Picturing the trooper stripped of his rank, or worse, I move on. “While I have you, did your forensics get any DNA hits? What about the sketch?”
“Nothing yet. Budget cuts. Labs are backed up. I do have a friend who works at a private security firm. They may be willing to do some pro bono work. Hopefully, they’ve got bandwidth.”
“Thanks, whatever you can do. Are you at your office?” I hop behind the wheel of my still idling truck.
A cardinal whistles while his keyboard clicks. “No, working from home.”
“Mind if I come over? I need your access to the FBI database.”
A few minutes later, we sit across from each other at what was my grandmother’s house. He moves around the kitchen like he’s done it a hundred times, comfortable in a way I’ll never be. While I take in the surroundings, the coffee maker gurgles, emitting dark-roasted aromas into the room.
Since the last time I visited, the ancient cabinets have been painted a soft robin’s egg blue, and the handles replaced by sleek chrome pulls. It’s subtle, respectful. He’s tried to preserve the past without getting haunted by it.
Knowing he’s taking care of the place—probably better than I ever would—breaks loose a piece of bitterness. I used to think this house was mine by birthright. Now I can’t wait to leave it behind. The man who wanted to live here, raise a family here… doesn’t exist. I’d rather start my married life in a ghost-free zone.
Wait.Married?
I rub a hand over my face. Hell, Briana and I can barely keep civil for two seconds. How could we possibly commit to a lifetime?
And yet, the heart wants what it wants.
“Here.” My sister’s husband sets a chipped mug in front of me, full to the brim.
As the earthy steam curls into my face, I wrap my palms around the ceramic. “Briana’s convinced her stalker is a serial. She also swears the first time she saw him, he wasn’t alone—said there was another guy.”
Even though the cup is too hot, I don’t let go. It’s way easier to focus on physical pain than the ache circling my fucking heart. Briana’s in jail and I let it happen.
Taking a deep breath, I walk him through it all. Beginning with her best friend’s betrayal, ending with her plowing into me on the path.
“Gollum? Mr. Mumbles?” Scott barks out a laugh. “She’s got quite the imagination.”
“Yeah.” I stare into the dark brew. “She is rather… unique.”
I try to sound neutral, but no fool, his brows shoot up. “She’s gotten under your skin, hasn’t she?”
Rather than meet his knowing gaze, I focus on a fascinating crack in his turquoise Formica. “She saved my life in Afghanistan. I owe her. That’s all there is to it.”
Hand in front of his smirk, he leans back in the creaky chair. “Understood. Don’t let Kelly see your face. You’ll never hear the end of it.”
“I’m not asking you to lie to your wife. However, if it doesn’t come up…”
“Mum’s the word.” His fingers fly across the keyboard. “Let’s broaden the search to the East Coast—Appalachian Trail. Solo female hikers, any deaths ruled accidental. Might get a few hits.”
The kitchen falls into a rhythm—soft clacks of keys, distant hum of the fridge, the occasional sip of coffee. It's weirdly domestic for a serial murder investigation. Peaceful, serene…
On cue, his phone rings, shattering the quiet.
“SA Hunter here… Say again… Andrea?... Sure, put her through.”
He shoots me a question mark before placing the phone between us. “Hello, Miss Bratner. This is Special Agent Scott Hunter. Sheriff O’Malley’s here too. How can we help you?”
The pause is so long, I check the screen to see if she hung up.
“Hello? I heard you wanted to talk to me again?” A New Jersey accent laces the soprano’s nasal tone.
Scott leans closer to the mic. “Yes. If you don’t mind, could you explain what your boyfriend was doing in the woods the night he died?”
“You don’t think I had anything to do with his murder?” When her defensive voice goes up a notch, I can’t help cutting in.
