Though last night’s rain and the rough terrain almost guaranteed they would fail today, hope was one thing that never deserted her. Hope kept her moving forward, each day, each year, after every abduction and every murder. Hope that they would find the Butcher and justice would win in the end.
If she lost hope, she would also lose her mind. Quinn would then shake his head smugly and say, “I was right.”
“I’ll take the left,” she told him, breaking free of her introspection. “You go that way.” She motioned to the far side of the narrow trail.
“Stop,” he commanded.
She turned to face him. They were far enough across the ridge that they could see no other teams, voices fading behind them.
Damn, he was handsome with his windswept dark blond hair and solid, square jaw. Even the slightly uneven angle of his nose was sexy. But she would not let his good looks shake her resolve.
“What?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“You’re not calling the shots, Miranda. I’m here-officially-to help the sheriff with his investigation. I can’t allow you to start giving orders.”
“Let’s get one thing straight, Agent Peterson,” she said, keeping her face blank. “You may be the hotshot federal agent in to rescue the bumbling country idiots, but don’t make the mistake of thinking you have any real power here. I’ve lived here, worked here, made a home here. These people will listen to me. They trust me. Don’t pull rank or I’ll make your life hell.”
Anger flashed across his face and the familiar tic pulsated in his jaw. But she saw the realization in his eyes that she was right. Good. She started to turn back to the task at hand when he reached out and spun her around.
Her arm swung up and broke his hold on her. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice low. Her heart beat too fast. She remembered Quinn’s touch. His probing caresses, his lingering kisses. She burned with the memory of how combustible they were together. How much she had loved him. How he had shattered her confidence, her hope, her heart.
It had taken her a long time to learn to be touched by anyone. She’d become comfortable with physical contact again. Still, twelve years after the attack, if someone touched her when she didn’t expect it, her fear was almost palpable.
She hated the Butcher. He’d stolen so much from her.
Quinn looked momentarily surprised and took a step back. “Don’t make threats you have no intention of acting on,” he said, his voice matching her tone. “You won’t interfere with me because you want justice as much as I do. Maybe even more.”
They stared at each other. Miranda detested how he scrutinized her with his intelligent eyes, as if he could read her mind, see clear down to her damaged soul. She straightened her back and didn’t waver from his gaze.
“Since you have professional experience in search and rescue, you’re an asset,” he continued, “for now. But if I think for one minute that you are behaving in any way that is unprofessional or could jeopardize this investigation, I will have you pulled.”
Her jaw worked, itching to respond, but instead she turned away to control her unsettled feelings. It wasn’t his threat that bothered her-it hurt to realize he still believed that she would fall apart. For years, she’d harbored that same, almost crippling fear every waking moment. She pictured herself falling apart each night when she closed her eyes.
But she persevered. She’d made it ten years without collapsing under the weight of her fears; she couldn’t let his doubts weaken her resolve.
She wanted to share her struggles, but feared he would use her confidences against her as an excuse to take her off the investigation. Everything she’d told him before Quantico had been used against her, all her fears and insecurities and overwhelming need to right wrongs had forced him to expel her from the Academy. She had learned her lesson. She wouldn’t give him any ammunition now that might be used against her later.
She kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t broken twelve years ago, and she damn well wasn’t going to break today.
“Very well, Agent Peterson,” she said formally. She started down the path, focusing on the ground and the shrubs, concentrating on Rebecca. She heard Quinn fall into step with her, taking the right. He muttered something, but she couldn’t make out the words.
She hoped she’d pissed him off.
They proceeded carefully. Miranda kept the map. They spoke only to point out potential evidence, and Quinn photographed and tagged anything even remotely relevant.
About a mile from the ridge where Rebecca had been found, Quinn pointed to four deep impressions in the mud. “She fell here,” he said as he photographed the spot.
Miranda stared at the holes, seeing Rebecca’s naked body shaking with cold and panic. And hope. Because without hope, she wouldn’t have run.
Miranda closed her eyes. If she were alone, she would have gone back in time and remembered the many times she had fallen. Each time she questioned her ability to get up. Each time, she rose because she hoped she could make it.
“Miranda,” Quinn said quietly.
She quickly opened her eyes. Quinn of all people couldn’t witness her reliving the past. He knew too much about her, what she’d gone through; ultimately, she felt that had been the reason he’d kicked her out of the FBI Academy. He feared she’d lose it when on a case and jeopardize the team, endangering herself and others, if she found herself stuck in her own waking nightmares.
She had to keep her fear to herself.
“It was raining,” she said, coughing to cover up any emotion that might creep into her voice. The overgrown path was even denser here, though it was obvious someone had run through. The moist branches didn’t break easily, but there were a few hanging at a forty-five-degree angle, and several small plants and saplings had been trampled.
“Because it was raining,” she continued before Quinn could interrupt her contemplation, “he had to follow her from behind. The noise of the storm would have made listening for her difficult, so he wouldn’t have strayed far from her path.” Unlike his pursuit of her and Sharon, she thought. He’d run parallel to them most of the time.
“You’re probably right,” Quinn said, looking at her with an odd expression.
She didn’t want to read anything into it, good or bad, so she turned to her map. She made a very small red mark where Rebecca had fallen. “Look at this terrain,” she said, her voice becoming excited in spite of the company.
Quinn looked over her shoulder and she tried not to breathe in his still-familiar, all-too-masculine scent. “This spot? This is a mountain.”
“Yes, but here,” she pointed, “is a clearing. This area was logged years ago, but they planted new growth. Maybe eight, ten years. These trees will still be relatively small. Because this trail goes to this clearing, I think she came from there. But she twisted around and around, not running straight. Too scared. Not thinking rationally.” She shook her head, tried to rid her mind of Rebecca’s fear. “But we can cut through here and get to the clearing in less than thirty minutes.”
“No,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “We stay on the path Rebecca took. We’re looking for evidence.”
She clenched her hands in frustration and turned to face him. “We can return along the path she took, but I just know she ran through the clearing. That’s how he kept her in sight. With the rain and poor visibility, he couldn’t risk giving her too much lead time. And the ground would have hampered Rebecca more than him because she was weak, barefoot.”
Miranda’s excitement grew as everything suddenly became clear to her. “She didn’t run long. She couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have risked it, not when it was getting dark and the rain was heavy. Which means the cabin is nearby. It has to be!”