Cold Shot

“You found it?” he asked.

  She spun around with a jump. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry. You were so intent on your work, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  She smoothed her long hair. “How long have you been standing there?”

  He smiled. “A few minutes.” He loved watching her work. Such passion and intensity for whatever she did.

  One day he would learn her story. Well, he already knew the facts. Before working with anyone he did his research, but he longed for her to share her story, her life. He wanted to be more than colleagues. Perhaps she was right. A man and a woman could be real friends. He already knew it to be true. They were all friends with Kate, and only two out of the four of them loved her in a romantic way. It had just been too easy and far too fun to get a rise out of Avery on the topic.

  “Remind me to look over my shoulder every now and then,” she said, focusing back on her work.

  “You seem to be doing that all on your own, love. The question . . .” he said, stepping behind her and dipping his head over her shoulder to look at the screen, “is why?”

  She tapped—rather, thumbed—the keys. “Because I don’t like people sneaking up on me.”

  “That happen often?”

  “With you around, it seems to.”

  It was more than that, but he wouldn’t press. Instead, he indicated the screen. “What did you find?”

  “The camera Marley had with her at the time of her death. I just purchased one off eBay. Not the same as having hers, but it’ll let me see its capabilities and let you take it apart.”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Nice job, Tate.”

  “Thanks. I was curious . . .”

  “Three words I adore.”

  She smiled. “You are so weird.”

  He lifted his brows. “If you only knew . . .”

  “I’ll pass. Thanks.”

  “You say that, but I see the curiosity sparking in your eyes.”

  “What you see is indifference.”

  “Keep telling yourself that and you’ll miss out on all the fun.”

  “I’ve had my share of fun. It’s overrated.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Can we get back to work already?” She blew out an air of frustration.

  “Of course.” He fixed his most serious expression. “You said you’re curious . . .”

  “Right. I did some digging on Marley’s aunt. Andrea Trent, maiden name Dugonja. Finley mentioned Andrea’s background as a photographer during the Bosnian War. I looked up her work. Pretty powerful stuff.” She clicked on the tab and an image popped up of a man, woman, and child dead on a crosswalk with blood pooled around them.

  She clicked through image after atrocious image. “No wonder Marley was so inspired by her aunt’s work. Not only did she bring the reality of the brutality of the war to light, her photographs exposed the role General Rativik played in war crimes, rapes, and genocide. Some say he was as bad if not more so than Mladic.”

  “I don’t remember a General Rativik standing trial.” Mladic certainly had.

  “He didn’t. It says he was killed in an explosion not long before the war ended.” She closed her laptop, stood and stretched, running her fingers through her hair and grasping two fistfuls with a grunt. “Aggg. I don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “People. How they can do things like this to one another.”

  “I’m afraid there are monsters in this world.”

  “Not monsters. Evil.”

  “Yes.” He stepped toward her. “Evil.”

  She exhaled, for once actually letting down her stringent guard. “It terrifies me.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Why on earth is that good?”

  “Because it means you’re still tender despite the horrific things that happen in this world.”

  She planted her hands on her hips—slender but shapely in the black yoga pants. “And how is that a good thing?”

  “Trust me, love.” He lifted her chin with his finger, hoping she saw the depth of sincerity he felt in saying this. “It’s a gift.”

  Her shoulders dropped. “It doesn’t feel like one.”

  “You remind me of her.”

  “Who?”

  “Jenna.”

  “Really?”

  “She was tenderhearted too.” It made the horror of what happened to her all the more unbearable.

  Her gaze bore into his. “You really loved her.”

  “Yes.”

  She bit her thumbnail.

  “That’s a terrible habit.”

  “So is yours of changing the subject.”

  He looked back over his shoulder with a smile as he moved for the kitchen. “Some would call it a gift.”

  “Griffin’s wrong, you know. It wasn’t your fault.”

  He opened the fridge and peered inside.

  “You know that, right?”

  He hung his head. If only it were that simple.

  39

  Finley settled by Griffin on the pile of pillows he’d dumped in front of his fireplace for them to lounge on as they scoured Marley’s notebooks. It was weird getting inside another person’s head so intimately, though she longed to be inside Griffin’s. To somehow bring him a measure of peace.

  Father, I pray you will equip me to be a source of comfort and strength for Griffin. I’ve fallen for him, hard. It’s awesome but requires vulnerability, which we both know is terrifying for me. Please don’t let me screw this up. Don’t let me give in to the fear. Help me hold fast to you and the direction you are leading me. And I pray it is toward Griffin.

  It was hard to believe they were here, at this place, and it had all come through the discovery of Marley Trent’s body. A woman she’d never personally met, but a woman who’d made a permanent imprint on so many lives—hers included.

  “How do you think Perera ties to Gettysburg?” It’d been bugging her ever since Perera showed up in the backseat of her car. Not that the man was trustworthy or that she necessarily gave any true credence to what he said, but it had got her thinking.

  “I’ve been trying to figure that one out. We need to find out if Perera or one of his associates made a trip back here the month Marley was killed. She could have spotted him or an associate she recognized in Gettysburg and begun tracking them.”

  “So you think Perera could have been in the States from November, when she spotted ‘the ghost,’ to March, when she was killed?”

  “Or he made two trips. I really don’t know. We need more information before the pieces start making sense.”

  “It’s so frustrating.” Waiting.

  “I know, but we’re making progress, and that’s what keeps a case going.” His cell rang. “It’s Gunny. I better take this.”

  She nodded.

  “Hey, Gunny. Yeah. I’ve been trying to reach Vern and—” Griffin’s jaw tensed. “What? When? Are you sure? I’m sor—”

  Gunny’s irate voice blared on the other end, then abruptly ceased.

  “Gunny?” He looked at the phone and exhaled.

  “Did he hang up on you?”

  “Can’t say I blame him.”

  “Why?”

  “Vern Michaels is dead.”

  “What?” Finley asked as waves of shock surged through her.

  “Gunny said police found him in his apartment yesterday. Been dead for several days. Suicide.”

  “You don’t think . . . ?”

  “Gunny sure does. Said Vern would never kill himself. He’d overcome too much. Someone killed him and staged it to look like suicide.”

  “Because he barely talked to us?”

  “Or because he knew the sniper we’re looking for.” Griffin stood, and looked about to throw something. “I’m going to go call Declan.” He strode from the room. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Griffin returned to the room fifteen minutes later, rejoining her on the floor.

  “Declan said he’d contact the lead officer
on Vern’s case. Find out who the ME is. Ask some questions.”

  “I can’t believe a man is dead because of us.”

  “You can’t carry that blame. We were doing our job. Trying to find a woman’s killer.”

  “But if our questions led to his death . . .”

  “It’s terrible, but we didn’t pull the trigger. The man who killed Vern is the one to blame.”

  She bit her lip, feeling led to speak. It wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, but when it came to a deep relationship—like the one she hoped she and Griffin were developing—things weren’t always easy, and she truly believed he needed to hear this. She only prayed he took it the right way. She wasn’t trying to cause more pain. She was trying to help.

  Are you sure, Lord? I’m the one who needs to say something?

  Couldn’t Declan or Kate? Perhaps they already had, and God was clearly laying this on her heart—so heavily on her heart she couldn’t ignore Him.

  Okay, Lord, here goes nothing.

  She linked her fingers through Griffin’s, looking up at him, holding his gaze. “Like the men who killed Judith Connelly and Jenna are the ones responsible.”

  He inhaled sharply.

  “I see the pain you’re both drowning in. You from both losses, Parker from Jenna’s. What happened in both cases was beyond tragic, but letting what some evil men did hold you captive or destroy your friendship with Parker—destroy a bond I’m sure Jenna treasured between you two—isn’t the answer.”

  Griffin shifted in the recliner, wanting to be on the entry level just in case. Winston grunted at his lack of settling in. If he wasn’t settled, the dog wasn’t settled.

  He punched the pillow under his head, the moonlight splaying across the floor in a squared pattern from the front windowpanes. He watched Finley deep in sleep on the sofa across from him.

  “Like the men who killed Judith Connelly and Jenna are the ones responsible.”

  Finley’s words cut like a knife, not because she’d intended harm. He knew that was the last thing she wanted. Her concerned expression the rest of the night proved that.

  Rather, it stung because he knew in his heart of hearts it was true. Parker could have never known, never anticipated what would happen when he asked Jenna to meet him that night. He loved Jenna deeply. It was painfully obvious by the way he still tortured himself—refusing to have a serious relationship, to love or let himself be loved. Jenna’s death had broken him. And he’d only made it worse by continuing to blame his best friend.

  Learning Parker had been seeing his baby sister behind his back for months had hit him like a sandblaster. Why couldn’t Parker have trusted him enough, respected him enough, to do the honorable thing and tell him the truth? She was his baby sister. He was his best friend. He deserved as much.

  He thought he knew Parker so well. Thought he had his back. Thought he could trust him. But Parker had been lying to him, keeping a major secret for months. How could he ever trust him again?

  He exhaled, pain compressing his chest on the next inhale.

  Father, I’m so conflicted. I know Finley is right. I know she said it out of love. I know I’ve been punishing Parker for far too long. This bitterness is eating me up. I can’t carry it anymore.

  He rolled off the couch and dropped to his knees, bowing his head.

  I give it all to you—my anger, hurt, pain, sorrow, questioning, doubt, bitterness. Everything wrapped up in Judith’s and Jenna’s deaths and Parker’s deception. Help me to stop being so self-righteous with Parker. I’m clearly the last person who should be.

  Please help me, Abba, Father, I’m relying on you.

  I can’t solve this case or, much more importantly, be the man Finley deserves without your enabling. Please protect us all and direct us to Marley’s killer. Let justice be done.

  In your Son’s name I pray. Amen.

  Finley stepped inside her home, dropping her keys and purse on the entryway table. It’d been a long day, but she was so much closer to catching Brent Howard. So close, they finally had a name and an address. Federal agents were swarming his house now.

  She kicked off her shoes and headed for the kitchen, passing through the living room when someone grabbed her from behind and pressed something over her mouth.

  She woke, bound, a bright light shining in her face.

  “Hello, Dr. Scott. I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

  She thrashed against the restraints, screaming through the duct tape covering her mouth. “Help me!”

  But her voice didn’t sound muffled. It was loud, piercing.

  “Finley.” He jarred her. “Finley.”

  She bolted upright, sweat drenching her.

  Blinking, she saw Griffin.

  “Hey.” He rubbed her arm. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

  She shook her head, fearing it’d never be okay, that she’d never be okay again.

  Griffin brought her a glass of water. “Feeling any better?”

  Chills wracked her body, her clothes still damp. “I think a hot shower will help. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  She stood and moved to step past.

  “Hey.” He tugged her arm. “Please don’t fear him. I won’t let Perera get you. I promise.”

  She bit her bottom lip. It was time she told him. “It’s not Perera.”

  “You think someone else killed Marley?”

  “No. I mean the nightmare wasn’t about Perera. It was about Brent Howard.”

  “Brent Howard . . . I know that name. The man who killed five women from Maryland over the last two decades?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  40

  Griffin sat in shock as Finley explained.

  “I was called to a body dump site. A grave that time and weather eroded. The woman had something in common with a set of skeletal remains I’d assisted on during my internship period at the ME’s office.”

  Now he remembered the case. “Her ring finger had been cut off.”

  She nodded. “I worked with the federal agent in charge of the cold case, and through our work together and my remembering the other victim . . .”

  “You were able to piece together that it had been the same killer.”

  “Yes, so I combed through case file after case file on Jane Does going back twenty years, and found three other victims. It was the initial victim’s cold case that led us to Howard. When the FBI closed in on him, he came after me.”

  “What?” How had he not heard about that?

  “The Bureau was able to keep my name out of it.”

  “How?”

  “I was dating the agent in charge.”

  “Oh. I’m glad he was able to do that.” That kind of press, that invasion into your life after death touched you . . .

  He remembered the reporters swarming when Jenna disappeared and again when her body was found—asking horrid questions, prying into every aspect of their lives. He was so thankful Finley had been spared that. But what hadn’t she been spared? What had Howard done to her?

  His chest tightened, knowing what Howard had done to his victims before finally cutting off their ring finger and suffocating them.

  “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want, but I’m here anytime you do.”

  She nodded. “Let me take a shower and then we can talk.”

  Perera watched through binoculars, having to move around to the rear of the ranger’s home to get any line of sight, slender as it was. He’d only spotted her because she’d moved upstairs. Something had shaken her. Looked like someone else had already done his job. Now to check on the other two.

  Finley padded down Griffin’s steps, feeling refreshed if not fully clean. Night terrors always brought the feeling of shame, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, she’d done everything right and yet she was still paying for Howard’s evil.

  Please, Father, I know you’ve never left my side. I kno
w you brought me out of that night alive and whole, despite the anxiety. Please let this fear leave for good. Let me trust in Griffin enough to share, and I pray he’s the man I think he is and will react the way I hope he will—with understanding and compassion, not guilt and pity, as Brad did.

  She didn’t blame Brad. But he’d felt responsible for not anticipating Howard’s move. For not protecting his girlfriend. But it wasn’t his fault. It was Howard’s. She knew that, and told Brad as much, but he never could seem to move past it. She’d always be a reminder of the mistake he felt he’d made.

  Much like Griffin struggled with guilt over Judith Connelly’s death.

  Please, Father, please bring healing to us both.

  I will. Through you both, a soft voice echoed in her soul.

  Entering the front room, she found Griffin perched on the edge of the couch, Winston curled up at his feet.

  Griffin looked up at her, eyes brimming with compassion. “Hey.”

  She slipped her hair behind her ear and moved toward him. “Hey.”

  He scooted back on the deep leather sofa, his left arm draped across the cushions. “Why don’t you join me?”

  She sank into the alcove of his arm, slipping the edges of her long-sleeve knit top over her hands, balling them inside as she curled closer to Griffin, letting his steadfast strength give her courage.

  Taking a deep breath, she began, “Howard wanted to punish me for interfering with his ‘course of justice,’ as he called it.”

  “What kind of sicko views torturing and killing women as justice?”

  “The first victim was his fiancée-to-be. At least he thought so, but when he proposed she just laughed. So he decided she deserved to die. Each victim after that had, in his watchful eyes, humiliated a man, cheated on her boyfriend or husband, or rejected a proposal. He scoured the Internet under numerous aliases looking for stories, stalking women at bars to see who was out without her spouse. It was an enterprise to him, and I ruined it all.” She took a moment to catch her breath, to slow her breathing. In . . . one . . . two. Out . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four.

  Griffin wrapped his hand around her shoulder, encircling her with his arm, and despite the horror of what she was sharing, she felt safe, sheltered.