by Tess Diamond
Her boss had been reluctant to let her go until one of the media specialists pointed out it was good PR for the Bureau, especially since it’d been announced that Grace’s second novel had won the prestigious Callahan Award for Crime Fiction.
“I’d go crazy if I was in front of my computer at home all day,” she told Jonathan.
He tutted, then pursed his lips in disapproval. “You’re crazy, darling. It’d be sublime. You could move to New York, mingle with the literary elite! You’re killing me, with all this ‘I have to stay in DC and save the world from serial killers’ talk.”
“But I do need to stay in DC and save the world from serial killers,” Grace said patiently. “There are a lot of bad guys around.”
“And I love that it’s your personal mission to get them all,” Jonathan said. “It’s a PR dream. But I do worry about you.”
Grace reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll survive,” she assured him. “I’m not your only writer.”
“Thank God they don’t all have your penchant for darkness,” he said. “I’d be a mess. Now go! Shoo! Mingle with your adoring public. I’ve got networking to do.” He waved her off.
Grace descended down the sculpture garden’s path, picking up a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter and taking a sip.
“Grace, it’s so nice to see you,” said a woman’s voice behind her.
Grace turned around abruptly, her face breaking into a broad smile as she saw who it was: a stately woman with glasses that matched her fiery coiffure. She wore a sari-inspired dress, the gold trim glinting in the lights set out in the garden. “Dr. James, I can’t believe you came.”
“Please, call me Clara, dear. We’re years past your student days,” said her former professor warmly, embracing her. But Grace couldn’t quite think of her on a first-name basis; she’d always held this woman, friendly as she was, in awe. “And of course I came. You were one of my best students. I’m very pleased for you. And Martha would’ve been so proud.”
Grace’s heart sank, her breath catching in her throat. Grief was a funny thing—just when you thought you’d mastered it, it crept up on you. Martha Lee had been a pioneer in criminology—not just as a psychologist, but as a woman infiltrating a field that was notoriously male dominated. She was a woman with a keen mind and an even sharper eye. Grace had considered it the greatest privilege of her life that Dr. Lee had taken a liking to her. She’d become Grace’s mentor, even written her recommendations to the Academy, which she’d retired from in the ’80s to teach.
For years, Grace and Dr. Lee kept in touch, with emails, phone calls, the occasional lunch. Grace had just been finishing up her third book last year when she got the news that Dr. Lee had died in a car crash. It had been a hard blow—Dr. Lee had always been so full of life, it was nearly impossible to think she was gone. After the funeral Grace had returned home to her empty house. She’d found herself restless, unable to settle until she sat down in front of her computer and finished the final chapter of her book, almost as if Dr. Lee had been guiding her.
She’d dedicated Trust Is a Bitter Game to her memory. A small token for a woman who had done so much, for sure, but Grace knew she would have been pleased.
“I saw the dedication,” Dr. James said, reaching out and squeezing Grace’s arm. “It was very touching. And I know her husband appreciated the gesture. When I had dinner with him a few months ago, he mentioned that you’d sent him a signed copy. He keeps it in her library, with all her other books.”
Grace blinked, trying to tamp down the emotion twisting inside her. “That’s incredibly sweet of him,” she said. “How is he doing?”
“I’m sure you can guess,” Dr. James said. “It was so sudden.”
Grace nodded. “It didn’t feel real when I first got the news. She was always so strong. Like she was unbreakable. She never let anyone belittle or speak down to her. She taught me so much. I am very lucky to have had her in my life.”
“We all were. She was a brilliant criminologist and wonderful human being,” Professor James said. “You know, I think some of your other professors are here tonight.” She looked over Grace’s head, scanning the crowd. “I see Carthage over there. He taught you, didn’t he? I seem to remember you transferred from University of Maryland?”
“I did,” Grace said smoothly, not looking over her shoulder to see where Professor James was gesturing. She couldn’t stop the slight stiffening of her spine, and her smile froze on her face. But she couldn’t flinch—she wouldn’t. “Dr.—I mean, Clara, would you excuse me? My publisher’s waving like crazy, so I think it’s time for the speeches.”
“Of course, dear,” Professor James said. “Go. And congratulations!”
Grace hurried away, her throat tight, her fingers clenching around the crystal champagne flute as if it were the only thing keeping her sane. She didn’t go up to the stage; the speakers hadn’t been called up yet. She needed . . .
She needed space. Shelter. Something other than this crowd.
She walked as fast as the long skirt of her dress allowed and ducked into the now empty plaza at the center of the museum. The rest of the party had filtered into the sculpture garden, drawn there by the lights, the wine, and the art.
She stood in the center of the plaza, turning in a slow circle, taking in the immense circular concrete edifice around her. There was something cavernous about the tall gray walls, the way they surrounded her so completely. A protective space.
She took another sip of champagne, hoping it’d calm her nerves. It took her a moment to realize that her clutch was buzzing. She flipped it open and pulled out her phone.
“Hello?”
“Grace, it’s Paul.”
Special Agent Paul Harrison wasn’t just her boss—he was a good friend. Once upon a time, he’d been Maggie’s fiancé, but the two of them hadn’t been well-suited. One of the worst things about being a profiler was not being able to shut off the analyzing. Grace had seen the signs from the start, but she couldn’t do much but help them both when it fell apart. Maggie had recovered faster than Paul—she had so much trauma in her past, her survival instinct kicked in. Paul had taken longer, but Grace had been encouraged when he recently mentioned dating again. He was such a great guy, any woman would be lucky to have him in her life.
“I know you have your event tonight,” Paul said. “Congrats, by the way. But you made me promise to call you if anything came up, remember? If I’m interrupting . . .”
“No,” Grace said quickly, even though she could hear the mic check sputtering. She’d have to step up to the stage and begin her speech soon. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a case. You don’t have to come if—”
Her stomach leapt. A case. Exactly what she needed. “I can come,” Grace said. “It’ll take about an hour, though. I still have a speech to give. And my publisher sent a car, so I’ll have to go home to pick up mine and change.”
“Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ve sent someone to come pick you up,” Paul said. “One of my new agents. He has your go-bag from your office too so you can change. Does that work?”
Grace smiled to herself. Of course Paul had covered every detail. He was such a Boy Scout—always prepared. “You think of everything,” she told him. “That’s perfect.”
“He’ll be outside the museum waiting for you when you finish,” Paul said. “You two can get to know each other and head over.”
“I look forward to it,” Grace said. “I’ll see you in about an hour.”
“See you then, Grace.”
She hung up, and with one more bracing breath, she headed back into the garden, where her colleagues and fans were waiting.
Chapter 2
Gavin adjusted his tie for what felt like the hundredth time. It was a loop of dark blue silk his little sister had gotten him when he’d joined the FBI. The family dinner that night to celebrate had been raucous—three generations of Walkers under the same roof. His brother Danie
l had even flown in from Texas for the occasion, and Sarah had pulled him out on the porch to give him the gift.
“I know you don’t like to dress up, but all the FBI agents on TV wear ties,” she’d said.
Gavin smiled at the memory. His kid sister was thoughtful and sweet to give him a sort of talisman to wear as he left behind his old life as a cop for the new challenge of FBI work.
There were times he still couldn’t quite believe he’d done it. He’d given up the dream of this kind of elite work when he’d left the military. He’d spent ten years at DC Metro, the first two on bomb squad and the last eight working homicide. He’d loved his work, but there was always that part of him that was seeking something different. That itch under his skin, the one that had made him a great soldier, that would’ve made him a greater intelligence officer if he hadn’t . . .
Gavin sighed. There was no use dwelling on what-ifs. Especially now that he’d finally taken such a leap.
When he’d run into Paul Harrison at a mutual friend’s barbecue last year and got to talking about his FBI work, Gavin had felt that now familiar restlessness that he’d managed to ignore for a decade. But this time, he had decided to do something about it. He’d met with Harrison several times and just weeks later, with a job offer in hand, found himself resigning from the police force. His military background was considered quite an asset, combined with his years on the force. So he flew to Georgia for the intensive training former police officers underwent to become special agents, then to Virginia for more training. And now he was officially one of them. He belonged to a special investigative team—even though he hadn’t met all of them yet.
Twenty minutes ago, he’d gotten the call from Harrison to stand by for instructions. So he’d put on a suit and made sure his weapon was loaded before sitting down to wait.
He wasn’t nervous. There wasn’t a lot that shook him. The Walkers were a steady lot—it’s why they all became cops. He knew what to expect with this work, even if things were a little different with the Feds. But when it came down to it, murder was murder, no matter who he worked for. And he’d spent his entire career tracking down killers and bringing them to justice.
He’d been on the job for ten years and he’d seen horrific things in that time. The very worst of humanity, murderers and rapists and those who sought to destroy with bombs and explosives. But he’d also seen the very best of people: communities coming together around survivors and their families . . . the strength of a mother who relentlessly advocated for her dead son when no one else believed he’d been murdered . . . and the outpouring of love from others that often came with such tragic loss.
His grandfather always used to say he’d search for a silver lining in everything, and maybe that was true, Gavin thought with a wry grin. It had both helped and hurt him in his work. He had an idealistic streak, and he knew it. But where there was idealism, there was hope. And hope and homicide could be a dangerous and disheartening mix.
Gavin pulled at his tie again before stopping himself, his restless hands going to his hair—which an ex-girlfriend once affectionately called floppy—instead.
His phone rang, Harrison’s name flashing on the screen. Finally.
He picked up. “This is Walker,” he said.
“It’s Harrison. I’ve just got off the phone with our profiler,” Harrison said. “She’ll be ready in about thirty minutes, if you can pick her up at the museum. You two can head over to the scene together. The forensic team has already been dispatched, and I’ll be waiting for you when you get here.”
“Got it,” Gavin said. “Any details about the case?”
“All I’ve got is female victim, early twenties, dead from a gunshot wound. She had a government ID on her, which is why we’ve been called in. Zooey and the rest of forensics should be arriving in about fifteen minutes, so we’ll know more then.”
Gavin nodded. “Traffic shouldn’t be bad. I’ll head out now to pick up Agent . . .”
“Oh, I guess her name would help,” Harrison said, laughing at himself a little. “Special Agent Grace Sinclair.”
Shock, the anticipatory, warm kind that hits you hard and fast, filled him. He could almost hear the husky voice in his head, feel the teasing scratch of nails down his back.
“Did your paths ever cross when you were working homicide?” Harrison asked.
Gavin swallowed hard. “No,” Gavin said. “I don’t believe they did.”
Technically, that wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t met Grace on a case. They’d never worked together.
“She’s quite exceptional,” Harrison said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to introduce you two when you met the rest of the team, but she’s been touring for her book.”
“Right,” Gavin said. Those books. He hadn’t been able to resist buying the first one when it came out, and after reading it, he’d wished he hadn’t. The love scenes between Grace’s heroine and her lover had evoked memories he’d worked hard to forget. When the second was released, he’d managed to stop himself from flipping through it, for his own sake. But every time he saw it in a bookstore window, he remembered that night—he remembered her.
Some memories—some women—they stuck with you.
And Grace Sinclair was a woman no one forgot. If he’d seen her walking down the street one day, just gotten the barest glimpse of her, her face would have haunted him until the end of time.
But he’d gotten more than a glimpse. He’d had her in his arms, in his bed. He could remember the softness of her skin even now. The laughter in her voice as he unzipped her dress, the dark tumble of her hair when it came free of its pins.
Eighteen hours, give or take. That’s how long he’d had her. To touch, to kiss, to listen to as she extolled the virtues of jazz and art, her eyes sparkling with a fire she didn’t let many people see. But dawn came, the sun rose, and when he woke, she was gone. It was her way. There were rumors, of course, about her. DC was a small town in a lot of ways, a gossipy one. He’d heard them all. But this was where his damn silver-lining thinking got him in trouble. Because a part of him had taken Grace to bed certain as hell she’d still be there in the morning. That it would be more than one night. That he’d for sure be an exception.
“. . . museum, Walker?” Harrison was asking.
Gavin cleared his throat. “What was that?”
“Do you have directions to the museum?”
“Yes. I’m on my way now.”
“I’ll have the crime scene address texted to your phone. I’ll see you two there.”
Harrison hung up and Gavin set his phone down, his thoughts scattered in a dozen different directions. But then he reached out, his hand closing around his gun in its holster, and his mind cleared. He fastened it to his belt, his shoulders straightening and his mind clearing as a sense of focused purpose filled him.
This was going to be complicated, but there was a job to do and a killer to find.
The job came first. Always.
Chapter 3
The speech had gone well, Grace thought as she headed out of the museum and toward the steps leading to the street. They’d laughed in the right places and showered her with congratulations before she’d managed to slip away. The fanfare that came with being a popular author was nice, and she enjoyed the process of writing and putting her characters through their paces, but it was the real-life background work—the nitty-gritty of profiling in the aftermath of horror—that made her heart sing.
Night had come, and it was time to get started. She could feel the familiar tightness in her stomach—a mix of anticipation and dread that rose inside her with every crime scene. She paused at the top of the steps, scanning the street below. A black SUV was parked at the curb, still running. This had to be the new agent—Paul had taken on a few new team members while she’d been on her book tour. She hadn’t had a chance to meet them yet.
Gathering a handful of her skirt, she raised it slightly as she made her way down the steps. She was about halfway to the str
eet when the door of the SUV swung open. A man walked around the vehicle and leaned against the passenger door.
Grace froze midstep the second she recognized him. It wasn’t . . . It couldn’t be. He wasn’t with the FBI. Surely she would have heard about it if he’d been recruited . . .
But the proof was there right in front of her. Gavin Walker. Six feet five inches of pure frustration. Her heart picked up a beat, but her steps down the stairs were steady as she approached him.
Back then, he was a homicide detective working for the DC police. The last time she’d seen him, he was fast asleep and very naked. She’d slipped out of his place with a speed and silence that came only with practice, her thighs still pleasantly aching from their night spent together.
That had been two years ago. He’d called the next day, wanting to get together, and she’d ignored the ringing phone, because that’s what she did. Those were the rules.
She hadn’t expected how hard it was not picking up that phone call. Temptation wasn’t something she experienced often—or dealt with well. She’d tried to bury that feeling—and the memories of her night with Gavin—deep in her mind.
But that was very difficult to do when he was standing there looking just as handsome as ever.
He smiled as she made her way down to him. That broad, cocky smile was one of the reasons she fell into his bed. It had twisted her up then, and even now she could feel her body responding to it. Her skin prickled under his warm gaze; she was suddenly acutely aware of how her dress fit her, the summer air against her bare back. But Grace kept her face emotionless—she couldn’t let him see how off-center she suddenly felt. He’d just use it to tease her.
“Detective Walker,” she said coolly. “Are you playing chauffeur these days?”
His brown eyes twinkled in the streetlights. “It’s Special Agent Walker now,” he said.
