One that had been left to lure them into that back room. He whirled around. “No one is here, Samantha!”
Shock rolled through him.
Someone was there. The redhead was shoving a knife toward Samantha. He hadn’t heard the other woman—not so much as a fucking sound—but she was attacking. Going right for Samantha.
“No!” Blake yelled. He started to fire, but the two women lunged at each other. The knife sliced over Samantha’s arm, but she didn’t stop. She drove her fist into the other woman’s face. A hard hit that crunched cartilage.
The redhead howled and lifted the knife again.
Blake surged forward. “Freeze!”
She didn’t. The knife went straight toward Samantha again. But this time, he had a shot.
He took it.
The bullet blasted into the redhead’s shoulder. Blood splattered onto the wall, onto Samantha. The redhead whirled toward him, her face twisted with fury. “You...asshole.”
His grip on the gun was dead steady. “The next shot will be to your heart.” Amazingly, the woman was still clutching the knife. “Drop that weapon, now.”
The redhead moved her body, putting herself between him and Samantha and definitely not freezing. Did she think he wasn’t serious? Did she think that he wasn’t going to drive that bullet straight into her heart?
Then she started laughing. Laughing...
“Uh, Blake...” Samantha began.
“There are memories in this house,” the redhead said. “So many memories. Can’t let anyone else have my memories.” The knife—dripping Samantha’s blood—was pointed toward the floor.
“Blake.” Now Samantha’s voice was sharper. “I think we need to all get the hell out of here. Now.”
“Drop the knife,” Blake ordered. “I won’t tell you again.”
The redhead smiled at him. “Did you shoot George? The same way you just shot me? You did...didn’t you? I thought it was her...” The woman’s gaze darted back to Samantha. “But she still hasn’t even pulled her weapon. I came at her with a knife, and she didn’t even pull her gun. She doesn’t have the killer instinct.” She focused on Blake once more. “You’re the trigger-happy one. You’re the one who took him away.” She shook her head. “Guns are so cold. You can’t feel the pain with them. Can’t feel the split of the flesh beneath your hand.”