“None of the houses have basements this close to the reservoir. The water table is too high.” She shrugged out of her coat, looking dazed, as if she was moving on autopilot.Could be an act, he thought as he watched her, making sure she wasn’t planning on making a break for it. His gaze swept her from head to toe, looking for suspicious body language, but then he got distracted by other things.Okay, he definitely hadn’t remembered the breasts. They were a lot rounder up close and personal than from the distance when he’d been watching her through the loft window. Her body was the type to give men restless dreams. The wave of instant lust threw him for a second, but for only a second. He was a seasoned investigator. He could ignore his twitching dick, dammit.“Take a seat.” He motioned her to the sofa, not liking that he felt the need to put some distance between them.To start with, he asked a question he already knew the answer to, an old interrogators’ trick. “You have a daughter?”
Jack Sullivan thought she was in league with a serial killer. And, stupidly, to convince him she was innocent, she had blurted out her darkest secret. Oh God. She would have done anything to undo that, to erase her words.Soon everyone would know that something was seriously wrong with her. And then she would never get her daughter back. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, dizzy with the anxiety and anger that gripped her.She had to make Sullivan believe her, accept that she had nothing to do with the killer he was looking for. He seemed dead set on pinning a slew of murders on her. Or accessory to murder. Nausea bubbled in her stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second.To think that she’d been scared of Bing. For Bing, the case was a job. For Sullivan, it was personal. He was aggressive and crass and relentless and—“Have you tried to find any of the others?” He glanced back at the pictures, then at her again, his face hard, his eyes narrowed. He had a look of emptin
Jack smashed his fist into the boxing bag, the sharp slap the only sound that broke the silence in the small workout room in the back of the police station. The gym was utilitarian, nothing but the basics. He didn’t need much. He just needed a place to build his body back.He lost himself in the rhythm of his punches. He liked it when he was alone in here. He was still on leave—not by his own choice—but he could at least use the gym, part of his physical therapy. Maybe he was doing it a little harder than he was supposed to, but he didn’t have time for a slow recovery.So he came in, once a day, for the gym, and because he could usually sneak a few minutes at his computer, check on things, ask around about what progress the FBI was making.None whatsoever.Pretty much the same as he. His home visit a week ago with Ashley Price had netted more questions than answers.He’d spent the intervening days with identifying everybody on the paintings he’d taken from her. Other than himself, he
“Your stubbornness brought you back. The same thing that’s keeping you from being home and recovering like you should be. You need to take better care of yourself, Jack. Gain some weight back.”“That’s exactly where the cookies come in,” he said, straight-faced. She was laughing as he walked out the door.In less than half an hour, he was in the woods off Spring Road, walking up to Bing.The captain’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?” “Was driving by, saw the commotion.”“And I’m a woodland fairy. You know what sick leave means? You stay home and heal.”“You sound like Leila. So what do we have?”“A hiker called the place in.” Bing shrugged, then called out, “Anything back there, Mike?”“Locked up tight.” Mike, the other rookie who’d joined the team the previous year with Joe, came around the cabin, a round Irish kid, red hair sticking up all over, eyes green as shamrocks, and a grin that betrayed he hadn’t spent too much time on the force yet. He’d barely seen anything.“Who
“I’m playing princess,” Maddie said.Definitely. The million-dollar Persian rug in the middle of the elaborately furnished living room was smothered with dolls and horses and castles. Some small toy stores had a lesser inventory, he was sure.“The drawbridge is stuck,” Maddie prattled on.” If Prince William can’t get to Princess Lillian, they can’t fall in love.”A tragedy.“Bertha can’t fix it.” The little girl looked at him expectantly.Kids were trouble. He wasn’t good at relating to kids. But it was clear that this one expected something from him.He cleared his throat. “I could look at it.”The smile that lit up her face was nothing short of angelic. She had eyes the exact shade of green as Ashley’s, and hair the same color too, except with some waves to it.He strode over and went down to one knee, and wiggled the drawbridge that had gone off track. He pulled out his pocket knife and popped the piece of brown plastic back in, sliding it up and down a couple of times while Maddie
Ashley looked at the small chunk of cheese and wilted celery in her nearly empty refrigerator. She was going to have to brave the grocery store tonight. She needed bread and milk, cold cuts, some microwave dinners for herself when Maddie wasn’t here, and the makings for a healthy, homemade meal for her daughter tomorrow.Her father and Maddie were coming, finally. Which meant she couldn’t put off the shopping trip any longer. As much as she dreaded the store, the thrill of seeing her daughter again gave her strength to do it. Their way-too-brief visits were the only thing that kept her going.She closed the fridge door, then tidied up the old-fashioned tile countertop a little. Not that her small kitchen was messy. She’d already mopped the ancient glazed-brick floor. Once she filled the fridge and her plain oak cabinets, she’d be ready for visitors.She’d go shopping after midnight; by then the store was usually deserted. She wasn’t looking forward to sleep anyway. The night before, s
Whatever had hold of her scared the spit out of her. But she stood her ground in front of the canvas and worked. While her posture was rigid, her hand moved in a fluid motion, concentration on her face.The fire she’d attacked him with was gone. That had been interesting. Made him respond in more ways than one—his body was still buzzing with the sudden contact. She was such a study in contrast, fear and courage, fire and innocence. She had the looks, but layers too, and talent and depth. And one seriously sick friend.“Talk to me, Ashley.”But she was no longer aware of him, creating in a trance, in the grip of a vision only available to her. Or doing a hell of a job faking it.The artist in her studio. Except he’d imagined the creative process differently. He would have thought artists got joy out of creating. She clearly didn’t.“Ignoring me isn’t going to work.” But she kept doing it.For a second, he looked away from her to the wall of windows. Outside, the darkness seemed extra th
After a night that started pretty roughly, then continued with her tossing and turning, worrying about what Jack Sullivan would do with her paintings, Saturday morning came too early. Ashley lay in bed, the bedroom dim in the gray winter morning light.She looked at her cell phone on the nightstand, dread and disappointment filling her little by little. She had to call her father and Maddie, let them know she couldn’t come today.Detective Sullivan had ordered her to stick around. On any other day, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But today was the day she was supposed to show her father that she was making progress.She wanted to get into her car and try, even if her throat would close up when she reached I-95. Even if she would be gasping for air and swimming in cold sweat. Even if she had to pull over. Even if it took her all morning to make the two-hour drive.She needed to face her fears. She couldn’t give up, or she’d never have Maddie back.She sat up in bed. She would not give