The Best Victim (Kindle Serial)

by Thompson, Colleen

  “You’re right,” he said, ignoring the dachshund’s low growl. “My Austin PD colleagues and the ME will almost certainly call this suicide, but you and I know better. Your sister might’ve pulled the trigger, but I swear to you, I swear on my badge, Rachel absolutely wasn’t responsible for her death.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you—?”

  “Whoever this bastard is, your sister isn’t his first victim. But I promise you, she’s damned well going to be his last.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “What d-do you mean, last victim?” Lauren stammered.

  But Durant knew his words had sunk in. Saw that she understood his confirmation that her sister had been murdered.

  He watched her hungrily, wondering what it would feel like having her darkest suspicions confirmed instead of being pacified, ignored, or—worse still—ordered to report for grief counseling and then a psych evaluation. Yet as he suggested she sit down again, she looked more shaken than grateful.

  Spotting a box of tissues on the lamp table next to her closed laptop, he grabbed a few and passed them to her. As she wiped her face, its paleness reminded him sharply of her fairer sister. The sister he had failed to save.

  On the afternoon he had met Rachel Miller, she’d still been dressed for work in a stylish skirt and blouse, and her beautiful blond hair was neatly swept to one side. But it was her shaking he best remembered, that and the haunted look in her red-rimmed blue eyes.

  No, not haunted. Hunted. Having failed to recognize the look once, he would never again be able to ignore it. Not that his awareness had done a damned thing to save her life.

  “As soon as you’re ready to go, I’ll explain it in the car,” he said, remembering from the background research he’d done before heading off in this direction how Lauren had been more like a mother than a sibling to her younger sister, who had been just ten to Lauren’s seventeen the year their mother died. With their father’s sales job keeping him away from home for weeks at a time, Lauren had turned down—or been forced to turn down—several scholarships to care for Rachel. Had she resented being stuck way out here in the old farmhouse that had passed down from her grandparents? Or had those years of isolation forged the backbone that would allow her to survive this devastating blow?

  Durant hoped so, because she was going to need every bit of strength he could wring from her.

  “In your car?” Lauren asked. “You mean you’re taking me all the way to Austin?”

  He nodded. “That’s what I’m here for, but we need to get you packed and ready. Then I can answer all your questions. I know you’ll have a lot.”

  Though she brushed aside a tear, her blue-green eyes narrowed. “You’ll tell me every detail? Everything you know?”

  “You have my word on it,” he lied.

  “Your word,” she echoed, a tic playing at one corner of her mouth. “Could I see that ID again?”

  His heart kicked at her question. Was she only being cautious, or had he said or done something to trigger her suspicion? From the little Rachel had told him, as well as the facts he’d been able to uncover through his own sources, the self-taught computer genius behind Siren Sys-Secure was nobody’s fool. Not even after receiving what was undoubtedly the biggest shock of her life.

  Without missing a beat, he passed her the badge wallet and tried not to hold his breath as she flipped it open and studied his current ID.

  When she nodded and handed it back, he relaxed, relieved that the money he’d put into it had been well spent. “Sorry, but if I’m going to leave you down here while I go up and pull myself together, I want to be sure who it is I’m trusting.”

  “Would you care to confirm with my supervisor?” he asked recklessly. “I have the number in my wallet. Or if you’d rather, you can look it up yourself and call the special agent in charge at the Oklahoma City Field Office while I wait out in the car.”

  She hesitated, studying his face. He looked back at her steadily, measured his own breathing. Struggled to ignore the pounding in his chest, the perspiration beading on his back and dampening his palms despite the cold day.

  She sighed, shoulders sagging, and her gaze skittered away. “Never mind. I’m just—I’ll be back down in a few minutes. Help yourself to the coffee.”

  Rising, she gestured toward what he took to be the kitchen door before she headed toward the stairway. “Come on, Dumpling. Come up with me.”

  But the dachshund only made it as far as the landing before she turned and settled herself so she could keep a watchful eye on Brent.

  From upstairs, he heard a door close, followed by the groan of pipes and the hiss of running water. Figuring that Lauren would be a while in the shower, he walked into the kitchen, with its faded linoleum and yellowed cabinets, and helped himself as she’d suggested.

  The coffee was strong and dark—and best of all, hot enough to burn off the chill still clinging to him. As he drank, he drifted to the refrigerator, where someone had used magnets to hang photos. In several, he recognized Rachel—blond and stunning—as she posed for the camera, modeling stylish outfits, except in one, where she vamped it up in a frilly, hot-pink number so outlandish that it could only be a bridesmaid’s dress. Other shots pictured an older man with a smile that made up for his thinning gray hair, accepting a plaque in one shot and posing with a fishing rod and a good-sized bass in another. The father, he supposed, who’d died suddenly only a few months after retiring after thirty-six years spent selling farm equipment.

  There was only one photo with Lauren, and he couldn’t see much of her, other than the hand she was using to try to block the camera. Shy, he remembered Rachel saying. “If she loves you, she really loves you, but she could do without most people.”

  It was probably for the best, then, that Lauren ran her business online. Remote network administrators, who handled monitoring and security needs for small- to mid-sized businesses across the country, didn’t need great social skills…

  Nor did part-time hackers.

  Remembering the bureau intel he’d gotten on her, he returned to the living room and stared down at the slim laptop she’d left beside a phone and answering machine so dated that he wondered if she’d kept them as reminders of her father. Reaching toward the computer, he frowned at the colorful Grateful Dead skin that encased it, his stomach twisting at the rock band’s skull and roses logo.

  I’m so sorry, Rachel. Sorry that it ended this way for you.

  When the water upstairs shut off, he froze, glancing toward the stairwell. But she’d still have to dry and dress, then pack for their six-hour drive. So he still had a little time, he reasoned. Time to figure out if Cisco had been right in thinking that Lauren Miller was in possession of the exact skill set he needed.

  The dog growled at him suspiciously, as if the fat dachshund had the power to read minds. But the momentary distraction had him rethinking what he realized was a terrible idea. Someone in her line of work would surely have advanced security protocols—anything from rotating passwords to fingerprint or facial recognition ID systems. Not only would he get himself locked out of the system, but also his clumsy attempts would be logged and reported.

  No, he thought, turning his back to the laptop. There was no way he could risk shattering her trust. Not with everything he’d worked for, everything that meant a damned thing to him, riding on Lauren Miller’s willing cooperation.

  #

  Less than half an hour later, Lauren was packed and dressed in fresh jeans and a scuffed, black leather jacket, which she’d thrown over a purple V-neck sweater. She’d meant to top the outfit with the colorful scarf that Rachel—who was always encouraging her to “brighten up” her look—had sent her for her thirty-second birthday, but the sight of it had her nose running and eyes leaking, so she shoved the length of silk into her pocket instead.

  Two quick swipes of the brush were all she needed to untangle her shoulder-length, light-brown hair. Her face was splotchy and her nose red, but she didn’t gi
ve a damn about that, about anything but getting through what needed to be done.

  After shoving her socked feet into a battered pair of motorcycle boots, she clumped downstairs with her purse and a small suitcase.

  Agent Durant rose from the sofa, a coffee mug in hand. “All ready?”

  She glanced down at the dachshund, who was hopping excitedly at her mistress’s reappearance, and shook her head. “Not quite. Dumpling needs her bag packed, too.”

  He grimaced. “In case you haven’t noticed, your dog hates me.”

  “Maybe you remind her of the asshat who tossed her out along the freeway,” she theorized. “I’d bet money it was a man who threw her out like garbage.” In her admittedly limited experience, men did that. An image of the man she’d only thought had loved her blasted through her brain, his arm around his pregnant redheaded assistant. The one now living in her house.

  “I’m not cruel to animals. I like them.” The agent gave the dachshund a dubious look, which was rewarded by a curled lip. “Most of them, at any rate.”

  “Don’t worry. She won’t do worse than gumming you. She only has a few teeth.”

  “So where are we dropping it off?” he asked.

  “We aren’t.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his shoulders stiffen. But she couldn’t care less about his feelings on the matter.

  Several minutes later, she stood by the front door, digging in her purse for her keys. Her laptop bag was slung over one shoulder, and Dumpling’s leash was looped over her wrist. Excited to go out, the old dog whined and shuffled her paws, her thin tail whipping.

  A few steps away, Agent Durant looked as if he’d eaten curdled yogurt. “You’re sure there’s not anyone—a friend or neighbor—to look after it?”

  Lauren speared him with an annoyed look. “First of all, Dumpling’s a her, not an it, and, second, even if I knew of someone, I’m not leaving her with strangers, let alone locked up in some awful kennel after what she’s already been through. She spent the first two weeks after I picked her up hiding under my bed. I had to stretch out on the rug and coax her to eat bits of boiled chicken.”

  Durant eyed the little dog, whose belly nearly touched the floor. “You sure you weren’t slipping her brownies and ice cream for dessert?”

  She snorted. “Everybody knows you can’t feed dogs chocolate. And she was terrified. You have no idea what it’s like, being—being abandoned like you’re nothing…”

  Her words choked down to silence as an aching void opened just beneath her breastbone. The dark emptiness spread through her, whispering that it was her own abandonment that had left her clinging to whatever comfort a fat, old dog had to offer.

  So what if it was? Why the hell not? She straightened with the thought, lifting her chin and staring at him boldly. “She comes with us, or I’ll drive my Jeep down. I’m perfectly capable, you know.”

  “No.” That single word was hard enough to break a tooth on. “We have to talk, for one thing. And you’re obviously in no condition.”

  “I’m tougher than I look,” she assured him, though she felt translucent as a moth’s wing. And every bit as fragile.

  She startled when the phone rang.

  Before she could answer it, he shrugged, “Fine. We’ll do it your way,” and picked up both her suitcase and the duffel she had loaded with dog food, treats, and Dumpling’s favorite chew toys. “Let’s go.”

  “I should get this,” she said, despite of the sick feeling crawling up her throat at the memory of the last call she had taken.

  “You don’t need to—”

  The answering machine came to life, her father’s once-reassuring voice making her wish she’d forced herself to rerecord his message.

  “Ms. Miller? Lauren Miller?” The caller was male, with an accent that left no doubt that he had spent at least part of his childhood south of the US border. “Please pick up if you’re home. This is Detective Jimenez again, from the Austin PD Homicide Division.”

  Did he imagine she had already forgotten? That she would ever forget the voice, the man who’d told her of Rachel’s death? Something in his tone warned that he had more bad news to deliver.

  Dread poured thick as concrete. It dripped down through Lauren’s body, filling up her hollowed legs and cementing her in place. A few steps away, Durant slowly lowered both the duffel and the suitcase, his face tense and expectant, his color gray as winter’s chill.

  Dumpling strained against the leash and whined, clearly impatient to begin the walk she’d been expecting. Lauren shushed her, as if she feared that Jimenez might hear.

  On the answering machine, the detective sighed. “Your cell phone keeps rolling straight to voicemail, but if you’re hearing this message, you need to turn the lights off, all of them, right now, and wait inside an interior room for your local sheriff to send out a deputy. Until you hear from me, don’t open your door for anybody. If a stranger comes, you hide. Hide and call me right away—especially if you see a tall, white male, late thirties, most likely in a suit.”

  Her gaze snapped to the face of the tall stranger inside her house, but his eyes had gone as flat and unreadable as a shark’s. His face hardening, he turned away, moving quickly for the phone as Jimenez went on warning her, “This man may be representing himself as a federal agent. He could be going by the alias—”

  In one swift and shocking moment, Durant jerked both the phone and answering machine from the wall.

  Sucking in a painful breath, Lauren wheeled around to race up the only avenue of escape—the empty stairwell. But in pivoting, she wound the dog’s leash around her ankles, sending herself crashing to the wooden stairs.

  She cried out, more from terror than the bolt of pain exploding in her elbow where she’d struck it. As she struggled to untangle herself, Dumpling snarled and snapped at Durant. Brushing the animal aside, he leaned over, then lifted Lauren to her feet by her uninjured arm.

  “Wait,” he pleaded. “Don’t fight. I swear, I didn’t come to hurt you.”

  He turned her to face him, his dark eyes boring into hers and his face flushed with emotion. “Just let me explain, please.”

  “Get. Out.” Though a tremor ran through her voice, she didn’t look away from him, she couldn’t, with her brain parsing the meaning of the flash of metal she’d glimpsed in the split second when his jacket had swung open.

  He has a gun. A gun. The image of her sister’s blood-soaked hair flashed lightning-swift through her brain, followed by the resolve that no matter what, she would survive this. Survive to make this bastard pay for what he’d done to the last person on this earth she’d ever love.

  CHAPTER THREE

  To say this was Brent’s worst nightmare was nowhere close to accurate. He had already survived the worst life had to offer, though for a long time and maybe even still, he would have rather died.

  But Lauren’s panicked reaction to Jimenez’s phone message was easily a bottom-five moment. How the hell would he gain her cooperation now?

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, struggling to keep his voice low and soothing. As if there were any words that could undo the damage. “Not without you.”

  As they stared at each other, the fluid play of her emotions—from fear to hatred to determination—submerged into the depths of her gaze. But she could no more hide the tension in her arm where he gripped it than she could disguise the wild thumping of her pulse beneath his fingertips.

  As vital as his goal was, he hated himself for scaring her. And hated himself more for what he intended to make her do.

  “What is it you want?” she asked. “To kill me, like my sister?”

  Ignoring the dachshund’s ominous rumbling, he said, “I know what you’re thinking, Lauren. May I call you Lauren?”

  She shrugged. “You’re the one with the gun, Special Agent.”

  He considered the sarcasm a good sign. Better than dealing with hysteria, anyway. “I have no interest in hurting you, no interest in an
ything but catching your sister’s killer.”

  Her shaking stopped, and she straightened her spine, though she couldn’t be more than a slim five five or five six, even in her boots. And beautiful, in her quiet way, he couldn’t help but notice. The first noticing he’d done in so long, it surprised the hell out of him and, almost as quickly, filled him with remorse.

  “Why do you care?” she demanded. “And who the hell are you?”

  “Exactly who I told you: Special Agent Brent Durant. Or at least I was up ’til six months ago.” He relaxed his grip. “Did you hurt yourself when you fell? I saw you hit that elbow.” He nodded toward her left arm.

  Pulling free, she rubbed it and made a scoffing sound. “I’m supposed to buy concern? From you? A man who hasn’t given me a single straight or honest answer?”

  “I haven’t lied,” he said, though at least in part, this, too, was a falsehood. “Everything I’ve told you about your sister’s death is true.”

  Pain arced over her expression, and she looked away a moment. When she regained control and blinked at him, her eyes had filled again. “How would you know anything about her?”

  “I have sources, sources who haven’t heard—and a couple who don’t give a damn—that I’m on leave from the bureau. And I knew Rachel. Or at least, I’ve met her.”

  Lauren scowled at him. “She would’ve told me if she’d spoken to someone claiming to be from the FBI. Or did you tell her a different lie? Pretend to be someone else so you could—What did you do to her, you bastard? Why is Rachel dead?”

  As Lauren’s anguish echoed in the entryway, the dachshund bared her few teeth, the reddish hair along her spine raised.

  He shook his head. “I tried to tell you earlier, she had my card on her when she died. That’s why Detective Jimenez called me. We worked together in the past. But apparently, word about my recent issues hadn’t reached him down in Austin.”