And if he was innocent, was the guilty party after her for some unknown reason?
“I was so positive something was here,” she said, her voice cracking. She glanced down at the file Quinn was putting back together and saw another photo. One she had avoided. As if penance for her weakness, the picture rested on top of the stack.
“Stop.” She grabbed Quinn’s wrist until he pulled back.
“What?” he asked. She ignored him. Hands shaking, she reached for the image that had haunted her for four years.
And longer.
Rebecca Sue Franklin. She should have been asleep, dreaming of the tea party she’d had with her stuffed animals and dolls earlier that day. Instead, she lay under her white comforter, the dark stain a stark reminder that she was dead. Shot in her sleep. A trail of dark blood streamed from her open mouth, frozen in time.
Her dark pigtails, disheveled from sleep, contrasted with the starched white pillowcase. The dozens of stuffed animals and dolls and toys that stood sentry around her stared with blank, black eyes. Voiceless witnesses.
Rowan didn’t notice the tears running down her face until one hit the photograph. It startled her, forcing her back to the present.
“Nothing. Nothing conclusive,” she said, stuffing Rebecca Sue Franklin back into the folder and closing her eyes. “I think Roger should give priority to reviewing this case. I don’t know why, but there’s something familiar here. How else could the killer know about the pigtails? Why send them to me? I never wrote that.”
“Coincidence,” Quinn said as he picked up the file.
“Bullshit, and you know it. There are no coincidences.”
“We could be chasing our tails, Rowan! Running after a cold case on a hunch-it’s a waste of resources.”
“Do you have anything better?” She was shouting, but didn’t care. “Anything at all? Because none of my other cases gave us even a thread-this is the only anomaly.”
“We’re still running through your other cases, testimonies, everything. It takes time.”
“I know it does, but this case is different. It was my last. Dani-” she caught herself. “Rebecca Sue and her pigtails. What was sent to me. There has to be a connection.”
“Danny?” Quinn asked, a quizzical look on his face.
Rowan waved it away as a slip of the tongue, but didn’t miss Michael’s eyebrow arch up. She’d almost forgotten he was in the room.
“Don’t you see?” she continued. “There’s something here. I want a copy of this file. I want to read it again.”
“I can’t-” Quinn said, then stopped and rubbed his hands over his face. “All right. Take it.”
“Thank you.”
Quinn sighed. “We need to talk about protective custody.”
She shook her head before he’d even completed his sentence. “I’m in this for the long haul.”
“You’re no longer an agent. Don’t play the tough-cop routine with me. I can take you into protective custody like this-” he snapped his fingers “-if you so much as look at me wrong. And don’t think I won’t. Roger has given me the authority.”
The audacity of him! She felt her temper reach the boiling point. “Never.”
“It’s for your own safety, Rowan.”
“I’m not hiding. I’m not running.” Not again.
Michael intervened and stepped forward, putting a hand on her shoulder and giving her a slight squeeze. “We’ve all been under stress this morning. It’s already after noon. Why don’t I take Rowan out for a bite to eat? We’re done here, anyway.”
“Can I stay?” Tess sat at a desk in the corner of the FBI field office conference room that had been converted into a headquarters for information about the Copycat Killer. She was typing away at the computer-doing what, Rowan had no idea. Michael had mentioned earlier that she’d been tagged as a civilian consultant by the FBI because of her computer expertise, after passing a security check. It wasn’t uncommon.
“Sure,” Quinn told Tess. “I have some work to do. I’ll call in some sandwiches.”
“I need to get out of here.” Rowan pushed back her chair and stood. She picked up the file and hugged it to her chest. Tonight. Tonight she’d look at it again and talk to Roger.
She shot a glance at Quinn and walked out. She’d had enough of him today. He just didn’t get it. Just like he never understood how he had betrayed Miranda. For all his brains and all his good looks, Quinn Peterson could be clueless at times.
Protective custody? Never.
Michael followed. She’d expected nothing less. Damn, but she wanted privacy. The ten minutes she’d had alone in the shower this morning was simply not enough time to think. And now with the picture of Rebecca Sue Franklin etched in her brain, she didn’t want to eat, let alone have a conversation.
She pulled a Motrin out of the pocket of her jeans and dry-swallowed it.
Michael grabbed her wrist. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” She jerked her arm away from him.
“That pill. It’s the third time this morning that you’ve taken one. What are you doing?” He put both hands on her shoulders, his lips a tight line.
Rowan glanced around the office to see if anyone had heard Michael’s accusation. If they had, they were wise enough to ignore the scene.
“Let go of me,” she said through clenched teeth.
Michael dropped his arms and ran a hand through his hair. “What are you doing to yourself?”
She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out three more Motrin. “Satisfied?”
He had the sense to look sheepish, but she was still pissed off. “I’m sorry, I-”
“Forget it.” She walked through the office and opened the main door. Michael slammed it closed.
“I go first,” he reminded her.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath. “I really hate this.”
“I know.” His voice was laced with sympathy, but he didn’t understand.
John did. John understood her. And she hated him for it.
She sensed he’d been a Fed at one time. Not FBI. Possibly CIA, but most likely DEA. He had the stealth presence and lithe movements that screamed drug enforcement, at least to her. She’d known enough DEA agents in her career that she could pick them out.
Definitely military. He’d told her Delta Force, the best the Army had to offer. He was older than Michael, but still too young for Vietnam. Delta was big in Desert Storm, and with the hostilities in the Middle East for the past two decades, the clandestine assassinations, the rescue ops-she wondered when he’d left. Why he’d left. If he’d left.
Perhaps he had as many secrets as she did.
“Rowan?”
She blinked, almost having forgotten where she was and whom she was with. “Woolgathering,” she said, turning away from him.
“Where do you want to eat?”
She shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“You need to keep your strength up.”
“I’m fine.” She glanced up the street, motioned toward a fast-food restaurant. “That’s fine.”
Michael grimaced. “Junk food? I don’t think so.” He steered her in the opposite direction. “I saw a little Italian place around the corner.”
“Sure,” Rowan said, allowing Michael to lead her. It was easier than arguing. But food just didn’t matter right now. Not after the murders, the pigtails, the waiting and watching and wondering when the hidden face of evil would strike next.
He’d gone through her first three books picking one murder from each. Doreen Rodriguez. The florist. The Harper family. One more book; then it was her. One more victim; then she would see his face.
Unless he wanted to toy with her more. Use her fifth book, due out next week. Wait and kill one more.
“Stop,” she said, almost shouting.
Michael hovered in front of her, looking over his shoulder. “What? What do you see?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I need to make a call.”
“Not here on the street.”
“It’s important.” She pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed Roger’s private mobile line.