by Mary Stone
Yes, he had. And he knew desperate rationalization when he saw it.
Grating his teeth together, Aiden shook his head to pull himself from the moment of introspection.
“We wait, Agent Dalton. All of us. We know who he is, and we know he’s still in the country. This is officially a manhunt, and Douglas Kilroy is officially a fugitive. We’ll find him. There’s no question of ‘if.’ Now, all that remains to be seen is ‘when.’”
29
For the remainder of the day, Noah made a concerted effort to focus on the menial tasks associated with The Preacher case. He had taken on the dreaded paperwork, dotting i’s and crossing t’s so he would have a head start once the bastard Douglas Kilroy was finally in custody.
During any moments of downtime, Noah had even gone so far as to force himself to contemplate the sheer number of notorious serial killers who had terrorized the 1970s and 1980s. Ted Bundy and the other bastards who go off on other people’s pain and suffering.
He’d tried, but he’d failed.
Sure, he might have a solid start to his paperwork, but he hadn’t been able to push the morning meeting from his mind. Neither Aiden nor Winter had noticed his scrutiny, but Noah had not missed the glint behind her eyes while she watched the SSA provide them The Preacher’s origin story.
On more than one occasion, he had bit back a passive aggressive remark about whether or not she needed a tissue to deal with the drool on the side of her face. With the outright hostility that had marked not only his and Winter’s recent interactions, but Aiden and Winter’s interactions, he’d almost forgotten how long the two had known one another.
Over a decade. For over a decade, she had been able to confide in him, had been able to rely on him for emotional support in her darker moments. Which would have normally brought him a measure of comfort—after all, he had not lied to Winter. He cared about her. If she had another friend in whom she could trust her secrets, in whom she could confide, then he was sure he could have shoved aside any pangs of jealousy to encourage her to pursue her own happiness, no matter the source.
But that friend, that confidante, was Aiden Parrish. Aiden was ambitious and manipulative to the point that any sort of relationship with him was outright treacherous. Did the man even have a conscience? A moral compass? Did anyone mean more to him than just a steppingstone toward fulfilling his own ambition?
He knew Winter was smart, and he knew she was capable of spotting the borderline sociopathic traits that were evident in Aiden Parrish’s interpersonal relationships. At the thought, he heaved a sigh and rubbed his eyes as he leaned back in the driver’s seat of his pickup.
The idea that he knew better than Winter what was best for her hovered precariously between the realms of “concerned friend” and “paternalistic asshole.”
Whether or not he wanted to admit it, he was jealous of Winter’s lengthy history with Parrish. Of the look of reverence that had flitted over her pretty face during the morning briefing.
He’d felt the chances for anything beyond a rocky friendship with Winter begin to slip through his fingers. Tension in the conference room that morning had been so palpable he thought he could taste the strain between him, Winter, and Aiden. Everyone was on edge, and their paranoia was not just the result of the madman they chased.
Whether their motive was to erase a black mark on their record, to avenge the death of their family, to keep a dear friend safe, or merely to bring a killer to justice, they had all resorted to lying and manipulating one another in their pursuit.
Bree must have thought they were all insane.
At the sudden realization, Noah felt the laughter build up in his throat. The sound was dry and bordered on irascible, but he could admit that the thought was funny.
Poor Bree. By the time they slammed the iron bars on The Preacher’s cell, Bree was liable to request a transfer to the other side of the damn country—to California, Oregon, hell, maybe even Hawaii. If he was honest with himself, he could not blame her. If he was the witness to a bunch of paranoid agents and their secret wars with one another, he would be inclined to go home to pack up his apartment in preparation of the move.
With a self-deprecating chuckle, he shook his head and turned the key over in the ignition. He was unsure how long he had been sitting in the dim parking garage, and he didn’t want to pique anyone’s interest.
As he pulled out onto the street, he stifled a yawn with one hand. He was tired, but it was not the type of weariness that could be chased away by an adequate night of sleep. No, he was tired of the immature competition with Aiden Parrish to earn the affection of Winter. Maybe the stupid contest was all in his head, but either way, he decided today was the day he would lay the lingering anxiety to rest.
The time did not feel right. Emotions had been scraped raw, and their limits had been pushed to the point of breaking, but he had to do something. If he didn’t, if he left the pieces scattered as they were right now, who knew what trick, what lie, Aiden might have up his sleeve.
He had to tell her. If he put off the conversation in the interest of permitting them all time to rebound from the tumultuous few months, he might never get a chance.
At the least, he had to tell Winter how he felt so he could stay honest with himself.
For the most part, Winter enjoyed spending time around friends and family. She liked to be around people, but as soon as she closed and locked the door to her apartment, she wasn’t so sure she ever wanted to see another person in her entire life.
When she made her way down the dim hall to change into a pair of yoga pants and a hooded sweatshirt, she half-expected a fellow federal agent to hop out of the closet to ask her how she was doing.
People needed time alone, even if they were sociable. She needed to recharge, to command her own space for longer than a trip to the ladies’ room. She wanted to drink a Coke and burp aloud without the obligation to offer up a panicked apology afterwards. And as she pried open the refrigerator, she decided that was exactly what she would do.
After the opportunity to finally mellow without the prying eyes or concerned gaze of her co-workers, she would have a clear mind to approach the bizarre image of the red coat.
As she stretched her legs across the couch cushions, she took a thoughtful sip of her soda. It might have been her imagination, but she swore the beverage tasted better when no one was around to stare at her while she drank. Or, maybe she had a newfound appreciation for the flavor now that The Preacher was on his last leg. Like Aiden had said, there was no if anymore, there was only when.
Aside from one prominent Mexican drug lord, Douglas Kilroy was the most wanted man in the entire United States of America. To be sure, she had not let down her guard. She was painfully aware of the sick bastard’s newly stoked obsession with her.
But what did a red coat have to do with The Preacher’s intent to come for her? Was the color symbolic of the blood he had spilled since he came out of his so-called retirement?
No, the visions were not symbolic, they were literal. If her brain had shown her a red coat, then The Preacher’s plans involved an actual red coat. Parsing through the clues left in the wake of the intense headaches was convoluted enough. She didn’t need to contend with symbolism as well.
As she tapped an index finger against the cool, metal can, she tilted her head backwards to fix her vacant stare on the ceiling. Maybe she didn’t need to discern the meaning of the stylish garment, she thought. After all, Douglas Kilroy was the second most wanted man in the country. The entire country.
Around the state of Virginia, law enforcement agencies—everyone from the local police departments to the US Marshals—were on high alert. Douglas Kilroy’s suspected body count neared the hundreds, and even though he had passed his physical prime, he was still clearly a danger.
If he tried to flee the country, he would be done the second he showed his face at an airport security checkpoint. This was the beginning of the end for Douglas Kilroy, so why did Winter
have a nagging feeling that the red coat was significant?
It was significant. It had to be significant. But what in the hell did it mean?
With a resigned sigh that sounded closer to a groan, she slumped down farther in her seat and took a long swallow from the can. She felt like she was in college, back in calculus as she stared down a problem like it would wither under her gaze and reveal the answer. To her chagrin, that was not how math worked.
Apparently, it was not how visions worked, either.
Her haphazard spot on the couch made her body feel like it had aged ten years. No, scratch that, she thought as she pushed herself to stand. Fifteen years. Definitely fifteen years.
The trick to calculus problems had been to step away from the textbook and the calculator for a short time, and then to come back with a new viewpoint. Physical activity helped the brain process information, so she plopped down on the scratchy carpet to go through her usual yoga regimen. In the meantime, she mentally stepped away from the puzzle and forced all the lingering thoughts from her head.
Over the past few months, ever since The Preacher case had taken off, she had done her body no favors. Lack of sleep alone could cause a litany of health issues, and her diet was closer to what she would expect from a college freshman or a middle schooler, not a fully grown woman. Mid-stretch, she paused and pursed her lips.
She had run herself ragged in the pursuit of the vengeance that had shaped her, that had directed her entire life. But how could she expect to enact that vengeance if she was half-asleep and half-dead?
“Damn it,” she sighed.
Scooting forward, she retrieved the Coke and took another sip. It was okay, she told herself. Half-asleep, half-dead, fully asleep, mostly dead, it was okay. They had found him. There was no if, only when.
As she pulled a deep breath in through her nose, she nodded to herself. When, not if.
Just as she was about to return her focus to stretching her tired muscles, a muffled knock on the door jerked her attention to the nearby entryway. Her pulse rushed through her ears, and the first pinpricks of adrenaline flitted up her back.
“Who is it?” Her voice sounded harried even to her own ears. As she glanced to her matte black service weapon beside the can of Coke, she grasped the edge of the coffee table with one hand to haul herself to her feet.
“It’s me.” Like the knock, the visitor’s voice was muffled.
“Noah,” she muttered to herself.
So much for a few hours of quiet contemplation.
30
Bree wouldn’t have used the term “insane” to describe her teammates, but they were…odd. Intense. Maybe even troubled. Without irony, she figured the little group would benefit a great deal from the calm reassurance of a professional counselor. The thought was entirely without malice, but she wouldn’t dream of vocalizing it to any of her tentative friends. Not everyone held a positive attitude toward mental health professionals.
In fact, some even took a psychiatric recommendation as a personal affront.
Then again, once The Preacher was behind bars, Bree wondered if she would have to seek out a counselor to talk through the stress of the past few months.
Mental health was much like dental or physical health. The brain was a person’s most complex part, and brains required upkeep. Just like teeth, just like eyes, and just like muscles. That was the purpose of counselors—to help their patients keep their brains in the same healthy shape as the rest of their bodies. Any time Bree heard a disparaging remark about those who sought mental healthcare, she was pretty sure her eye twitched in annoyance.
Once the case was over, maybe she would drive around the city to collect brochures from psychiatric and counseling offices. Then, she would dump a pile of the pamphlets on the desks of each of her co-workers.
At the thought of their befuddled expressions, she raised a hand to stifle a laugh. If she couldn’t laugh about life’s little oddities, she wasn’t sure how she would survive.
As she retrieved her phone from the nightstand at her side, she thought a viable alternative to the pamphlet idea was to try to cut the tension with a butter knife the next time they were all in a room together. She could picture the scene, and she felt another fit of laughter in the back of her throat.
Without a word, she would produce the little knife from her pocket to saw away at the conference room air. Someone would ask what in the hell she was doing, and she would advise them that she was trying to cut the tension. Now, this was all provided she could keep a straight face. More than likely, she would wind up cackling like a maniac, and they would all be convinced that she was the one whose cheese had slid off its cracker.
Her quiet laughter continued as she unlocked her smartphone to check for a text from her friend.
Shelby was out of town for work, and with The Preacher investigation in full gear, Bree figured her fiancée’s absence was for the better. If Shelby was at work, that meant she was among co-workers and friends. And if she was among co-workers and friends, she was safe. At the thought of someone as twisted as Douglas Kilroy coming within even a hundred yards of Shelby, Bree’s mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.
Bree had been in long-term relationships before, but her bond with Shelby was different. When she was around Shelby, she could be herself and didn’t worry that her quirks were off-putting. After all, Shelby had quirks, too, and Bree loved every single one of them. Well, except maybe Shelby’s tendency to return a box of Triscuits to the cupboard when there were only three crackers left.
There had been no indication that Douglas Kilroy planned to lash out at anyone other than Winter, but Bree still felt better with Shelby out of the man’s reach. As she glanced down at the newest text message, Bree felt her lips curl into a smile. Her fiancée was safe, and Douglas Kilroy would be behind bars by the time Shelby returned.
Sounds great! We’ll be at The Lift by 7:00, her friend Julia had written.
Bree hadn’t been to The Lift in ages. The restaurant and bar was one of her favorites in the entire city. Snowboards and skis, photos of snowcapped mountains, and even vintage signs for ski resorts decorated almost every available wall. Contrary to the bar’s namesake, the décor made the space feel warm and comfortable.
Perfect! I’ll see you soon! As she typed the response, her smile widened.
She needed a few hours off—as in, off. Away from any other agents, away from any thoughts that might steer her even remotely close to The Preacher case.
Though each crime scene had been more gruesome than the last, Bree thought she would have had a stress-free handle on the investigation if it wasn’t for the tense vibes emitted by each of her fellow agents. Bree might have been curious by nature, but she didn’t want to pry into the reason for each person’s vendettas with the other. That was a job for a counselor, not a special agent with the FBI.
As she slid away from where she lounged against a series of pillows on her spacious bed, Bree sent a quick text message to Shelby to tell her about Julia’s proposed trip to The Lift.
I miss that place! The reply was almost instant.
We’ll have to go when you get back. After she added a couple smiling cat emojis for emphasis, Bree sent the message to her fiancée and stretched her legs.
A few drinks, some good food, and some good company would work wonders for the mounting stress of her co-workers and The Preacher. SSA Parrish told them their investigation had effectively become a waiting game, and Bree saw no reason why she should stay at home to do her waiting.
Bree slid her phone into the back pocket of her slim-fitting jeans and made her way to the master bathroom. As she tucked a few wayward curls back into place, she hummed the rhythm to a song Shelby had introduced her to before she left for her work trip.
White light from the fixture above the wide mirror glinted off one silver earring, but as she turned her head to check for the second, it was gone.
“Really?” Rolling her eyes at her reflection, she u
nclasped the little hoop and set it down beside the sink. There was a reason she never spent more than ten dollars on a pair of earrings. Whether it was the way she fastened them or her regular physical activity, Bree had made a habit of losing earrings since she was in high school.
The obvious solution was to forget about the jewelry altogether, but Bree liked earrings. She had a collection, much of which was comprised of cute pieces she hadn’t been able to part with after she lost one of the pair. Blowing a few pieces of hair from her face, she opened the top drawer of the vanity to retrieve a pair of black and silver post earrings.
She remembered from her trip home that evening that the weather was unseasonably chilly. Bree was not a fan of the cold, but she was glad for the excuse to wear her favorite coat.
When she picked it off a rack at a local boutique, she had wondered if the bright color would be too off-putting. Even after she tried it on, she still hadn’t been convinced. But the garment was warm, comfortable, and cheap. Plus, she had been looking for ways to add a bit more color to her wardrobe.
Smoothing her hands over the red fabric, she grinned at her reflection in the foyer mirror. She was glad for the impulse purchase, and she dubbed it as one of the few random buys that had panned out in the long run.
Red had always been my favorite color. Even when I watched the blood from Momma’s head splatter across Daddy’s white dress shirt, it was still my favorite. It was almost like he painted a picture when he dealt her that final blow. I’d been just off to the side in Daddy’s workshop when it happened.
There had been a table saw right behind me, and I remember wondering what it’d look like to run someone’s arm or leg through it. I bet it’d make the red spatter from Daddy’s hammer look like nothing.
I was scared at first. After all, I was only fifteen, and I didn’t know what kind of mission God had planned for me. But by the time Daddy asked me to grab Momma’s feet to carry her out to the field, I wasn’t scared anymore.