Flight

by Laura Griffin

  Joel just watched her. He probably knew this already if he’d read about the case. But now that she’d started, she wanted to finish.

  “We set up a perimeter around the grave, almost a full acre. Spent about twelve hours combing every inch, photographing everything.” Her stomach roiled. “Almost everything. Some of the key evidence was recovered in the first few hours.”

  “The cigarette butt.”

  Miranda nodded. He’d read the details.

  “The DNA matched a convicted sex offender,” she said. “They tracked him down, arrested him. It went to trial. It should have been an open-and-shut case, but my team screwed up. The cigarette butt got tossed, and everything unraveled.”

  Joel set the towel on the counter. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  She scoffed.

  “It wasn’t.”

  “It was.”

  “I talked to your supervisor, Miranda.”

  “You . . . what?”

  “You listed him as a reference. I talked to him. He told me all about what happened.”

  A chill came over her.

  “What did he say?”

  Joel stepped closer. “That you’re the best CSI he’s ever worked with. That he was sorry you left. That you could have your job back at any time, if you decide you want it.”

  Tears stung Miranda’s eyes. She looked away. She started to slide off the counter, but Joel put his hand on her leg.

  “Hey. Talk to me.”

  “No.”

  “Why can’t we discuss this?”

  Benji walked over and licked her ankle. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why not?”

  Emotions flooded her. Anger. Guilt. Confusion. How could he have known this all along and not understood what had been eating away at her?

  How could he have known this all along and hired her?

  “It’s not your fault, Miranda. You didn’t mess up. Someone else did.”

  “My team, my fault. I was the lead. Me. It was my job to make sure every shred of evidence got documented before it was collected. I failed to do that. Hence, the key piece of evidence was inadmissible, and a killer walked.” Tears overflowed, and she swiped at her cheeks. “He’s out on the street right now because I failed to do my job.”

  “Someone on your team failed to do their job.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not how it is.”

  Joel reached up and touched her cheek. The tenderness of the gesture put a hot lump in her throat.

  “Look at me.”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  She looked up and wiped her cheeks again. “I fucked up. And I can’t undo it. It’s irreversible. It’s done.”

  “You’re right, it is. So you need to stop torturing yourself over it.”

  “I can’t.” She looked down at Benji. “I can’t stop thinking about it. That’s why I came down here. I had to get away from all of it. And then I found that canoe, and I knew it was futile. I can’t get away from anything. And now I’m doing the job again, and every time I go to a crime scene, I get this ball of dread in the pit of my stomach.”

  “It’s okay. You have to work through it.”

  “I hate it.”

  “I know.”

  “All I do is doubt myself.”

  He picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles, and her heart skittered as he looked at her with those intense blue eyes.

  “It’s not your fault, Miranda. You didn’t even have a camera in your hand that night. Did you?”

  She took a deep breath. “No.”

  “And the person who should have taken that photograph isn’t working there anymore.”

  “He was suspended. Then he quit.”

  Miranda’s boss had suspended him after the prosecution’s case fell apart at trial because of a technicality. The cigarette butt wasn’t in the crime scene photos, so it wasn’t at the crime scene, according to the defense. They claimed it could have been planted by detectives desperate to prop up a weak case.

  “I was in charge of the team that night,” Miranda said. “Me. No one else. I should have paid closer attention to every single thing they did and didn’t do.”

  Joel gazed at her, and the sympathy in his eyes made her chest tighten. Where was this coming from?

  He slid his arms around her and pulled her against him.

  Miranda closed her eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of him. He smelled wonderful. She rested her head on his muscular shoulder.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “Telling me about it.”

  She sighed. She hated talking about this. But there was something cathartic about telling someone. The only other person she’d ever really talked to about this was Bailey, and it had been months since their last conversation about it. She hadn’t talked about it with anyone since moving to Lost Beach.

  Joel pulled back. He brushed a lock of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

  “Sorry.” She pulled up the T-shirt collar and dabbed her cheeks. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me. I keep crying on you.”

  He smiled. “I don’t mind.”

  She sighed and slid off the counter, putting her at eye level with his neck.

  “Are you ready for migas?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He stepped to the stove and took a handful of chips from the bag. He crunched them in his hand and sprinkled them over the eggs.

  “You want to heat the tortillas?” He nodded at the package on the counter. “They need about thirty seconds.”

  Miranda put the tortillas on a plate and slid them into the microwave. When they were done, Joel loaded the plates.

  She grabbed a water for herself from the fridge and followed Joel into the living room, where he cleared the coffee table and stacked the files on the armchair.

  They sat on the floor beside the table. Miranda watched him chomp into his taco. He took a chip off his plate and tossed it to Benji.

  She sighed. “You’re spoiling him.”

  “He’s hungry.”

  She shook her head and picked up her taco. It was hot and spicy, and she polished off half of it in three bites.

  They ate in silence, and she watched him across the coffee table. Part of her felt relieved that she’d finally told him, but another part of her felt self-conscious about having another meltdown.

  He put his taco down. “You’re doing it again.”

  “What?”

  “Stop worrying so much.” He swigged his water.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never been a crier.”

  “Maybe you should stop keeping everything to yourself.”

  “What, and dump everything on you?”

  “Yeah.” He picked up her hand and squeezed it. “I can take it.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  The bed creaked as Joel slid into it. Miranda rolled toward him, not opening her eyes. She felt his hand on her hip, gliding over her skin, gradually waking her up with slow, lazy strokes. He nudged her onto her back and leaned over her.

  Sighing contentedly, she opened her eyes.

  The room was gray and quiet. Joel’s face was shadowed, and he smelled faintly of shaving cream. He’d been in the shower, and she’d totally slept through it. She ran her fingers into his damp hair as he kissed his way down her body.

  “Hmm.” She wrapped her leg around him.

  He slid up and kissed her neck, just below her ear.

  “Morning,” he murmured.

  She glanced at the clock, then at him.

  “Are you going in?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He propped his weight on his elbow and gazed down at her. “I wish I could stay.
”

  “It’s okay.”

  “What are you doing today?”

  Her thoughts jumbled together. She couldn’t even think what day it was.

  “It’s Monday,” he said, reading her mind.

  “Papers to grade. Calls to make.” Her to-do list snapped into focus. “I have an online study session with my students at two.”

  He kissed her forehead.

  “You want to come to our task force meeting?” he asked.

  She blinked up at him. “I don’t know. Should I?”

  “If you want. You’re part of the team.”

  She sighed. She wasn’t accustomed to the workings of a small department. Where she’d worked before, CSIs didn’t sit in on task force meetings. But Joel’s department was a tight-knit group.

  “Won’t it be awkward if I’m there?” she asked.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” She played with his hair. “Don’t you think people will pick up on the fact that we’re involved?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We’re talking about a group of detectives. They’re not stupid.”

  “So what if they know?”

  She looked up at him. “Don’t you think that could get uncomfortable?”

  “Why?”

  “Because. You’re having a fling with the CSI.”

  “A fling?” He lifted his eyebrows.

  “Okay, sex. Whatever you want to call it.”

  He smiled down at her.

  “What?”

  He sat up taller on his elbow. “Can I ask you something?”

  She felt her guard going up.

  “Have you ever thought of staying?”

  “Staying in Lost Beach?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You mean past the summer?”

  He just looked at her. Butterflies filled her stomach as she gazed up at those intense blue eyes. Suddenly, she felt wide awake.

  Staying here. As in making this move permanent. As in giving up her life in San Antonio, the life she’d always planned to go back to once she sorted through her personal problems.

  Joel brushed a lock of hair from her face. He looked down at her and lifted an eyebrow. “Well?”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and decided to be honest. “I’ve thought about it. A lot, actually.”

  “Good.”

  He kissed her. It was soft and tender, and her heart squeezed. Emotions swirled inside her, so many she couldn’t put a label on them all. When he eased back, his gaze was intense.

  “Joel,” she whispered. “What are we doing, exactly?”

  “How about seeing where this goes?”

  “Where do you want it to go?”

  He kissed her again, and her heart started thrumming, distracting her from the conversation. When he kissed her, she couldn’t focus on anything—all she could do was melt into the moment with him.

  This time when he pulled away, his eyes simmered.

  “I like you a lot, Miranda. This doesn’t feel like a fling to me.” His thigh eased between hers. “What about you?”

  Her throat went dry and she could only shake her head.

  He smiled. “Damn. You’ve got that look again.”

  “What look?”

  “Wary.”

  His leg against hers created a warm friction that made it difficult to think clearly.

  “It just feels . . . fast,” she said. “And I’m worried you might be reacting to other things.”

  “Like what?” His hand slid down her body.

  “I don’t know. Your breakup. The wedding.”

  He grinned. “Are you saying I’m on the rebound?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Try again.” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I can.” He looked at her, still smiling. “I was with Elaina three years, and I never felt this way.” His look turned serious as he gazed down at her. “Not even close.”

  Warmth flooded her, making her feel slightly buzzed. “Really?”

  “Really.” He kissed her. “Does that freak you out?”

  She shook her head.

  “No?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe a little. I tend to be kind of a worrier. When it comes to relationships.”

  “No way.” He smiled.

  “I’m serious.”

  “So, you’re saying you’re worried about this?”

  “Just that it’s all been so intense. Everything’s happening so fast.”

  “True.” He moved his thigh, setting off sparks throughout her body. “But that’s not necessarily bad, is it?”

  She bit her lip.

  “How about this?” he said.

  Suddenly, she was back at her house their first night together, when he proposed that they just have fun for the night and worry about the rest in the morning.

  “How about we take it one day at a time, and see where this goes?”

  And once again, she couldn’t say no. She didn’t want to.

  “You’re a master at this, aren’t you?”

  “At what?”

  She sighed. “Slow persuasion.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  She pulled his head down to kiss him, but he pulled back.

  “Does that mean yes?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Nicole watched the sun-kissed coastline as Owen made a wide arc and pulled up to the police station boathouse. A brown pelican on a post flapped away as they motored toward shore. Owen expertly lined up the boat with the empty slip and killed the speed so that they glided straight in.

  Joel walked onto the dock, casting a long shadow on the weathered boards. His expression looked grim, and Nicole could tell he’d had a long day.

  Joel caught the bow of the boat with his boot. “How’d it go?”

  She grabbed a coil of rope and tossed it to him. “Okay.”

  Joel tied the line to a cleat as Nicole stepped onto the dock. She turned to Owen.

  “Hand me that cooler,” she said.

  “I got it.”

  He hefted it in his arms, and she turned to Joel.

  “We were out for four hours,” she said. “Talked to people at every marina on this side of the bay. Flashed the pictures around. No one recognized Trevor Keen or his girlfriend or said they noticed anyone suspicious on Monday morning.”

  Joel didn’t look surprised.

  “The sheriff’s guys are working the other side,” Owen said, stepping from the boat. He set the cooler on the dock and unfastened the plug to drain it. “They said they’d call in when they wrapped up. If they’d gotten anything, I think we would have heard from them already.”

  “How’d it go here today?” Nicole asked.

  Joel raked his hand through his hair. “I spent all afternoon on the phone, tracking down detectives in different jurisdictions.”

  “Any luck with the suspect list?” she asked, even though she could guess the answer from his body language.

  “None of the persons of interest overlap.”

  “None?” Owen asked.

  “Not a one.”

  “Shit.”

  “Maybe we should add the sixth case,” Nicole said. “The poisoning. It couldn’t hurt.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Owen collected the empty water bottles from the cooler. “I’m going to answer some emails and grab dinner. You guys want anything?”

  “It’s not even five thirty,” Nicole said.

  “I skipped lunch.”

  “I’m good,” Joel said.

  Owen pitched the bottles in the recycle bin and headed inside
.

  She turned to look at his brother. “Any word from Miranda?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just wondering how she’s doing.” Nicole had been concerned about her ever since this morning’s team meeting, when Joel shared the news about the shoe print at Miranda’s house that matched the one at the crime scene.

  “I think she’s fine,” Joel said. “She’s been at the library with her laptop all afternoon. Said she wanted to work somewhere public today instead of staying home alone.”

  “I don’t blame her,” she said. “You headed back inside?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll come with you. I’ve got a theory I want to run by you. Owen’s skeptical, but I want to hear what you think.”

  He lifted an eyebrow at that as they headed toward the back door of the police station. “What’s the theory?”

  “Well, I keep going through the social media posts of our first two victims, Liz and Will.”

  “Yeah?”

  “On the surface, they’re these tree-hugger activists. But maybe it’s not as simple as it seems.”

  “How do you mean?”

  The back door opened, and a couple of uniformed officers walked out. They nodded at Nicole and Joel and headed for the parking lot.

  “Sit down and explain,” Joel said, nodding at an empty picnic table.

  Nicole sank onto the bench and pulled off her sweaty baseball cap. It was hot as hell today. Her skin had been spared, though, because she’d spent half the afternoon slathering on sunblock.

  “Okay, so the two of them had been road-tripping for months, right? Posting all these pictures of themselves at tourist attractions and national parks and scenic overlooks,” she said. “And when they weren’t busy taking selfies in front of the Grand Canyon or whatever, they were busy protesting all the evil corporations ravaging the planet, right?”

  “Okay.”

  “But what if they’re just as bad as the corporations? Maybe worse?”

  Joel frowned. “How?”

  “Well, I’ve been reading the comments on their posts. And not everybody agrees they’re exactly saving the world with what they’re doing. A lot of the places they’ve visited—most of them, in fact—are suffering from overtourism.”