“Stop right there.” John pushed off from the counter and took a step toward his brother. “She’s hiding something and you’re enabling her. That ‘Danny’ she talked about, he has something to do with it. And if you don’t start thinking with your head instead of your-” he glanced below Michael’s belt “-you’ll wind up dead.”
“You know nothing about Rowan!”
“Neither do you,” John said, his voice barely audible. “And you’d better start asking questions rather than letting blondie lead you around by the nose. She’s using you, Mickey. She’s using your obvious attraction for her to avoid answering the hard questions.”
“You’re the one lusting after her. Don’t think I didn’t see how you looked at her.”
John shook his head and leaned back against the counter. “Mickey, Mickey. It’s Jessica all over again.”
“Don’t say her name!”
“Hell if I’m going to let you make the same mistake twice! You almost got yourself killed because she lied to you. Well, Rowan Smith’s closed mouth is the same damn thing as lying, and my gut tells me she knows something about this killer.” John tried to pass his brother, not wanting to fight with him, but Michael grabbed his arm and spun him around.
“Let go,” John said.
Michael squeezed tighter before dropping his arm. “Don’t push her. She’s been through hell.”
You don’t know the half of it, Mickey, John thought. John suspected Rowan Smith had been to hell and back many times. He saw it in her eyes, the eyes she shielded whenever possible because they exposed her to the world. But whereas Michael sought to protect her from reliving hell, John knew the only way to conquer evil was to face it head on.
To do that, Rowan was going to have to spill the beans. The only way she would, John suspected, was if he discovered the truth first.
“Stay out of this,” Michael warned.
“Too late.” They stared each other down. If the situation wasn’t so damn serious, John would have laughed.
The phone rang, but neither man moved to answer it. When it rang a third time, Michael grabbed the wall receiver. “Smith residence,” he said, gruff. “Who’s this?” He paused, then glanced at his watch. “She’s in the shower. We’ll be there in an hour.” He hung up.
John looked at him, eyebrow raised, but didn’t ask who was on the phone.
“That was Agent Peterson,” Michael said. “They’re ready for Rowan to review the Franklin file.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” John said and turned toward the hall.
“What are you going to do?”
John glanced over his shoulder. “I have some calls to make. I’ll watch the house for you.”
“You don’t have to stay here.”
John raised an eyebrow. What Michael was really saying was, I don’t want you here.
“I know,” John said, “but I want to.” He started down the hall to find a bathroom to shower in, then stopped and turned back to his brother.
“Mickey,” he said, “I’m sorry about the Jessica comment. That was a low blow.”
“It’s forgotten.”
John hoped his brother meant that. Their argument was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, and it bugged him. They often argued, but always came away friends. “Be careful, okay?”
“I will.” Michael grinned. “And when all this shit’s over, we can battle for Rowan Smith fair and square.”
“There’s nothing to battle.” But as John said it, he realized he had some feelings for the pretty blonde that he couldn’t reconcile with his desire to get her to talk. Where Michael often let his emotions cloud his professional judgment, John vowed not to let that happen with him.
He found the shower at the end of the hall, stripped, and stood beneath the hot, stinging spray. He couldn’t get Rowan Smith out of his mind. Her hard profile and soft eyes. The way she watched everything that went on around her without moving her head. She absorbed her surroundings, taking pains to blend in, but John always knew when she was in the room, even if he couldn’t see her.
Yeah, he had a thing for her. But unlike Michael, he knew the difference between lust and love. He didn’t believe in love at first sight or fate or any of that nonsense. He was practical, and could separate business and pleasure.
The job came first.
As he rinsed the beach run from his body, he planned exactly how he was going to get Rowan to open up. He had a feeling once she started talking, she’d have a lot to say.
CHAPTER 9
The black-and-white crime scene photos were no less graphic for their lack of color.
She stared at the picture of Karl Franklin, gun near his hand, the dark stain spread on the light carpet under his head. Half a head. The other half had been blown onto the wall when he’d shot himself.
She’d read the reports from the Franklin murders and had been surprised to learn the case wasn’t closed. There wasn’t enough substantial evidence that Karl Franklin indeed killed his family, then shot himself. While it was clear that Franklin committed suicide, there were some discrepancies in the physical evidence that showed he might have died before the other victims-and that their deaths had all been quick.
She hadn’t known. She hadn’t cared enough to even check.
No, that wasn’t true. She cared too much. That’s why she’d almost had a breakdown and ran away. She’d been too weak.
Technically, the case was ruled a probable murder-suicide but wasn’t closed. After four years, it was cold. Very cold.
Unless Karl Franklin hadn’t killed his family. If someone had gotten away with murder. The file was surprisingly light. No known suspects other than Franklin. They’d interviewed neighbors and relatives and the only surviving immediate family member; Karl’s son from a previous marriage was in college and had a solid alibi.
Because the timeline was so close, and establishing exact time of death difficult under the best of circumstances, the probable murder-suicide had put the case on the back burner.
Rowan slapped the file down on the conference table and the contents skidded across the smooth surface. Quinn stared at her, shaking his head as he straightened the stack. Tess frowned from her spot in the corner at her laptop, and Michael-ever diligent-stood at the door, arms crossed, watching her.
She didn’t care. They didn’t understand. Had her running away caused a murderer to go free? Was Karl Franklin innocent of the crime everyone thought him guilty of?
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.”