Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

“That’s it.”

“Think of your sister, your brother,” Dad said. “They don’t need to know all the details of your mother’s murder.”

“I am thinking of them,” Heather said. “And if you’d been honest with us from the start, we could’ve helped Annie much sooner. I think the truth will be good for all of us. I’ve got to go.”

Shrugging her purse strap up higher on her shoulder, Heather turned and opened the car door. Her father’s hand wrapped tight around her wrist. She stopped, glanced up at him. His gaze, hazel-eyed and clear, met hers.

“Let go,” she said.

“I want you to know, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re alive. Glad that Prejean saved your life. If Stearns had killed him…” A muscle jumped in James Wallace’s jaw.

“Stearns risked his life for me. When he shot Dante—” Heather fell silent, heart pounding. He’d slipped that comment in so casually, so smooth. Hooked her like she was fresh out of the Academy.

Glad that Prejean saved your life .

How could he possibly know?

She’d told only one person what Dante had done; a whispered phone conversation with the only person who wouldn’t judge her or think her nuts. A tumbler of brandy in her hand, her throat aching with each word, she’d shared Dante with her sister.

I didn’t walk away. I just stepped back for a bit. To figure things out.

Then call him, Heather. Let him know you’re worried about him, that you care .

Heather jerked free of her father’s hold. She slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door. She breathed in the faint odor of vanilla from the Starry Night air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. She felt as tight and hard as a fist. Struggled to breathe around the twisted knot of anger in her chest.

James William Wallace stepped back, a rueful smile tilting his lips.

Bureau man. Father. Husband. And a coldhearted, lying bastard.

Had her phone or Annie’s been tapped?

She keyed on the engine, slammed the Trans Am into gear, and peeled out of the parking garage

She needed to warn Dante.

THE DOOR CLICKED SHUT behind Caterina and two sets of eyes watched as she crossed the room to stand in front of the ADIC. Rutgers’s assistant, SA Brian Sheridan, stood behind Rutgers’s chair like one of the royal guards Caterina’s mother had described from her time centuries before in the Italian court, his gaze distant and his face serene despite the sweat drying on his forehead.

“I wasn’t aware you were in D.C., Cortini,” Rutgers said with a frown. She tapped a finger against a neat stack of folders on her desk.

“That was the idea,” Caterina said, seating herself in one of the chairs positioned before the desk. Leather creaked. She glanced at Sheridan. “Our conversation needs to be private.”

Sheridan’s gaze was no longer distant, but fixed on her, hazel-eyed and sharp. Midthirties, and judging by the fit of his well-tailored suit, in excellent shape. No doughnuts and lattes for this royal guard.

“Go ahead,” Rutgers told him.

Gaze still on Caterina, Sheridan said, “Yes, ma’am.” He walked across the office in quick strides. The door shut quietly behind him.

Caterina set up her audio jammer on the ADIC’s desk. The slim, dark metal device was designed to look like an iPod, but she had no doubt that Rutgers knew exactly what it was and why it was being used. Caterina switched it on. It chirped and burbled and squealed as it desensitized all audio recording equipment in the room.

“I’ve been sent to deliver a message,” Caterina said, holding the ADIC’s gaze. “A decision has been reached.”

Rutgers stiffened. “A decision? Regarding…?”

“The Bad Seed fiasco and the Bureau’s mismanagement of the aftermath,” Caterina clarified, although she knew perfectly well that Rutgers understood her.

“But we’re still looking into the matter,” Rutgers protested, leaning forward in her chair. She rested a hand on the stack of folders as if protecting them. “We’ve destroyed all evidence.”

Caterina shook her head. “Not all. The footage from the center’s med-unit security cameras is still missing. And some of the evidence is two-legged, walking, and definitely not destroyed.”

Rutgers closed her mouth. Her hands slid from the folders to her lap. She regarded Caterina for a long moment. “Dr. Moore and Dr. Wells are the people responsible for Bad Seed. If anyone is to blame for this mess, it’s them.”

“Moore’s still missing and Wells retired from the project five years ago. So responsibility falls to you.”

“Am I to understand you believe me at fault in this? This wasn’t just a Bureau-directed project. Your handlers played a part as well.”

“What I believe is of no concern. What is of concern are my instructions.”

“I see. And what are your instructions?”

“I’m to take care of all loose ends.”

Rutgers drew in a sharp breath. “All?”

“All, but one.”

“Dante Prejean,” Rutgers said, her voice flat. “And what about Wallace? We’ve offered her the SAC position in Seattle. You can’t mean to—”

“She’s no longer your concern,” Caterina cut in. “End your surveillance of Wallace. Call your people off Prejean. And, if Moore should turn up, please let me know immediately.” Caterina had a feeling Moore was dead, scattered ash. But, until she’d confirmed that suspicion, she’d operate as though the missing scientist were alive.

Rising to her feet, Caterina added, “If anyone rabbits, I’ll assume they were warned. And I’ll assume the warning came from you.” She held the ADIC’s brown-eyed gaze until the woman finally glanced away, jaw tight. “I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

“Completely.”

Caterina scooped up the audio jammer from the desk, but didn’t switch it off. She held it in her hand. “This decision is final. There’s no appeal.”

Rutgers looked at her then, and her eyes were as dark and bitter as scorched coffee. “There never is.”

Caterina switched off the jammer and slid it into her pocket. With a quick nod of her head, she spun on her heel and crossed the now silent room to the door.

“I feel like I’m working in the dark here,” Rutgers said.

Caterina opened the door. “You shouldn’t. Adapting to darkness isn’t difficult in our profession.” She stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her. “That’s the problem.”

Seattle, WA

March 22

CHOOSING A WINDOW AT the back of the unlit house, Dante removed the screen and rested it against the white bricks. He forced the window open with a hard, quick, upward jerk. The lock snapped with a wood-muted crack. He paused, his fingers on the window frame, listening. He heard nothing. No barking dogs. No fast-drumming heartbeats. Just silence.

Pushing aside the cream-colored curtains that belled out of the open window, Dante swung a leg over the windowsill and climbed into the darkened room. He straightened. Lowered his hood and shook his hair back from his face.

He breathed in Heather’s scent of sage and rain-wet lilac, a fresh after-the-storm smell. Her energy, her presence, warm and strong and sun-spiked with authority, illuminated the room.