Allison Brennan - The Prey

Michael answered the bell, surprise in his eyes as he looked from John to Tess and back at his brother. “I thought you were in South America until the end of the week.”

“Wrapped up early.” He walked in, closed the door, and surveyed the surroundings. “Cush job, Mickey.”

“While you were sunning it up in Bolivia, I got the call.” Michael broke into a wide smile. “Glad you’re back in one piece, Johnny.” He embraced his brother, slapping him on the back in a bear hug.

“Me, too.” John stepped back, squeezed Michael’s shoulders and grinned. “It’s really good to see you.” He dropped his hands and looked around. Cold, sterile, artificial. He certainly wouldn’t want to live in this expensive tribute to minimalism. “Can you use help?”

Michael stood back, hesitating. John understood how hard it was for Michael to ask for his help. Tess, yes. Cops, yes. His older brother, no.

“Sure, always. I left a message for you, actually. Tess didn’t tell me you were coming back early.” Michael narrowed his eyes at Tess, but wrapped an arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head.

Their brief reunion was interrupted by a female clearing her throat. John turned his eyes to Rowan Smith for the first time.

He was surprised at his reaction. He wasn’t a first-sight-attraction kind of guy. But the impression he had of Rowan from her book jacket was nothing compared to the woman in person. She still had the rigid, distant look of her profiled picture. Elegant and classy. A blend of the 1930s temptress with the cool estrangement of a twenty-first-century professional. No doubt a beautiful, remarkably striking woman, but there was something more. Her intelligent, stormy blue eyes, watching and curious. John noted how she kept herself detached from them, her body turned at a slight angle, almost as if she were ready to bolt even as she looked him straight in the eye.

Captivating.

He glanced at Michael and saw the familiar look on his brother’s face. He was smitten. Michael glanced at him and frowned, almost imperceptibly. He probably considered John a rival-at least as far as Ms. Rowan Smith was concerned.

They stared at each other briefly, and John tried to judge how hard Michael had fallen. Without a doubt, his brother was in deep, but he seemed to be keeping his emotions in check. If John didn’t know Michael as well as he did, he wouldn’t see the competition in his eyes.

When they were in high school, they’d instituted the “First Sight Rule” to avoid fighting over girls. They were only a year apart and were frequently attracted to the same women. To keep the peace in the family, they had agreed that whoever saw the girl first had first right of refusal.

Not this time.

John dumped the rule then and there. By the look on Michael’s face, he knew it too.

I’ll make it up to him.

Besides, they didn’t have time for fun and games while a killer was on the loose. And protecting his family-and now Rowan Smith-was John’s number-one responsibility.

She stood outside the picturesque two-story white colonial, heart pounding, a light sheen of perspiration on her back. Her skin was clammy, and she wondered if she was coming down with something.

The house was familiar, but she’d never been to this part of Nashville before. She glanced at local Agent Tom Krause, a seasoned veteran she’d worked with on another multiple homicide in Tennessee two years before.

Mature trees, evenly spaced, grew tall on the recently mowed lawn. Trimmed hedges stood sentry, marking the bottom of every closed window, every blood-red shutter. Yellow crime-scene tape slashed the serene landscape, a stark reminder of what awaited her inside.

Rowan had walked through hundreds of crime scenes. She’d seen the worst that man could do to his fellow man. Gathering her emotions, she pushed them down as far as she could, deep down, behind her soul. But today, she was having a harder time separating herself from the crime scene. Somehow, this murder was different. Familiar.

She stood in the entry hall of the immaculate home. Clean, comfortable, expensive furnishings, polished wood. There was the general disturbance associated with law enforcement presence, but the house was otherwise neat as a pin. The smell of a lemon-scented cleaner mingled with the coppery scent she knew too well, the metallic taste of blood already in her nostrils, her mouth. She closed her eyes, gathering her strength.

Why was it so hard to proceed?

“Agent Smith, you okay?”

Tom’s voice cut through her hesitation. She snapped her eyes opened and nodded. “Of course, just thinking. Who were the victims?”

Tom glanced at his notepad. “Karl and Marlena Franklin and their children. Suspected murder-suicide, but the techs haven’t been through the scene except to photograph it.”

She nodded and continued to survey the surroundings. The bottom of the staircase landed in the foyer, curving elegantly as it approached the second floor. Displayed on the wall were pictures of a growing family, arranged step-by-step, year-by-year. The mother and father, dark-haired and blue-eyed, together. Together with an infant. Then an infant and a toddler. A toddler and a kindergartner. Two kids and a baby. Two kids and a toddler and a baby. Dark hair, blue eyes, attractive family.

Three boys and a baby girl.

At the top of the stairs was the last portrait this family would ever take together. Three boys, the oldest about twelve. A little girl, three, with dark pigtails and red ribbons in the hair.

Pigtails and ribbons.

Run! Her mind screamed, but she was compelled to move forward. She heard Tom talking, but didn’t hear his words .

Run!

Her feet were rooted in the too-familiar house.

The blood in the first room was confined to the bed. Oldest boy, Packers football fan, baseball awards on his shelves and walls. Second room, bunk beds, more blood. She smelled it, tasted it, breathed it into her lungs and gagged.

“Rowan.”

The voice was far away, and she put one foot in front of the other, leaving Tom behind.

“Rowan!”

She turned into the last door, knowing before she opened it what she would see.

The baby girl’s room decorated in pink and white frills, full of teddy bears and dolls. A picnic had been laid out on the floor, complete with a Babar the Elephant tea set and guests. A teddy bear, a giraffe, and Babar preparing to partake in the meal. Left from yesterday’s game.

An empty seat where the little girl would have sat.

Dani.

The little girl could have been sleeping. Would have been sleeping until her life was stolen from her. Blood soaked her white down comforter. Dear God, how could so much blood come from such a tiny person!

Pigtails.

Dani.

She screamed.

While drinking coffee in the dining room, John listened as Michael filled him in on the police investigation and the FBI’s role. Rowan had fallen asleep on the couch in the adjoining living room less than half an hour before. She’d looked exhausted when John first saw her, and he didn’t doubt that recent nights had been interrupted by the pressure the killer placed on her.

A moan escaped Rowan, and both he and Michael jumped up. They stared at each other for a moment, then John sighed and sat back down. “Your case,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he was making the right decision. Michael had been handling the security measures like the pro John knew he was, but whenever he looked at Rowan, a softness came over his face. A familiar expression, John thought, most recently seen when Michael was involved with that liar Jessica Weston.