Allison Brennan - The Hunt

An intruder.

She reached for the gun she’d stuffed in her fanny pack. She hadn’t left home without a gun for twelve years. Cautious but determined, she approached the main kitchen door.

Tap tap scrape.

Bracing herself just inside the door, she reached for the light switch with her left hand while holding her right arm-the one with the gun-steady in front of her.

She mentally counted to three, then hit the switch and cocked her revolver.

A tall, half-naked man spun around, a fork toppling off his plate onto the floor.

“Shit, Miranda! Put the gun down.”

She did, as her mouth fell open. No words came out.

The last person she expected to see creeping around the kitchen was Quinn Peterson.

Miranda stuffed the gun back into the waistband of her jeans and stared at Quinn. “What are you doing here?”

“I called your dad from the road and he had a room. I didn’t think we’d run into each other. I figured I’d maybe be here four, five hours sleeping.” He put his plate down on the table. Pecan pie. Her pecan pie.

“That had better not be the last piece of pie,” Miranda mumbled. Why had she said that? She’d meant to tell him to get the hell off her property.

He smiled, and Miranda blinked. She kept forgetting how good-looking Quinn really was. When she’d seen him the other day, she was so filled with rage and sadness and conflicting emotions she didn’t dwell on his appearance. But seeing him now, his lean, tanned chest bare, his muscles clearly defined even though he was at ease, the scar on his upper right shoulder from a gunshot wound early in his career-it brought back memories. Good memories. Of waking up with Quinn and kissing that hard chest. And his hands-he had the most incredible hands. Large hands, callused palms, with surprisingly elegant fingers. Very talented fingers…

She glanced down to where a narrow trail of dark blond hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his gray sweats. She quickly averted her gaze, already feeling flushed from the adrenaline released when she’d thought he was an intruder.

Having Quinn here, in her kitchen, without the security of work, jerked the rug out from under her. He’d invaded her town, her investigation, and now her home. She hadn’t thought about that day at Quantico-consciously-in years, and wham! The dam broke and she could think of nothing but.

She had no idea what he’d done in the last ten years. He could be married for all she knew. That thought disturbed her and she frowned. Brushing past him, she went to the cupboard where Gray kept his pies.

Sure enough, there was half a pecan pie sitting there, calling her name. She couldn’t help but smile.

She took her time cutting a slice, feeling Quinn’s eyes burrowing into her back. She really didn’t want to sit down and talk to him. Outside of the Lodge, in the woods, with Nick and the others around-that was one thing. But here, alone? No. It reminded her of their former intimacy. Reminded her how she once loved him. Reminded her of what could have been.

But she couldn’t keep her back to him forever. She put her pie on the table, then crossed over to the large, walk-in refrigerator and retrieved a gallon of milk. She set it on the table, along with two glasses. She poured one for herself and one for Quinn, then sat across from him.

“Thanks,” he said. His dark eyes were unreadable. What was he thinking? About her? About them?

She drank her milk, then dug into her pie. If her mouth was full she wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t say something stupid.

He continued to watch her.

She resisted the urge to squirm. During the past several years she’d regained control over her life, built a sense of relative peace. She had a job she loved, a job that did some good, even if she hadn’t been able to find Rebecca before she was killed.

She had a few good friends. Nick. She still kept in touch with Rowan and Olivia, though she hadn’t actually seen them in years. They e-mailed and talked on the phone, but for Miranda it was hard to get away. Impossible. She couldn’t just up and leave Montana when he was still out there.

She loved Rowan and Liv like sisters, but how could she abandon those who needed her? Particularly the dead. Rowan and Liv understood that-they might be the only people who did.

“I should have told you I was staying here,” Quinn said, breaking the silence.

She looked up from her pie. She noted he’d taken the bandage off his forehead. A thin, dark red scab remained, a reminder of his last assignment. She wanted to ask him about it, but didn’t. She didn’t want to care.

His firm, set jaw reminded her of his strength. He had been steadfast when she first met him. Resolved to find Sharon’s killer. She’d helped him because she needed to do something to find the bastard who hurt her and killed Sharon. And then she’d fallen in love.

It didn’t happen overnight. Time to heal, time to get beyond the pain-Quinn gave her everything she needed and more.

Then he ripped it all away.

“The techs preserved everything they could at the shack, and it’s headed out to Helena tomorrow. I decided to call Olivia and ask her to oversee the laboratory tests.”

“Liv? She’s coming here?”

“To Helena, if she can get away.” He grinned. “Sometimes, threatening to take over an investigation will light some fires. They’d much rather take care of the tests themselves, even with a Fed looking over their shoulder, than have everything shipped to Virginia.”

“Whatever it takes,” Miranda said, with little hope. Even Olivia, who loved her job and excelled at it, couldn’t find a clue where none existed. The climate and conditions destroyed any usable evidence.

“He’ll make a mistake,” Quinn said with confidence.

“Right.” She didn’t believe it.

“He might have already.”

Her heart beat faster. “Why do you think that?”

“Penny Thompson.”

“Why bring her up? Her murder was three years old when we found her body.” What remained of it.

“I’m pulling all the University files again. Remember Vigo, the FBI profiler? He insists the killer knew his first victim personally. We spent so much time twelve years ago investigating the associations of you and Sharon that by the time we learned Penny was the first victim, going back to her associations-then three years old-yielded us nothing. Her boyfriend, the guy the sheriff thought responsible for Penny’s disappearance, had an airtight alibi during Sharon’s murder.”

Quinn added, “We’re going to focus on the parts of Vigo’s profile that would help narrow the list even more after so many years have passed-that the killer would remain single, would now be over thirty-five, that he has a flexible job, is physically fit, and has family in the area, or still lives here. It’s worth a shot.”

“It’s a long shot,” she said, she became a little excited. There would be hundreds of records to pore through and investigate, hundreds of men who on the surface fit the profile. But time would have weeded out many potential suspects, those who’d married, who’d moved out of the country, whose jobs were high-profile and inflexible. If they could narrow the list they would be able to dig deeper into those potential suspects and, with any luck, come up with a handful to interview. Maybe even get a warrant to search a car or house, especially if one of the suspects didn’t have an alibi for the time of Rebecca’s murder.

Maybe there was hope that justice would win. Just a little. But she would hold tight to it.

“Right now, it’s all we have.” Quinn paused, then said in a low voice, “Miranda?”

She looked into his eyes, eyes that could melt her or anger her, eyes that reflected love or frustration.