Jessica Patch - Protective Duty

Hopefully, sharing this much was enough to keep her on the case but not enough to make him think she was incompetent or unfit for field duty.

Dr. Warner nodded. “That’s normal. I’d be more concerned if you said you were sleeping like a bear in winter.” He crossed to his desk and laid the notes on top, picking up a prescription pad. “I can prescribe a mild sedative.”

“Sure.” Bryn took the prescription and tucked it in her purse. “Dr. Warner?”

“Yes?”

“You’ve seen the files. You know what he’s doing to those women. They deserve justice.”

He crossed his arms, muscles pulling the sleeves of his white dress shirt taut. No wedding ring. Quite the catch. She tamped down a laugh as she caught sight of the fish tank. A catch. Eric would have loved the joke. But Eric wasn’t going to know about these visits.

“I did see them. I can’t help you if you don’t let me. Understand?”

Bryn nodded. Her time was over, and they’d barely had a conversation. If she kept that up, she’d end up exactly where she didn’t want to be. But she didn’t want to talk about her feelings. She didn’t want to unearth what she’d buried. She didn’t want to air her weaknesses and most private thoughts. “I’ll do better next week.”

“If you need to talk before then, you have my card. After hours, a service will forward your call to me.”

“Thanks.” Opening the door, she stepped into the hall and turned right. Dr. Warner laid a hand on her shoulder and steered her left.

“Back door for anonymity. No one sees you. You see no one.”

She slipped down the back hallway, out a side door and down the street to the parking lot.

She pressed the fob key and unlocked the car. Something white fluttered on her windshield. Restaurant menu? Coupon for a car wash? Maybe a tract explaining the way to salvation and claiming God’s love. Bryn hadn’t felt God’s love in a long time. All she’d felt lately was abandoned, unwanted, uncared for, and she couldn’t figure out why.

She grabbed it and started to crumple it in her fist when she noticed the words. She smoothed it open, hairs rising on her neck. A hollow chill whistled through her body. Head buzzing, she read the block-style words.

Miss High and Mighty FBI,

You’re dead!

A crack sounded, and a spray of concrete exploded near her feet. She dropped to her knees, using the car to shield herself from the bullet. Fear rocketed into her throat and sent her head into a dizzying spin.

Grabbing for her gun, she aimed it toward a building, but she wasn’t sure where the shot had been fired from. Shooting aimlessly wasn’t smart. Safety was.

Heart hammering, sweat popped along her upper lip and forehead.

Metal clinked as another bullet connected with the passenger door. Bryn fumbled for the keys she’d dropped when the first shot unloaded on the pavement.

The shooter’s position was high. Probably inside one of the abandoned buildings twenty feet away.

Another bullet hit the hood of her car. She bit back a shriek, and with quaking hands opened her car door just enough to slide inside. She worked to get the key in the ignition and crank the engine. Staying low, she gunned it and peeled out of the parking lot as one more bullet connected with the trunk of her car. Was this the same man who had attacked her in the park? He’d used the same words: High and Mighty.

He’d followed her here. How did she miss that? She had to call in backup. Although, the killer was probably long gone by now. Probably took off the second her car squealed from the lot. The law enforcement agent in her screamed to get the crime unit out here, to call Eric. To go straight to the field office with the note and the bullet that was lying on her floorboard.

Then they’d all know she’d been at a psychiatrist’s office. But mostly Eric would know. He’d pry into Ohio and discover the truth.

No, she’d definitely turn the bullets and note in, but she wasn’t bringing anyone out here.

* * *

Eric’s entire afternoon had been a bust. From the interviews he’d accompanied Bryn on to the lack of hits in the tattoo recognition database.

To top that stellar display of uselessness, he had driven to Edgewood Golf Club—Dad’s golf club. Nothing like driving out to be surrounded by workaholic, money-hungry, narrow-minded men—one being your own father—just to bring great news. Revealing that Bryn Eastman was back in Memphis and working with Eric on this case. Better he’d heard it from Eric than the five o’clock news.

It had gone over like no cake at a six-year-old’s birthday party.

“How dare she come back here! To show her face after what her...her brother did to our family.”

“Dad, she’s an FBI agent and she’s successful. She’s trying to make up for the past.” It wasn’t a stretch to make that deduction. Why else would Bryn end a career in professional swimming and diving and her dreams of coaching a girls’ swim team? She’d always been a fan of saving the whales or dolphins. She’d studied biology. Major shift to criminal justice.

Dad hadn’t cared.

A steely glare had formed in his eyes. “If you even think of dallying with that girl again—who’s beneath us to begin with—you won’t have a family anymore. Is that what you want, Eric? To hurt your mother all over again by losing a son? You’d kill her if you did that. You know she has a heart condition.”

Dad’s fist of hate and truth had sucker punched his gut. Mom’s heart had always been weak, but after Abby she’d had two stents. Eric was the only child left. Could he do that to her?

His answer had flown off his tongue with record speed. “Dad, that’s never going to happen, but I do have to work with her. I thought you should know. I’d never intentionally hurt either one of you.” He never had. Intentionally.

Now he was parked on the street in front of Bryn’s house, taking her the lunch that had become dinner. What obligation had kept her from eating? What was she keeping from him? It nagged at him. Right along with the fact she had yet to mention her faith, which had once been a huge part of her life. Had Rand robbed her of that, too? Eric’s faith had been shaky for a while, as well. He hadn’t let it stay that way, though. Lord, if she hasn’t let You heal her completely, please open her heart up to allow it.

Eric clambered from his car with a bag of food—chicken for her as requested and BBQ ribs for him with sides and rolls. Her car parked in the drive caught his attention. He crossed over and bent at the waist. Was that a bullet hole?

Storming to the front door, his heart suffering from arrhythmia, he pounded. A dog yipped. Bryn’s scolding followed.

The door opened. She’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt the color of island waters. A dolphin jumped an ocean wave on its front. “What are you doing here?” She eyed the food sack. “You brought food?”

He ignored the question. “Why do you have a bullet hole in the trunk of your car?” Eric stepped inside. “And why did I not get a phone call?” The scent of vanilla rode over the smell of an older musty home. A candle burned in the corner on a rickety table by the sofa—the source of vanilla.

Bryn groaned. “I haven’t been home but long enough to change my clothes. I intended to call you.”

After the fact.

That ate at him.

Bryn stood before him, avoiding eye contact. Fidgety. She’d been shaken. “Something happened today.”

Eric’s temper rose out of fear. “Yes. You were shot at!” She could have died. He pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen, then held it up for her to see. “No missed calls. No texts.”

She grabbed the bag of food and took it to the kitchen. “Calm down. I know that look.”