Allison Brennan - The Prey

Quinn put on his own gloves and slid the box, wrapping, and hair into an evidence bag. He handed it to Colleen. He mumbled something to her that Rowan couldn’t hear, and Quinn’s partner left the room.

Rowan’s book. Rowan’s fault. She closed her eyes and put her head in her hands, willing herself to keep it together. She knew the killer had intentionally deviated from the book because he knew about her past. And somehow she was sure he was going to kill her when he was done destroying her.

Who was this bastard? Who knew about Dani? She didn’t believe in coincidences. He had to know about her little sister.

But no one knew Dani had been murdered.

Something clicked. What she’d been thinking about the Franklin murders the other night. That little girl was a brunette, too. It was seeing her butchered in her bed, with the dark pigtails, that had forced Rowan to turn in her shield.

Another connection to Nashville. A typical murder-suicide? Maybe not. Maybe there was something more.

“Quinn. This has to be connected to the Franklin murders. I talked to Roger about it. He said he’d get me the files.”

“You didn’t work that case,” Quinn said, frowning. His eyes narrowed in that suspicious look he got when he interrogated someone.

She resisted the urge to clam up. She hated having to bring up her weakness again to be examined for the world to see. “It was my last case. I did the initial walk-through. Then I quit.”

Both Michael and Quinn were silent, standing in front of her like questioning sentries, waiting for her to break. Maybe not. Maybe that was just her own fear. That she would break. Again.

She forced herself to stand straight, keep her hands loose in front of her on the table. Avoided fidgeting with her coffee mug. She didn’t know if she had the strength to fight this unknown evil, but damn if she was going to show her weakness to the rest of the world.

“We’ll get the hair down to the lab and process it to confirm that it’s from the victim,” Quinn said. “I’ve put a call in to Roger-he went to the scene-to find out what he thinks of the hair. This is the second time the killer has contacted you directly, Rowan. It’s coming to a head.”

He was coming after her. She knew it. If the police or FBI didn’t catch him first, he would come after her. The weight of the Franklin murders rested heavily on her heart. If she hadn’t quit the Bureau four years ago, would something have changed? If she had ridden the case out like the good law enforcement soldier she’d been trained to be, putting all her personal baggage aside, would there have been a different outcome? She didn’t know, and not knowing added to the weight on her already heavy conscience.

So much death in her life. Maybe her own death would finally set her free.

“There will be one more,” Rowan said, her voice cracking. The killer had picked one murder from each of her three books. Were they random? Or did they hold special significance for the killer? She cleared her throat. “ Crime of Corruption . There were seven murders in that book. Can you do anything to get the word out? There are seven women in jeopardy.” She picked up her coffee and sipped. It was cold, but she needed something to do with her hands.

“We’re on it,” Quinn said. “The D.C. police are on alert. The press is eating this up and already printed the names of the women killed in your book. I’ll bet you’re selling out in all the bookstores.” He began to smile, then realized he’d put his foot in his mouth. “I’m sorry, Rowan, I didn’t mean-”

Rowan slammed her coffee mug so hard on the table it cracked. The rage she’d focused inside, on the unknown killer, she now turned on Quinn. How could he even say it? As if she hadn’t thought it herself. As if she were not physically ill over the desperately unwanted publicity. This killer had stolen the one cathartic joy she had in her life: writing, penning novels where good always triumphed over evil. She didn’t know if she would ever write another word.

“How dare you! It’s blood money. I will have no part in it!” She pushed her chair back and stormed past Michael, down the hall to her den.

The door slamming sounded final.

“Aw, shit.” Quinn ran a hand through his hair. “I should apologize.”

“Why don’t you give her some time?” Michael said. Damn if he was going to let Quinn anywhere near Rowan. They obviously had a past.

Quinn looked Michael up and down. “Mr. Flynn, Rowan and I have been colleagues and friends for a long time,” he said. “I’m going to talk to her.”

Michael blocked Quinn’s path. “Give her time,” he repeated. They were the same height, but Michael had at least fifteen pounds on Quinn, all of it muscle.

They stared at each other for a full minute, Michael firm in his resolve to refuse Quinn access to Rowan; Quinn weighing the pros and cons of confronting the bodyguard.

Quinn broke the silence. “I’ll give Rowan tonight, but she needs to come down to FBI headquarters tomorrow to review some of her old cases.”

“She’s been doing that here,” Michael said.

“We’ve pulled out a few that merit further attention. Her insight and familiarity with these crimes is important.”

“I’ll bring her over.”

“Thanks,” Quinn said as he opened the front door. “I appreciate it.”

Rowan listened to the front door shut, relieved that Quinn was gone. He was a good agent, but dammit, she thought he knew her better. Money. She didn’t care about the money. She wrote because she had to, a purging of the pain she’d kept locked up for so many years. In her books, justice always won. In her fantasy world, the villains always died. Victims were avenged, good persevered over evil.

But in the real world, none of that was true. Sometimes victims received justice. Sometimes villains were punished. Sometimes good defeated evil.

But just as often, evil won.

She heard footsteps approach the door and stop. She didn’t want to talk to Michael. He meant well, but he couldn’t possibly understand. Fortunately, he continued on, his steps fading away on the tiled floor.

She released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and eyed the gun in her hand. All her pain could disappear now with one well-placed bullet.

She was a coward. She couldn’t take her own life. She only hoped the bastard came after her before anyone else died.

Assistant Director Roger Collins had taken the earliest flight to Portland to see the latest crime scene of the “Copycat Killer”-the name the media had attached to America’s newest serial killer. Three hours later he was heading east again, but not for Dulles.

“What’s the ETA to Logan?” he asked a passing flight attendant.

“We expect to land at 4:10 P.M. Eastern time.”

Taking out his wallet, he extracted a card from underneath his driver’s license. He stared at it for a long time before pulling out the phone from the back of the seat in front of him, typing in his credit card information, and dialing the number. He identified himself, then asked to speak to the director.

“Roger.”

Dr. Milton Christopher’s voice was deep and gravelly, and hadn’t changed in the twenty-some years Roger had known him.

“Milt, wish I were calling to chat.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m on a flight to Boston right now and need to see MacIntosh.”

There was a long pause. “There’s been no change.”

“I know, but I need to see him. It’ll be after visiting hours.”

“Does this have something to do with that serial killer on the West Coast?”

It was Roger’s turn to pause. “Could be.”

The doctor sighed. “I’ll be here.”

“Thanks.”