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.”
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.