Too Close to Home

by Lynette Eason

  The touch of a hand on his arm brought his head around to see Samantha’s compassionate, tear-filled eyes silently asking him if he was all right. No, she knew he wasn’t all right, she was saying she was there for him.

  He shook his head, sighed, and turned away, rejecting her comfort. He didn’t deserve it, didn’t want it. He looked around the chapel. Somebody else’s chapel. Because the church was still a crime scene and there’d been nowhere else to have Andrew’s funeral.

  Samantha didn’t move from his side. He wondered why. He’d pushed her away so many times since the shooting two days ago—when all he really wanted to do was pull her close, bury his face in her shoulder, and sob. But he’d pushed everyone away, including Jenna and his mother.

  “Connor . . .”

  Everyone had left the church. Even Angie, sheltered beneath the loving care of her family, had walked past him, eyes blank with the disbelief of what she was living. They’d all gone to the burial.

  “Not right now, Samantha.”

  “Yes, right now.”

  He heard the edge in her voice. Why didn’t she just leave him alone?

  But she said, “You’ve pushed everyone who loves you away. Everyone who wants to be there for you, to support you. Andrew wouldn’t want that for you.”

  Snakelike, he whipped his head around to spout, “Andrew wouldn’t want any of this. He wouldn’t want to be dead, leaving behind the people who loved him. And he sure as—” He swallowed the curse word. Even he couldn’t bring himself to curse in God’s house. “He sure wouldn’t want to be remembered in a borrowed church. A church not even his own because some madman shot it up.” His anger dissipated almost as quickly as it had risen, leaving him feeling that dead numbness he’d clung to for the last two days.

  Samantha didn’t even flinch at his outburst. Instead, she said, “Oh, I don’t know. Andrew loved the Lord more than anything. I don’t think he minds his funeral being held in a ‘borrowed’ chapel. Just one more thing he and Jesus have in common.”

  Connor swallowed twice. “What are you talking about?”

  “After Jesus was taken down from the cross, he was buried in a borrowed tomb. The King of kings didn’t even have his own grave. So—” she shrugged—“I wouldn’t think Andrew would care one bit about where his funeral was held.”

  Connor simply stared at her. “But Jesus didn’t stay there very long, did he? Andrew’s not coming back.”

  Surprise darkened her eyes. “No, he didn’t, and no, Andrew’s not. But Andrew’s not there either. Yes, his physical body is, but his spirit isn’t, the part of what made Andrew, Andrew, isn’t in that casket.”

  “God could have stopped it. He could have stopped it all, but he didn’t. It’s my fault. It was my idea, drawing the killer out. Even with a vest on, Andrew wouldn’t have had a chance against that rifle, but it might have slowed the bullet somehow. Why didn’t Andrew have his vest on? We agreed to wear vests. I never should have—”

  Enough was enough.

  “Don’t make Andrew’s death about you,” Samantha told him, her tone gentle, her words scorching.

  Confusion mingled with shock at what he probably thought was a harsh statement. “What do you mean?”

  “God didn’t do this to punish you or because he’s mad at you, or whatever it is that’s going through your mind right now. He didn’t do it at all.”

  He jerked as if she’d slapped him. His eyes narrowed, slid from her face to the stained-glass window. Through clenched teeth, he ground out, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I?” Her hand covered his. He pulled away.

  Samantha sighed. “Look, you don’t own the market on grief, pain, and anger. I know you’re hurt, you’re mad, you’re asking why. But for one thing, Andrew was a big boy, if he chose not to wear his vest . . .”

  He turned on her, almost shouting the words in the stillness of the small chapel. “What do you know about it? Andrew was my best friend. The brother I never had. What do you know?” He folded his arms on the back of the pew in front of him, lowering his forehead to rest it on them. This time he whispered, “What do you know?”

  Tears pricked behind her eyes. She wanted to cry for him, to hug him and tell him it would get better. But that wouldn’t be fair. It would get better, but he’d also hurt for a long time. “I know, Connor, trust me, I know.”

  For a moment he didn’t move, then he looked at her, really looked at her for the first time since the shooting. “Your sister.”

  “Yeah.” She blew out a sigh and looked away from him, the memories edging her to the point of tears once again. “Yeah.”

  “But Andrew? Why him?”

  “Better him than you.”

  “What a lousy thing to say!” He stood, ready to storm out.

  She grabbed his hand, stopping him. “I didn’t say that to be mean, Connor. Andrew’s in heaven. Where would you be right now if that bullet had found you?”

  His mouth worked, his Adam’s apple bobbed. No words came out.

  Samantha took pity on him. “Come on, let’s go to the graveside. I know you said you didn’t want to see him buried, but I think you need to be there.”

  The Agent leaned back in the corner of the pew, hidden from sight by a large flower arrangement. The funeral had been— interesting. Filled to capacity, they’d had an overflow room set up with a large screen. Every officer from miles around had been there.

  Cops, cops everywhere and not an arrest in sight.

  He almost giggled at his silly thought.

  He hadn’t wanted to come to the funeral, but Boss had insisted. The last two mourners had just left. Samantha Cash and Connor Wolfe. Yes, he knew them. Knew everything about them. And had for a long time. He figured the information would come in handy at some point, since they were the officers trying to catch him, to stop him from fulfilling his calling, his destiny.

  The Agent wondered if he should go watch the casket be lowered to the ground, but decided against it. They’d be watching for him. Someone who was out of place, didn’t fit in. He might even be recognized, his presence questioned.

  No, that wouldn’t do at all. He rose, stuck a hand in his pocket, and strolled to the small chapel’s single door at the back. Satisfaction gripped him. He’d shown them he wasn’t as powerless as they’d thought.

  He hoped they got the message, that they now had a healthy respect for him.

  Hmm. Well, if not, he could always kill them one by one.

  Or, he could send another little message to Connor Wolfe. He rubbed his chin. Yes, one message after another until they gave up and realized they couldn’t win. Then everything would get back to normal.

  Yes, another message. That was the next step.

  It was as simple as that.

  Jenna slammed her body across her bed, using her backpack as a pillow; the key chains dug grooves into her check, but she didn’t care. Restless, she flipped over and stared at her ceiling. Then looked at her computer sitting over by the wall. She hadn’t been online for a couple of days. Not with the craziness of Andrew dying and the knowledge that she’d come very close to death at the hands of some crazed gunman. She expected to feel something more than just sad. Sad and . . . numb. Andrew had always been kind to her, and just a few months ago, she’d been a bridesmaid at their wedding because her dad was Andrew’s best friend.

  But she just felt . . . sad. And maybe a little angry.

  And completely exhausted. Like she could sleep for years.

  Weird.

  She’d overheard her dad talking to Samantha. He thought the whole shooting thing had something to do with the case he was working on.

  Why couldn’t he just be a normal, nerdy accountant? Maybe then her mom would still be alive. Anger pulsed through her at the thought. Was it possible to hate someone and love him all at the same time?

  Sometimes that’s how she felt about her dad. She’d been scared to death when all that shooting had started and her d
ad had been outside. The relief she’d felt when she’d seen him standing there, handing over the baby to its mother, had made her knees go weak for a minute. She’d wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him she loved him so she’d run to him—and stopped, shuddering at the fury radiating from him.

  He’d looked her in the eye and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, are you?”

  “I don’t have any bullet holes.” Then he’d watched the ambulance take off, his shoulder set, lips tight, eyes hard. He’d looked at Samantha. “Will you see she gets home safely?” Her grandmother had stayed home with her grandfather. Thank goodness they hadn’t been there.

  Sam had nodded, still stunned, seeming to be in some sort of limbo state.

  Her dad hadn’t said thanks, hadn’t said he was glad she was okay. Hadn’t hugged her.

  Jenna looked at her computer once again, then got up to cross to the desk and plant herself in the chair. She moved the mouse, typed in her password, and saw she had a dozen IMs. Several from 2COOL2BLV. Three from Patty. One from Bradley. That was a surprise. Hmm.

  Which one?

  2COOL.

  2COOL was always there when she needed him.

  Samantha studied the screen before her. She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t focus on anything but the case. Two days had passed in a blur. After the funeral, she watched Connor climb into his Mustang and pull away from the church, Jenna silent and still in the passenger seat.

  Yesterday, she’d gone to see Angie. Her love for Andrew was strong. Her faith even stronger. She would survive. But she was terribly worried about Connor and Jenna. As was Samantha. It was Thursday morning and she’d heard nothing from Connor in the past two days. She’d called him and left him a message that had gone unanswered. There was nothing else she could do.

  Except work. Study everything they had. Find every ounce of evidence on the computers and do one more desperate search to come up with something new.

  And do all she could to help find Andrew’s killer.

  She wanted to know about those doctors’ reports on the girls, and they still needed to talk to Alyssa Mabry. She had no doubt Connor would be at work, buried to his eyeballs in paperwork, going over every scrap the crime scene guys had gotten from the church.

  He wouldn’t take a break, would work tirelessly, would focus on nothing but finding Andrew’s killer.

  And Jenna would be left alone to fend for herself once again— with a personal bodyguard, of course. It just wouldn’t be her dad. Before Andrew had been killed, she’d seen progress in Connor and Jenna’s relationship. Now that progress would come to a screeching halt. Unless Samantha did something about it.

  But that really wasn’t her place. Sure, she was very attracted to the man, and sure, she’d love to act on it in spite of the fact that he was a cop and she’d promised herself she wouldn’t date a co-worker. But that was a moot point anyway. How could she take even a minute of Connor’s time from Jenna when the girl needed him so much right now?

  However, Samantha had the sneaking suspicion that Jenna was depressed but didn’t feel like she could broach that with Connor any time soon.

  Sighing, she tightened the band on her ever-present ponytail and looked around. Repairs had been made to her sliding glass door, and now she had brand-new blinds that had stayed closed ever since she’d returned last night. After Andrew’s funeral, she’d stayed one more night with Jamie. Then she’d run out of excuses. It was time to come home.

  After four more hours of worthless digging into hard drives and slack space, resurrecting emails thought to be dead and gone from internet servers, and finding nothing related to the case, but plenty about the girls’ lives, she shut down the computer and walked into her tiny kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

  As she drank the cold liquid, she considered the fact that she could find nothing. Very strange. Strange enough to make her sit up and take notice. No teenager was that good with a computer.

  Okay, maybe one or two, but all six of the girls? Savvy enough to wipe out practically everything they’d done on it? It was as if they’d been coached how to clean up a hard drive. How to erase emails, how to completely wipe the thing clean of any “footprints” they might have left behind.

  Weird. She took another swig and considered everything. No, the more she studied the computers, the more she was sure that they’d all been accessed remotely. She’d compiled a list of IP addresses. Three of the six had a common one. But she wanted to know if the other computers had the same strange IP address.

  She wondered if she should call Connor and ask him if he’d gotten the doctors’ files on the girls and had he found anything. Or call Tom and see what he was up to and if there was anything he was working on she needed to know about. Or, call Jamie and see if she was interested in grabbing a bite to eat and then going back to her place to sleep for the night.

  Because being alone in her apartment was downright creeping her out. She kept waiting for the explosion of glass, the thud of the bolt hitting her wall, the sting of shards piercing her skin.

  Shuddering, she reached for the phone just as her doorbell rang and scared the daylights out of her.

  Heart pounding, telling herself to relax for crying out loud, she stuck her eye up to the peephole and gasped.

  Connor.

  Gathering as much composure as she could, she opened the door. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He just stood there, looking at her like she was some specimen on a slide.

  She shifted. “Um, you want to come in?”

  He blinked. “Yes. If you don’t mind.”

  So polite. So distant. So . . . un-Connor-like. What was going on?

  Instead of asking, she backed up, pulling the door with her, making room for him to enter.

  As he slipped past her, Samantha inhaled his freshly showered scent, watched his shirt stretch taut across finely tuned muscles. He worked out a lot, she knew. She’d wager he’d been spending a lot of time in the gym over the last couple of days.

  Not necessarily just to work out, but to work through. She hoped he’d been successful. But by the look of his eyes, he had a ways to go. He lowered himself on the couch and looked at her laptop, powered up, the notepad and pen. “Working?”

  “Yes. I can’t seem to focus on anything else.”

  He quirked her a sad smile. “I know what you mean.”

  “How’s Jenna?”

  He shrugged. “She’s dealing, I think. I offered to let her talk to a counselor, but she just rolled her eyes and went to her room. She did tell me she was sorry about Andrew, but . . .” He cleared his throat and nodded toward her laptop. “So, did you find anything?”

  Sam could take a hint. “Possibly. I have a hunch I’m working on. Here.” She handed him the IP address. “I’ve got this IP address. I’ve put a trace on it. It was on three of the computers. I haven’t had a chance to check the other three yet, but if they all have that in common, my guess is that this guy managed to get into their computers from a remote location.”

  “Great work, Samantha. Let me call it in and have someone else trace it, I want you to go with me.” He picked up his phone and dialed, reciting the IP address to the person on the other end. He hung up and said, “Hopefully, we’ll hear something soon.”

  “I was just getting ready to call you and ask if we could go talk to Alyssa Mabry. She’s home now and we need to get over there and question her. I feel like she could give us some new insight into what was going on with Miranda. Maybe even give me a clue about going in a different direction with my search of her computer. Although, to be honest, I think I’ve found the biggest clue. This guy was accessing their computers from somewhere. Now, we just need to track down the location and see what we can turn up.”

  For the first time since Andrew’s death, a little bit of life sparked in Connor’s eyes. “That sounds like a good idea. I was going to have to track her down today anyway—now’s as good a time as any. I’ve still got
her parents’ number in my phone. Let me give them a call.”

  Thirty minutes later, Connor pulled into the drive of a well-kept home. The L-shaped ranch sat on about an acre and a half. A huge Saint Bernard languished on the porch, lifting its head to stare inquisitively at the newcomers. Samantha exited the car and Connor followed. The front door opened as they approached to reveal a woman in her midforties, brown hair pulled up in a ponytail, wisps of gray peeking out every now and then.

  Samantha wondered if the gray was a new development. The woman gave a tremulous smile and said, “Hello. I’m Bonnie Mabry. My husband’s at work, but I know Alyssa will be glad to answer any questions you have. I called the school and asked them to release her early. She should be here shortly.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mabry, we appreciate that.”

  They stepped into the cool foyer, a blessed relief from the heat outside. Mrs. Mabry led them past a staircase and into an informal den area. “Would you care for anything to drink? I have bottled water or some tea.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks.” Samantha smiled.

  Connor accepted a bottle of water. The woman left to get it and Samantha eyed the picture on the mantel. The same one she’d seen in Miranda’s bedroom on the memory board. The two girls stood, arm in arm in front of Mickey Mouse. They’d been to Disney World together and looked like they were having the time of their lives.

  “Here you are.”

  “Thank you.” Connor took the bottle and Samantha heard the back door open, then shut.

  “Mom?”

  One of the girls from the picture hurried into the den and slung an overfilled, heavy-looking backpack to the floor. “What’s going on? Nobody at school would tell me anything except that I needed to come home and everyone in my family was fine and it wasn’t an emergency and—” She caught sight of Sam and Connor on the sofa to her right. “Oh.”