Protective Duty

“Good for you, I guess. I always enjoyed watching you play.”

He turned and grinned. Sadness mixed with regret. “I always knew you were there for me. No ulterior motives. No pressure if I won or lost.”

“Kinda like you attending my swim meets.”

This was winding down a serious path. Emotions were surfacing that he couldn’t allow. Too much damage had been done when Abby died. “Well, I have to admit, I was mostly there to see you in a swimsuit.”

She laughed. “You’re such a guy.” Bryn had let his remark go, but Eric knew that deep down she didn’t believe that for a second. He’d been there to support her because he cared about her. Her drive and passion were contagious. Even now, he felt it in her skills as an agent.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Whatever lights your fuse.”

“Do you still swim?” Eric weaved through the subdivision. Large sweet gums towered overhead. An array of gold, red and orange leaves swayed with the fall breeze. Not the best day for golfing.

“Yes. As therapy.” She frowned at the word therapy as if it coated her tongue in acid. “I joined a gym not far from Holt’s rental house. Bought a new swimsuit...and a dog.” She sighed. “You golf with your partner? Luke?”

“Luke? Golf? Hardly. But if I wanted to suffer some punishment and box, I’d call him first. I play a few games every now and then with my dad.”

“Really?” Surprise lit her face.

“He stopped hounding me about getting back into the game when my profession became useful to him.”

The air in the SUV grew thick. He hadn’t thought his answer through. He’d said he wouldn’t bring up the past and then did anyway.

Bryn rubbed her hand against her thigh. “How...how are your parents?”

Eric pulled into a circular drive and cut the engine.

Brave question.

“Our lives were altered forever, Bryn. How do you think they’re doing?”

“Just for the record,” she said, “our lives were altered, too. We live with the guilt of what Rand did to not just Abby but the three girls he murdered before her. I grew up with him, and I never knew the darkness in him. I feel guilty for that, as well.”

Eric clenched his jaw. “I know. Let’s just not talk about it right now, okay?”

He’d rather focus on finding the man killing these women than reliving the tragedy in his own life.

THREE

Bryn white-knuckled her steering wheel as she drove to the therapist’s downtown office. The stop at the Danforth residence had been a bust. Mr. Danforth was out of town at a conference until next week. The housemaid had been charmed by Eric. He was good at that. Naturally sweet to everyone. He even had the woman promising to make him empanadas next time he swung by. After that, they ran by the station that taped Wake-Up Memphis.

Bridgette Danforth’s cohost, Anderson Tawdle, was as plastic as they came, and it was clear there was no love lost on his part, but then Bridgette had been trying to get him fired so she could bring in an all-female cast. That gave Anderson motive to kill her but not the other three victims.

Turned out Bridgette had a massage appointment with her lifelong friend, Sandra Logan, who owned an animal clinic in Germantown. Animals happened to be one of Bridgette’s many causes. Causes that she promoted with boldness on her TV show, creating many reasons to hate her. She had mail to verify it.

The interviews had taken longer than Bryn expected, so she canceled on lunch. Eric seemed disappointed and pried to find out why she had to leave in the middle of the day.

Seeing Dr. Elliot Warner wasn’t anyone’s business. She didn’t need colleagues thinking she was unstable or incompetent. Even if seeing a therapist was protocol, it was still humiliating, especially since she wasn’t either of the two.

Bryn parked in a lot a block down from Dr. Warner’s. Downtown could stand to be cleaned up some. There were abandoned warehouses with cracked windows on one side and trendy places to eat on the other. Grabbing her purse, she stepped out of the car and headed toward his office.

Cracks and loose gravel caught the toe of her shoe. She righted herself, crossed the street and inhaled.

By granny, she had this. She’d prove to Dr. Warner that keeping her behind a desk wasn’t utilizing her well, that Towerman hadn’t made a mistake by sending her into the field. Maybe the city’s and the mayor’s panic had been to her advantage. She’d keep her fears buried and only give him information on the case, which he already possessed anyway. As the session progressed, he’d see she was on top of everything. And he’d give a glowing recommendation to Towerman.

The semi-decaying brick building held some old charm. She opened the tinted-glass door. Inside, the building transformed from decrepit and broken to fresh and classy.

Violins harmonized to Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major and filtered through hidden speakers. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus wafted through the front lobby. Her shoes clicked against polished hardwood flooring as she crossed to the circular mahogany desk to the left of the foyer. Should she wait for a secretary?

She strummed her fingers along the desk, then sank onto the chocolate-colored leather couch while the violins began their crescendo.

Bobbing her knee and flicking her nails, Bryn gnawed the inside corner of her mouth.

A door down the hall squeaked open. Floor joists creaked and squawked, and then a man in his midforties, attractive, smelling like new money, loomed in the door frame leading into the foyer. Thick chestnut hair cut in a trendy style matched the thin lawn of scruff on his face. Warm amber eyes greeted hers. “I’m Dr. Warner.”

“Bryn Eastman.”

He glanced at his expensive watch and raised an eyebrow. “You’re early. Eager to start?”

Eager to get out. Bryn cracked a shaky smile. “Sure.”

“Follow me.” He led her down the hallway past a men’s restroom, then a women’s restroom. His office was to the left. He opened an espresso-colored wooden door and slipped inside. Bryn followed.

Set like a formal living room with a large comfy couch and two leather club chairs surrounding a decorative table, his office was masculine and inviting. A large ornate desk rested in front of a built-in fish tank that lined an entire wall. The tank had to hold at least a thousand gallons.

“Have a seat, Agent Eastman.”

Bryn settled in a club chair. No lying on the couch for her. Dr. Warner chose the couch, leaning back comfortably, ankle cocked over his knee. Muscular. Probably from tennis or rowing.

Other than the sounds coming from the filter on the fish tank, silence filled the room and dragged. Was she supposed to start? She had nothing to say. “I like your fish tank. Salt water?”

He glanced at the tank. Schools of fish swam in colors ranging from banana yellow, silver, violet and turquoise to an array of multicolored ones. “Fresh actually. Easier to clean.”

She admired the coral, the sand, a small elegant ship and a treasure chest in the corner. The bubbling eased her jumbled nerves. Peaceful.

Bryn studied the blur of colorful fish. “They’re beautiful. Eye-popping.” So many. How did he keep them from overcrowding? That’s how she felt. Overcrowded. With being back in Memphis, working on the rental house, the new puppy, this high-profile case and Eric—working with him and old feelings poking at her.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “They’re all male. They tend to have more color than the females.”

“Huh. No one fights for alpha status?” She examined the fish as they weaved in and out of each other’s way. She fought for it every day, not so much dominance as equal footing. In her line of work, she was the minority.

“I did my research.”

Probably did his research on her, as well. She didn’t want to talk about herself. “I like the quiet water, too.” Bryn leaned back in her chair. “Which ones are your favorites?”

Dr. Warner checked his watch again. “This session is about you. Do you want to talk about you?”

No. Not in the least. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

Time crept along as silence hung.

Uneasiness broke it.

“I can do this job. I know the risks. I knew them when I pursued this career.”

“Do you want to talk about why you pursued this career?”

“You already know why. You know everything.” As a contracted therapist by the FBI, he was privy to all of her case files, as well as her dossier. He knew what happened in Ohio. What happened on her first night in the field—the attack. It would all be there in black and white. She couldn’t hide any of the facts from him. Her feelings were an entirely different matter. “And as you can see, I’m fine.”

If she kept repeating that, he wouldn’t believe her. He scribbled on his notepad. Was he writing that she was uncooperative? If she wanted her permanent freedom from the desk, she needed to toss him a bone. SAC Towerman had already had a lengthy discussion with her after the attack in the park. Was she okay? Could she keep up out there? Blah. Blah. Blah. He needed her out there as much as she needed to be out there, but she hadn’t missed the skepticism in his eyes and hesitation in his voice.

“I was nervous walking on the scene. And I was afraid when the attacker grabbed me around the neck. Who wouldn’t be?” Being an FBI agent didn’t make her superhuman.

Dr. Warner kept writing, then looked at her again.

Bryn held his gaze. “It had nothing to do with what happened in Cleveland. I did my job there. You know that.” But flashbacks and that same fear had resurfaced. To tell the good doctor that meant to tell him she wasn’t healed.

Well, she wasn’t. Never would be. She’d thought about praying but was fairly certain God had stopped listening to her prayers. He definitely had stopped answering them, or she and Eric would be together. Happy. With a family.

She pointed to the file in his lap. “Can’t you just sign off on my paperwork and let me do what I do best? I don’t see the need for these appointments.”

The giant obstacle between her and the career that compelled her to take risks stared into her eyes. “You don’t see the need in talking to someone about almost being murdered...twice? Or about the past events that drove you to this line of work?”

“I saw a family therapist at my mom’s request after my brother...” She couldn’t even bring herself to go back in time. It had been excruciating and pointless. “And, yes, that’s why I pursued this career. I can catch this killer. But I can’t do it behind a desk.” Time to show him she could cooperate and be compliable. “Scared or not, we have to push past the fear for the greater good. Every agent has some level of fear.”

“You think pushing fear aside is dealing with it?” His voice was low. Calm. Nonjudgmental.

It was the best she had to offer. He made a strong point with the question, though. Eventually, her fears and stress would snap, and she might put herself or others in danger if she slipped. She just wouldn’t slip. Wouldn’t let “eventually” come.

“You think by keeping silent you’ll get clearance from me. I understand that. I see many agents who think the same thing, but it’s not true. However, if you want to sit here every Friday for an hour and say nothing or talk about my fish, then we can do that.”

If she talked, if she spilled it all, he might think she was weak and unfit. But if she didn’t divulge, he’d assume she was burying feelings and a ticking time bomb. She bobbed her knee, debating what to do. “I... I have trouble sleeping sometimes. Right before I doze off, I see Scott Mulhoney’s face, and I might have a mild panic attack—but I assure you it’s getting better.” She’d long stopped calling Mulhoney the Cleveland Creeper and put a name to his face. Made him human. Even if he’d seemed superhuman.

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.”

Eric balled his fists and edged up behind her. She turned around and smacked into his chest; a flustered expression filled her face.

“Calm down? You left me with no explanation of where you were going, then you got shot at! And you want me to calm down?”

The dog jumped on Eric’s pant legs and barked. He ignored the ball of fluff.

Sighing, she collapsed on a kitchen chair and tented her fingers on the table, her hair draping over her face. “I needed a few minutes to clear my head, and I might have ripped my pant leg diving from the bullets.”

Eric steeled his jaw as the image sent a wave of nausea through him.

“I got a letter.”

“What kind of letter?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“The kind that didn’t need postage or a return address.” Bryn grabbed her purse hanging on the chair and handed him a Ziploc bag with a crumpled sheet of copy paper inside. “The short, sweet and to-the-point kind.”

“And the gunfire?”

“Happened while I was reading the note. Three shots. One by my feet. The second at the passenger side door. The last on my trunk when I drove away.”

Eric needed to sit down, run his hands over Bryn’s face and hands and convince himself she was okay. The killer had never left his victims a note or shot at them. Just like making himself known in the park, this was different. “Where was your car?”

“In a parking lot downtown. I was on personal business...an errand.”

Eric glanced at her. Straight face. What kind of errand? What kind of personal business?

She handed him a pair of latex gloves. He carefully extracted the letter from the plastic bag and read it.

The knot in his gut turned into a glacier, freezing him from head to toe. Blood rushed into his ears. The glacier slowly melted as fury boiled until it broke out into a sweat on the back of his neck.

He had to cool off. Be levelheaded. Carefully, he replaced the note inside the bag.

Bryn twisted her fingers. “Well?”

“What parking lot?” He pinned her with a glare.

She shifted in her seat, then handed him another plastic bag from her purse. “I dug the slugs out when I got home.”

“Before you called me? You said you only had time to change clothes.”

“I needed to get my bearings together. We can get that to ballistics ASAP.” Her cheeks had lost their color, and she hadn’t stopped tapping her foot against the linoleum.

As frustrated as he was, Eric couldn’t let her feel alone, and clearly she was afraid and nervous. Eric grabbed her clammy hands. “It’s gonna be okay. I promise.” He gave them a gentle squeeze. “Why won’t you tell me where you were? We could go check it out or send a unit.”

Bryn freed her hands and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Doesn’t matter. He entered an abandoned warehouse and probably wore gloves, which means we won’t find prints on the note or the casings—if he didn’t take them with him.”

He hadn’t worn gloves the night he strangled her. Of course, that hadn’t been calculated and planned like what happened today. Bryn had obviously thought this through, and it was even clearer she didn’t want him or anyone else in that parking lot. What was so secretive about it? For now, he’d let it drop because they had a bigger issue to discuss.

“He’s following you. You missed it. Or he knew where you would be. Anyone else know where you were today?”

Nostrils flaring, Bryn snatched the evidence bag out of his hand. “My personal business is mine alone.”

She avoided the question. That meant someone might know where she’d been. It gnawed at him and then struck a solid blow to his abdomen. What if she’d come back to Memphis for someone? Met someone. What if he lived downtown or worked there? How did Eric feel about that?

About as good as he felt about kale.

Why else hide her location? She must think it’d cause a rift in their working or personal relationship—not that they had anything more than a professional relationship, but they weren’t fighting. Was that enough to go against protocol, though?

“You need to tell Holt if you haven’t already.” If Eric couldn’t camp on her couch maybe she’d let her cousin.

Bryn tossed her hands in the air. “I knew you’d say something like that. What if it was you? What if you got tossed into the bushes and shot at? Would you ask Holt to spend the night?”

“Well, no, that’s weird.”

“You’re making my point. Would you move out of your house and stay with someone?”

“Probably not.” But he was a man. And as a man who wanted to keep all his parts, he kept that last statement in his head where it belonged.