by LENA DIAZ,
“All you had to do was ask. I could have let you borrow some of mine.” She waved toward the cased opening where he’d directed the man with the hand truck. “Did the FBI send over copies of their research on the case?”
“The FBI doesn’t allow former agents access to their case files. Those are copies I made of everything that passed my desk back when I worked on the investigation. Well, more accurately, when I worked on the profile. Technically, I wasn’t an investigator. But the case consumed me and left me with more questions than answers, even after the killer was convicted. I religiously copied as much as I could and snuck it home every chance I got. From start to finish, the case took two years. Those copies added up.”
She put her hands on her hips. “I knew it. You don’t think the right guy was put away or you wouldn’t have risked your career taking that stuff home. Admit it. My theory holds water.”
“I admit nothing. But I’m willing to take a fresh look, which is why I had this stuff brought out of storage.” He motioned toward the doorway at the end of the room. “Come on. Might as well give you a tour of this monstrosity and show you where those boxes went.”
“That monstrosity comment I made earlier was under duress. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did. And I don’t take offense. It is a rather large house, too big for one person. But it met my requirements when I was house shopping.”
“Let me guess. Requirement number one, no carpet, for easier mobility with the cane and wheelchair?”
“Anyone could have guessed that.”
“Requirement number two,” she said. “It’s only one story. You’re not ready to tackle stairs just yet.”
“Again, too easy. What about the third requirement?”
She shook her head. “Stumped on that one.”
“The isolated location so people wouldn’t bother me.” He arched a brow at her.
She winced. “Ah, well. Two out of three isn’t bad. That’s sixty-six percent, still a passing grade, in high school at least.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine you ever being satisfied with anything less than an A. You were valedictorian, weren’t you?”
“Takes one to know one?”
He smiled. “Come on. You’ve already seen the kitchen, family room, and made yourself completely at home in my master bedroom and bathroom.” He waved toward two more doors on the far right wall. “Closet and half bath.”
“I was so close earlier. Didn’t realize there was a half bath over there.”
“At least you made it to a bathroom. Can’t complain about that.” He wheeled his chair toward the back of the room.
She fell in step beside him. “What is this floor made out of? I can’t figure it out.”
He leaned over the side of the chair as if noticing the floor for the first time. “Beats me. Came with the house. Come on, right turn, obviously, since the hall starts here.”
Along the way, he pointed out the various rooms but didn’t stop until they reached the far end.
“He motioned toward the door in front of them. This leads—”
“Let me guess. Man cave?”
“Home office.”
“Oh. Kind of anticlimactic after walking all this way.”
“It wasn’t that far.”
She gave him a droll look. “Says the man who rolled all the way here. I’ve already gotten my ten thousand steps for the day. And that’s just since I walked out of your bedroom.”
“Do you want to see the coolest part of the house or not?”
“Coolest? Robert Downey Jr. in Iron Man cool or Keanu Reeves in John Wick kind of cool?”
“More like Bruce Willis in anything kind of cool.”
She grinned and they fist-bumped. “Then my answer is most definitely yes.”
He shoved the door open. Then he moved back and motioned her forward. “After you.”
The excitement on his face had her expecting something amazing when she stepped inside the room.
She wasn’t disappointed.
Chapter Seven
Bryson rolled into his office behind Teagan and did something he rarely did these days. He simply enjoyed the moment. He didn’t worry about his aching hip or rehash the would haves, could haves, should haves of his life. Instead, he basked in the sheer joy on her face as she turned in slow circles, taking it all in.
There was a lot to take in.
The expansive room was a microcosm of the house itself, fully contained with a kitchenette in one corner, a bathroom, a bedroom intended for those all-nighters if he needed a quick nap before heading back into the main room to continue his work.
On the left side was the library. Floor-to-ceiling cherrywood bookshelves were filled with all kinds of law enforcement textbooks on topics like forensics, crime scene analysis, and profiling. Past the library, nearly every inch of wall space was adorned with matching cherrywood cabinets, drawers and open shelving. Storage would never be a problem here. The boxes that Mason had sent over were neatly stacked beside some of those storage cabinets. Something for him to tackle later, after everything was scanned electronically. That was the real beauty of this room—the technology.
A large round stone table in the middle of the room was control central for the massive daisy-chained monitors that took up most of the opposite wall. From that table, he could bring up reports or photographs or even the internet and display the information on any individual monitor, or slide it across all of them to form one picture. It was a profiler’s dream, to be able to have everything at his fingertips at one time so he could make comparisons and see the entire case at a glance.
Too bad he’d never actually used the darn thing on a case.
Teagan had made a full circuit of the room, opening doors and checking behind them, looking into the storage cabinets. But she surprised him by returning to the library, rather than the round table. She traced her hands almost reverently across the books, like a beautiful butterfly, flitting from tome to tome. When she finally turned around, she motioned toward the two leather wing chairs and circular rug that completed the library effect.
“This is amazing. You have books I’ve only dreamed of reading, rare ones that my college couldn’t even get their hands on when I tried borrowing them through our library system. Two of the books have your name on them. I didn’t know you’d authored any texts.”
“Neither do most people,” he said dryly. “My publisher lost a fortune on those.”
“Then they don’t deserve to be your publisher. They obviously don’t know how to market your work or it would have sold a gazillion books.”
“Are you one of the six people who bought a copy? Is that how you know they’re amazing?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”
“Not by much, unfortunately.”
“Well, based on your reputation in the field, I’d love to become reader number seven, if you’ll let me borrow them.”
“You can have them. I’ve got plenty more. What about the rest of the room? You don’t seem as impressed as I’d hoped. My ego’s a bit deflated. I thought you’d run straight to the table and start salivating.”
“I would have, if it wasn’t for your library. I’m a book lover, through and through. But the entire room is incredible.” She strode to the table and ran her fingers across it. “You must have enjoyed being a Justice Seeker more than you’ve let on. This is fit for the knights of the round table, just like the one that Mason told me that you all have in some super-secret hidden room at The Justice Seekers’ home base.”
“Almost. It’s not quite as large as his since I don’t have twelve Seekers, or so-called knights, to fill it up. But I admit I enjoyed his flair for the medieval and the fun of the whole Camelot concept, so I stole some of that for myself. I converted an existing study and two bedrooms into this office wi
th the intention of using it to work from home while recuperating from being shot. But the recovery has been slower than I’d expected, and I ended up with way too much time to think about my failures. Resigning seemed like the reasonable thing to do.”
“Wait. Are you saying that you’ve never used this office, or great hall, if you call it that like Mason does? Once it was finished, it just sat here unused?”
“I don’t call it a great hall. It’s got the stone floors, walls and table, but nothing else that resembles a castle like Mason’s does. And, yes, you’re absolutely right. I can’t remember the last time I’ve traipsed across the house to this room. If it wasn’t for the cleaning company that comes in once a week, there’d be cobwebs and dust all over the place.”
“Wow. If I’d known that, I’d have snuck in through a back window and claimed squatters’ rights long ago. I could happily live here for weeks and not come up for air.” She lowered herself into one of the cushy leather chairs at the round table. “Ahhh. World class. You have great taste.” She waved toward the monitors. “Feel free to feed your ego by giving me a demonstration. How big are those screens anyway? Six or seven feet tall?”
He rolled one of the other leather chairs out of the way and positioned his wheelchair beside her. “Each one is six feet by three feet. I wanted twelve, to keep with the Camelot theme. But it seemed like overkill and would have restricted the space too much, so I settled on nine. They work together as one monitor if I want, or I can load something different on each one. That’s the real benefit, being able to put up information about different crimes on each screen and compare them. I can use a computer tablet at the table to select which screen I want and use a light pen to draw circles around different items or highlight them, edit them, whatever.”
“Definitely cool. Can I drive?” She held out her hand. “Give me the reins. Let’s do this.”
Instead of popping up one of the computer tablets from a hidden compartment in the table, he adjusted his chair to face her and took her hands in his.
Her eyes widened and a slow grin spread across her face.
“Don’t,” he said. “Whatever sexy, funny, or smart-ass comment you’re about to make about me holding your hands, just wait. I need to have a serious conversation with you. Can you focus for a few minutes without any wisecracks?”
A look of wariness crossed her face. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be sent to the principal’s office?”
He sighed and let her go.
“Okay, okay.” She grabbed his hands with both of hers. “No jokes, no tangents. I’m listening.”
He arched a brow, not sure whether or not to believe her.
“Really,” she said. “I can be serious when I need to. Go on. What is it?”
“I just want you to be sure that you know what you’re getting into before we go any further. You’ve been like a whirlwind, blowing into my life. I met you, what, a few hours ago? And somehow you’ve managed to make me excited about working again. That’s why I brought you to this room, to show you the tools we’ve got at our disposal so we can work together, if that’s truly what you want to do.”
“Are you kidding? It’s all I’ve wanted since I first came across the Ripper case and saw your contributions to the investigation. I want to work with you to catch the Ripper before—”
“We’re not going to work on the Ripper case.”
She blinked. “My turn to be confused.”
He gently entwined their fingers, trying to convey that he was there for her if she needed his support. “I’m going to hire a temp to scan in and catalog the data in those boxes. That will take several days, maybe even a week. In the meantime, the only case that I’ve had a chance to scan is yours. While you were recovering from your tequila binge, I used the scanner in my study to process your folder. That’s what I want to bring up on these screens. But there’s a world of difference between looking at something on an eight-by-ten sheet of paper, and seeing it on a six-foot-tall screen. A lot of this stuff is deeply personal. Are you sure you can handle it?”
“I don’t understand your concerns. I put that folder together. I know what’s in it. I want you to see it, to review it with me.”
“Your descriptions of the most recent attack that you allege was made by the Ripper didn’t mention you by name. That’s quite telling. And there’s far more detail to what happened to you than what you had in that folder. A lot more. We have to review all of the information, not just some of it, if we have a chance at solving this thing.”
“Well of course there’s more, all the detailed reports that support the summaries I wrote. I didn’t bring those with me.”
“That’s not what I mean. There are other details, things you didn’t reference even at a high level in your summaries.”
“Like what?”
He squeezed her hands before letting go. Then he pushed down on top of the table in front of him and the section flipped over to reveal a computer tablet. He typed some commands into the control program, then pressed enter. Teagan looked up at the screens. Her eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth before turning away.
“Where did you get those?” she whispered.
He tapped the tablet and the screens went dark. “I still have a few contacts in law enforcement.”
She crossed her arms over her middle. “Well, they shouldn’t have shared my hospital photos with you. They’re—”
“Too personal? None of my business?”
She flinched and dropped her gaze.
He rolled back from the table. “Come on. It’s okay. Forget all this. You’re not ready.”
“Wait. Just...give me a minute to catch my breath, okay? I can handle it. Really.”
“Teagan. There’s no reason for you to have to catch your breath, to handle it. You lived through the abduction, the torture, once already. You shouldn’t have to do that again, reopen old wounds. Leave the investigation to me. Maybe because I admire your spunk, or maybe just because I’m ready to jump back in the game and didn’t realize it until now. Regardless of the reason, I want to do this. But the only way I can is by going through every piece of data surrounding your abduction, everything that happened to you. Everything. It’s the only way to make sure nothing was missed, that every possible clue has been considered. Meanwhile, you can go back to Florida, get on with your life. When I have something to report, I’ll contact you.” He wheeled to the door and held it open for her. “Come on. We’re done here.”
Chapter Eight
When Teagan crossed her arms and gave him a mutinous stare, Bryson sighed and let the office door close. She’d made no move toward the doorway. She wasn’t backing down without a fight. But neither was he. “Teagan, we should—”
“You caught me off guard. That’s all. I didn’t expect to see...those pictures, okay? You should have warned me.”
“If I’d warned you, I might not have received an honest reaction. You would have covered up your true emotions, or at least tried, with false bravado. Now I know the truth. This is all still too raw for you to be involved in the investigation. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Victims don’t typically work on their own cases, for good reason.”
“I’m not a victim,” she snapped. “I’m a survivor.”
“Fair enough. That doesn’t change anything that I said.”
She waved toward the stacks of boxes. “Why can’t we start with these? I already know the man who attacked me is the real Kentucky Ripper, not Leviathan Finney, the guy in prison. There’s no reason to review every nitty-gritty detail about what happened to me. We’re past that. We know who did it, that first guy you profiled back in Kentucky, the one the police let get away, Avarice Lowe.”
“Did you tell the detectives on your case that you believed Lowe was the one who’d abducted you?”
“Yes. I did.”
“And? Let me
guess. They did a cursory look at him and either couldn’t locate him at all or said he had an alibi. And they went no further than that.”
“They couldn’t find him. But they didn’t try very hard.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
She threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know. Probably because they’re lazy and wanted to work on easier cases.”
He wheeled over in front of her. “Can you think of another reason? Come on. Set aside emotion and use that valedictorian mind of yours.”
She gave him another mutinous look. “They don’t believe Lowe is the Ripper and had no evidence to tie him to my case. But that’s because they refused to listen.”
“Detectives, good ones at least, follow the evidence. The only reason you feel that the Ripper is the one who abducted you is because the man who hurt you carved that X on your abdomen. Everything else about your case is different, including the fact that you survived.”
“Then let’s go through your case files and find more similarities. That’s why you brought them here.”
He shook his head. “I brought them here to review after I review your case, and then, only if we decide the two cases are connected, or highly likely connected. What happens if we do it your way, spend all our time on the Ripper case, and discover that you’re wrong? We’ve wasted weeks, or longer by that time going through all of the Ripper’s cases. We’d be starting over at ground zero without having made any progress figuring out who attacked you. If you truly want my help in finding out who hurt you, I’m all in. But I have to do it my way. I follow the evidence. And that means, starting at the beginning, with what happened to you.”
She stared at the stacks of boxes for a long moment. When she finally met his gaze, naked pain radiated back at him. “I spent over a year and a half on this to find the man who hurt me. I don’t want to start over. I can’t.”
Disappointment shot through him, but he forced a smile. “Then don’t. Keep doing what you’re doing. Follow the leads where you believe they’ll take you.”
