Allison Brennan - The Prey

“Who sent it?”

The man checked his log. “Harper.”

Rowan peered around the corner, thought for a second, then shrugged at Michael’s raised eyebrow. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Leave the package on the doorstep.”

“I need a signature.”

“Hold on a minute.” Michael backed away from the door. He motioned for Rowan to stay where she was, then walked past her and out the side door.

She anxiously waited, distracted for a moment by the fact that he’d already made a pot of coffee. She poured herself a tall, black mug and sipped.

When he came back, he locked up, set the alarm again, and checked out the package while wearing gloves. Rowan watched from across the table.

“It looks okay.” He glanced at her for confirmation.

She crossed into the dining room, put the mug down, and drew on the pair of latex gloves Michael handed her.

The package was light, probably not even half a pound. She put it to her ear; silence. She looked at all the seams, but none appeared to contain a hidden trigger. It would be difficult to send a bomb through a courier unless it was on a timer; packages were tossed about haphazardly, and there were no markings that this was fragile.

“It’s fine,” she concurred. She started to open the package and Michael stopped her.

“Let me.”

Reluctantly, she put the package down and stepped back, balling her hands into fists. She hated being protected.

She watched Michael’s hands cautiously work open the package, her heart beating fast, angry with herself that this delivery created an undercurrent of fear. The box inside the plain brown wrapping was white, a simple unmarked gift box the size of a videocassette. A single piece of tape sealed the edge. Michael broke it with his finger and pulled off the lid.

Two bright red ribbons, tied in bows around locks of dark, curly hair. Human hair. As if two pigtails had been cut off, preserved by a loving mother after her daughter’s first big-girl haircut. Saved by a mother not wanting her little girl to grow up.

Red ribbons, dark hair.

No. No, not again.

Dani.

Tears silently streamed down Rowan’s cheeks as she stared at the open box in Michael’s hands. Deep sadness etched every crease of her face.

“Rowan?” He put the box on the table and stepped toward her. “Rowan?” He put his finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his.

The raw pain in her face threw him for a loop. He had never seen such expressive eyes in his life, and they were filled with such agony.

“What does this mean?” He peered carefully at the contents to make sure he wasn’t missing something. Dark hair tied in red ribbons. He put it down on the table, took her by the arms. She was shaking and he pulled her close. “Talk to me, Rowan. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“Dani,” she croaked into his chest.

“Who’s Danny?”

She didn’t answer. Michael picked her up and carried her to the couch, where he held her in his lap and rocked her back and forth for several long minutes until her sobs turned to crying, her crying to whimpering, and then complete stillness. Somehow, the silence was the worst.

She’d buried her face in his chest. Michael pushed her back. “Rowan, trust me. You have to trust me.”

She looked into his eyes, searching for what? Honesty? Trust? He didn’t know. Her lips trembled, and he put a finger on their red fullness. “Trust me,” he whispered.

She swallowed. “I-I-” She stopped, her voice hoarse.

He kissed her lightly on the forehead. She needed him. This strong, independent woman needed him, and he was filled with intense longing and desire. Every protective instinct he had was focused on her, and he half fell in love right then.

He pulled her tightly to him. “What? Tell me.”

“I-I can’t.” Her voice came out a croak.

He turned her face to his, searching her eyes, her mouth, the worry lines on her forehead. Her lips quivered. He desperately wanted to kiss her, to show her that he could protect her, that he would always be here for her.

He couldn’t kiss her. She was too vulnerable, too needy. But damn, he wanted to taste those quivering red lips, soothe the pain on her face. If only she would let him in.

She was out of his arms so fast he almost didn’t feel her push off of him. “Michael, this isn’t a good idea.”

She had sensed their connection, too, and it gave him hope. Maybe-after all this was over-there was hope for them.

“Rowan, I can wait.” Damn, that was hard to say. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted to be with her completely, entirely, right now. But he wasn’t going to make the same mistakes he’d made before.

He swallowed and watched her face for some of the passion he hoped simmered under her skin. He didn’t see anything, but she was an expert at hiding her emotions. Surely she felt the tug at her heart as it-fate-tugged at his.

Again, the doorbell rang.

“Shit,” Michael muttered as he strode to the door.

Rowan sighed in relief as she turned from Michael. She purposefully made her way to the dining room table. She liked Michael and was beginning to trust him-as a partner, not a lover. She wasn’t capable of giving any man more than sex. Long ago, her ex-boyfriend had told her she was ice cold.

And she liked Michael too much to lead him into believing something about her that just wasn’t true. He’d proven to be competent, giving her both the space and support she needed.

She picked up her coffee mug, averting her eyes from the box. Her hand shook. She willed for all of this to stop. She would not fall apart. Never again.

She heard Quinn’s voice from the other room.

“There’s been another murder. Where’s Rowan?”

Rowan almost dropped the mug, then carefully placed it on the table before sinking into a chair. Closing her eyes, she swallowed hard. Another murder. The pigtails. She hadn’t written about any of her villains taking hair from a victim, but she knew this was related to her.

He so desperately wanted to hurt her.

“I don’t think-” Michael began. Rowan opened her eyes. Quinn stood at the edge of the dining room, a frown etched in his handsome face.

Quinn’s partner, Agent Colleen Thorne, stood behind him. Rowan remembered Colleen from her days in the Bureau, a quiet, no-nonsense cop whom Rowan had respected, though never been close to. That wasn’t a surprise; Rowan hadn’t been friendly with most of her colleagues. It was easier to keep people at arm’s length than to develop attachments that could hurt.

Colleen nodded her hello and Rowan returned the gesture, then turned to Quinn.

“Who’d he kill?” she asked.

“Divorced mother and two daughters,” Quinn said.

“Portland. Harper. Crime of Clarity .” She closed her eyes, still seeing the pigtails in her mind. “Get an evidence bag.”

“What’s going on?” Michael asked.

“One of the victims was a five-year-old girl who appeared to have her hair cut. Brunette,” Quinn added.

“Another copycat crime.”

Quinn shook his head. “Yes and no. In the book, a family by the name of Harper was killed, a mother and her two teenage daughters. This is the same family name, one teenage daughter, but one five-year-old. In Rowan’s novel, no hair was missing from the murdered girl.”

“But you’re sure this is the same person?” Rowan asked, even though there was no doubt in her mind.

“Left your book at the scene,” Quinn said, his face grim. He sat down at the table across from Rowan. “The deviations from the story could be personal, perhaps his own sick fetish. Maybe he couldn’t find a Harper family in Portland that matched the description, so he compromised.”