Deep Dark

by Laura Griffin

  This was so fucked up. He was much too old for her, and they had nothing in common, really.

  But they had chemistry.

  He’d been drawn to her in a deep-down, yearning kind of way since the moment she’d bumped into him in that coffee shop. He’d thought sleeping with her might snap him out of it, but it looked like he’d been wrong.

  She rolled onto her side. Then she lifted her head off the pillow and glanced at the empty side of the bed.

  “Hi.”

  She sat up and looked around. “What time is it?”

  “Late.”

  She swung her legs out of bed and grabbed his shirt off the floor. She shrugged into it, and he thought she was headed for the bathroom, but she walked right past him into the hallway.

  “You okay?”

  “Hungry,” she said over her shoulder.

  He followed her into the kitchen, where she quickly discovered he had nothing to eat. He’d meant to order some carryout, but he’d gotten sidetracked.

  He propped his shoulder against the wall and watched her frown at the contents of his fridge. His shirt went almost to her knees, but she’d left it open in front, which had the effect of waking him up.

  “Pathetic.” She glanced at him.

  “I know.”

  She tried the freezer. “But . . . there’s hope.” She grabbed a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and read the label. “Phish Food. How’d you know?”

  He opened a drawer and got her a spoon as she peeled off the lid. She sauntered past him into the breakfast room, where she glanced out the window at her car in the driveway.

  “You should have security lights,” she said, digging into the ice cream.

  “I do. They’re motion-sensitive.”

  She sat back against the table, watching him as she slid the spoon from her mouth. His imagination was kicking into gear now. “I called the hospital,” she said.

  “And?”

  “He got through surgery.” Her voice was somber. “He’s still in recovery, so they don’t really know . . .”

  Reed pulled out a chair and sank into it. He hadn’t expected to talk about this again tonight, but no reason to put it off. “How’d you get that? Usually, they only talk to family.”

  “I spoke with the nurse I met when I was there earlier. She thinks I’m his sister.”

  Reed scrubbed his hand over his face, fully awake now. He leaned forward, watching her. “You have any idea why the FBI was there tonight?”

  She looked at him warily. “You guys didn’t call them?”

  “Why would we call them?”

  She poked at the ice cream. “I don’t know.”

  He waited. She wanted to talk, he could tell. But he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what she had to say.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Scream’s business has put him on the FBI’s radar,” she said.

  “You’re talking about Edward?”

  “Yeah, that’s his nickname. I’m pretty sure they’ve been watching him for a while.”

  “Why?” Reed leaned back in the chair, trying to ignore how his shirt gaped open in the front.

  “He sells zeros. Software bugs that can be exploited and used to gain secret access to companies. It’s a lucrative business, but not all of what he does is strictly legal, so . . .” She shrugged.

  “And I’m guessing he’s made his fair share of enemies along the way?”

  “Probably.”

  Which meant plenty of people had a reason to want him dead. And his getting shot might not be related to Laney’s visit. She could simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  But Reed didn’t know why she’d been there. Because she still hadn’t told him.

  He watched her pick at the ice cream. The purple lock of hair hung in her eyes, but he didn’t need to see her face to know she was feeling all kinds of guilt right now.

  “Did he say—”

  “Look, I don’t want to talk about this now,” she said.

  “When?”

  “Not now.”

  Laney had come inches away from being dead herself. She’d dodged three bullets. Three. And now she was sitting here in his kitchen, holding out on him and trying to distract him with sex.

  She still wouldn’t give him the full story. And the only other person who could provide it might be dead by morning.

  She glanced up at him with those doe eyes. “Tomorrow maybe.”

  She was lying again. He could see it on her face.

  “I don’t want to fight with you right now.” She set the ice cream aside and eased closer to him. She was still leaning back against the table covered with mail and bills. And his shirt was still floating around her, giving him glimpses of skin.

  His gaze locked on hers. “What is it you want to do?”

  Slowly, she stepped over his legs and lowered herself onto his lap. “I don’t know.” She leaned close, resting her arms on his shoulders, and her breath was warm against his ear. “Anything besides fight.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Reed was already in a foul mood when the doorbell rang the next morning. He strapped on his holster and crossed the house to find Jay on his doorstep.

  “You’re early.”

  “The meeting’s bumped up.” Jay stepped inside. “I sent you a text.”

  Jay followed him into the kitchen. Reed saw him notice the liquor bottle on the counter, the glasses by the sink, the mail scattered on the floor around the breakfast table.

  “Late night?” Jay looked at him.

  Reed ignored the question and unplugged his phone from the charger to read his text messages. Jay had written him a book. The meeting with the Delphi Center DNA tracer had been bumped up an hour, and Hall had scheduled a meeting at eleven.

  “Veronica sent the slugs in.”

  Reed glanced up. “Already?”

  “She processed everything last night. Hall put a rush on it.” Jay leaned back against the counter. “Hey, you got any coffee?”

  “No.”

  Reed scrolled through the rest of his messages. One from Erika, one from his lieutenant, nothing from Laney.

  Not that he’d expected anything.

  He had woken up at six fifteen in an empty bed. He wasn’t used to women sneaking out on him. In fact, he couldn’t remember a single time it had happened, and the more he thought about it, the more it pissed him off.

  Reed slid his phone into his pocket and grabbed his jacket off the chair. With any luck, he wouldn’t need it today. With any luck, he wouldn’t find himself knocking on some poor woman’s door to tell her that her husband or her son or her daughter was never coming home.

  “You ready?” Jay asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, hey, and I called the hospital. Gantz made it through the surgery.”

  “Maybe we’ll actually get to interview him, get some answers.”

  “Wouldn’t count on it,” Jay said. “I hear the guy’s chances are slim.”

  • • •

  The hospital wasn’t nearly as busy as it had been the night before, which would make Laney’s task more difficult. As she walked toward the nurse’s station, she noted only two people in the waiting room—an elderly woman watching Good Morning America and a guy in a suit standing beside the watercooler texting away on his phone. Laney’s gaze lingered on the suit a moment, trying to decide whether he was FBI. His striped shirt looked a little flashy, and anyway he was using an ­iPhone. So not a fed, then.

  She approached the nurse’s desk and tried to look confident, even though she didn’t recognize anyone.

  “I’m here to see Edward Gantz.”

  “Are you family?” a nurse asked without looking up from her computer.

  “I’m his sister.”

  The woman stopped typi
ng and gave Laney a once-over, pursing her lips. Despite her cheerful SpongeBob scrubs, she didn’t look friendly.

  “I spoke to Nurse Molina last night?” Laney glanced around. “Is she still on duty?”

  “No.” The woman looked Laney in the eye for a long moment, then tapped something into her computer. Her expression changed, and Laney felt a pang of dread. “His condition’s been downgraded, I’m afraid. He’s listed as critical.”

  “Is there any way—”

  “No visitors right now. Doctor’s orders.”

  Laney stood there, debating whether to push her luck. The nurse was watching her, stone-faced, and she decided to quit while she was ahead.

  “Thank you.” Laney glanced at her watch. “I’ll check back later.”

  She returned to the elevator, pulling out her phone as she went. Reed had called again, and Laney’s stomach tightened as she stared down at his number. She’d managed to avoid him this morning, but that wouldn’t last long.

  The elevator doors slid open, and an orderly stepped off, pushing a cart filled with covered food trays. Eggs and bacon, from the smell of it. Laney held the door for him and stepped into the empty car just as the neighboring elevator dinged. Several men in suits walked out, and Laney’s pulse jumped. They were the FBI agents from last night. She jabbed at the close button and held her breath.

  As the doors slid shut, a man lunged between them.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

  CHAPTER 20

  Laney reached for the alarm, but he caught her wrist.

  “Get the fuck off me.” She yanked her hand away and lurched back, bumping against the wall.

  “You’re sure as hell not my sister. Who are you?”

  Laney pressed herself against the wall and stared at him. It was the guy from the waiting room. Scream’s brother.

  “What’s your name?” he demanded.

  “Delaney Knox. Who are you?”

  “James Gantz.”

  He stepped closer. He was even taller than Scream. He was thin, too, and had blue eyes, but the resemblance stopped there. With his overgelled hair and perfectly tailored suit, he looked slightly less subversive than his brother.

  “How do you know Edward?” he asked.

  Laney reached around him and pressed the ground-floor button before the doors could pop open again. “We’re friends.”

  He stared down at her.

  “We worked at the Delphi Center together.”

  He seemed to take this as proof of her legitimacy, and his posture relaxed. He ran his hand over his hair, and she saw that his eyes were bloodshot.

  “How’s he doing?” she asked. “They wouldn’t tell me much.”

  The elevator stopped, and he held the door open as she stepped out. He glanced around, then ushered her out of the traffic flow to a spot beside a gift shop that sold balloons and teddy bears.

  “I honestly don’t know.” He planted his hands on his hips. “The doctor said the surgery went okay, but then he took a turn this morning. They think it’s his kidney.”

  Laney bit her lip.

  “So . . . are you his girlfriend?”

  “Friend.”

  He looked down at her, and she could tell he didn’t buy that. “Do you have any idea who would want to shoot him?”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “The FBI doesn’t, either.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve been in town about three hours, and they’ve already interviewed me twice.” He shook his head. “I know my brother was into some shady stuff, but . . .” He looked away.

  “But what?”

  “He’s smart. I thought he knew not to get mixed up with anyone dangerous.”

  A toddler skipped past them into the gift shop, followed by a woman pushing a stroller. James paused to watch them, and Laney took a moment to study him. He looked exhausted, like maybe he’d been up all night.

  “Are you the brother who lives in Houston?” she ventured.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “He mentioned it.”

  “I drove in as soon as I got the call.” His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket to check the screen, then tucked it away again.

  “So, Delaney . . . you know what Ed was working on lately? The FBI seems to think this might have something to do with his company.”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “I talked to him Wednesday, but he didn’t say anything about it. Not that he would tell me.” He gave a wan smile. “He never talked to me about his work. Computers are his thing, not mine.” He paused for a moment, looking at her. “They said they interviewed a female witness last night. I assume that’s you?”

  “Who said?”

  “The police.”

  She hesitated, unsure of what to tell him. “I didn’t actually see it happen. I was back in the office.”

  He held her gaze for a moment, then glanced at the window display beside him where there was a row of teddy bears wearing T-shirts that said “Get Well Soon!” His eyes teared up, and he turned away.

  “Would you mind if I got your phone number?” she asked. “In case I need to get in touch.”

  He cleared his throat. “Sure.” He tugged a business card out of his wallet and handed it over. The card said he was a senior sales associate for a software company she’d never heard of.

  Computers are his thing, not mine.

  Laney glanced up. He didn’t seem to catch the irony. And she realized he reminded her of Ian Phelps from ChatWare, yet another software salesman who knew nothing about computers. Unlike Ian, though, this guy didn’t seem like a total prick.

  “You know, he’d been throwing around money lately,” James said. “I don’t know what he was doing, but I should have pressed him on it. I should have asked questions.”

  “Maybe it’s better you didn’t.”

  His brow furrowed, and she regretted saying it. His phone buzzed again, but this time he didn’t pull it out.

  Laney slid the card into her pocket. “If I hear anything new, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Same goes.” He offered her his hand. “Nice to meet you, Delaney. You take care of yourself.”

  • • •

  Mia Voss didn’t look old enough to be one of the nation’s foremost DNA experts. Probably the freckles, Reed thought as he followed her into a conference room. The ponytail didn’t help, either.

  Then again, everyone seemed young to him these days.

  Reed and Jay took chairs around the table as the doctor sat down and flipped open a file.

  “I completed your tests. The results were a bit complicated, and I wanted to walk you through everything.” She straightened her papers in front of her, and Reed ID’d her as an extreme type A. Not a bad quality for a forensic scientist whose work could determine people’s fates.

  “First of all,” she said, “I haven’t finished analyzing the duct tape yet. However, I was able to finish the lightbulb you all sent in, and I can confirm that the material on it is, in fact, blood.”

  Jay looked at Reed. “She was right.”

  “Who was?” Mia asked.

  “Our CSI.”

  “I can also tell you that it’s a good thing you sent the evidence to us. We’re dealing with a small sample of very low quality, so I had to use some advanced techniques to develop the profile.”

  “Such as what?” Reed asked.

  “I’m sure you’re familiar with STR testing.” She glanced from Reed to Jay. “Short tandem repeats. Those are markers on the DNA strand. I used a technique called miniSTR analysis because I had so little material to work with, and some of it was degraded.”

  “Any idea why?” Jay asked. “I mean, we think the perp unscrewed the lightbulb just a day or two
before Isabella Marshall’s murder. Not too much time has elapsed since he touched it.”

  “Yes, but I’m talking about the material he deposited on the lightbulb. That material is much older and, as I said, degraded. It could be a lot of factors—­humidity, ultraviolet light, bleach. It all depends on the circumstances. You’re operating under the assumption that this material rubbed off from gloves worn by the perpetrator?”

  “We think he uses a murder kit,” Reed told her. “He brings certain items to the crime scenes—condoms, duct tape.”

  “The murder weapon,” Jay added.

  “So, if that’s the case,” she said, “you’re theorizing his kit includes a pair of gloves.”

  “He has a favorite hammer,” Jay said. “We figure, why not gloves, too? This guy’s pretty particular.”

  “Well, however this sample got deposited—and a glove worn by the killer is a definite possibility—it’s old and low-quality, but it is blood.”

  “Whose?” Reed asked, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  “Not Isabella Marshall’s, I can tell you that.” She consulted her notes. “Preliminary testing indicates that this profile is consistent with a sample submitted by the Clarke County Sheriff’s Office. The sample is from a woman named Olivia Jane Hollis.”

  Reed looked at Jay. Veronica had been right again. Reed’s pulse was thrumming. It was a major break, and suddenly, his crap morning was looking a little better.

  “Her DNA was entered into the database two years ago, shortly after she went missing,” Mia said.

  “Then you’re essentially telling us he wears the same gloves all the time,” Jay summarized. “Including when he scopes out the place ahead of the murder. And with Isabella, he got a previous victim’s blood on her porch light when he unscrewed it.”

  “I’ll leave you guys to determine a plausible scenario,” she said. “I’m simply relaying what the evidence says, which is that blood from Olivia Hollis is on the lightbulb in question.”

  “Since you haven’t mentioned it,” Jay said, “I guess it’s too much to hope that there’s any other DNA on that lightbulb? Like maybe some male DNA that could belong to the killer?”