Blind Spot

by Dani Pettrey

“Any news about the men who attacked us at the marina?”

  “I asked for an update on my way in, and . . .” Matt swiped the back of his neck. “I’m afraid it’s not good news. The vehicles you described disappeared before the cops arrived, but Cross and his team are still working the vehicle you managed to bring in. I’m sure they’ll find something useful.”

  Declan prayed they did, because until those men were behind bars, he and Tanner remained targets. It was a good thing they were heading to Houston in the morning—an early morning that was quickly approaching.

  After finalizing their plans for covering all the bases in their embezzlement investigation, Griffin, Finley, Parker, Avery, and Kate headed down to the sunroom to grab s’more kits and head out to the fire pit. The blaze was already dancing in the night, sparks sizzling, and they were about to close the sunroom door when heated voices echoed down the corridor on the right.

  “I’ll check it out,” Griffin said, stepping back inside.

  “Okay.” Finley gave him a quick kiss on the cheek as the rest of them headed for the fire pit.

  He moved as quietly as possible down the corridor, his s’more kit still in hand.

  “How could you do this to us?” Elizabeth Markum’s voice was frenzied.

  “You could ruin us. You’ve given us no choice,” John said. “After the retreat we’re going to have to go to the authorities.”

  “But I didn’t do it, and soon I’ll be able to prove it,” Haywood countered, his tone pleading and borderline desperate.

  “We’ve heard enough of your lies.” Elizabeth turned to walk away, and Griffin quickly ducked into the hall alcove, praying she hadn’t seen him. He remained stock-still as she and her husband passed by. After waiting a moment, he popped his head out, expecting to see Haywood in the hall, but he was nowhere in sight.

  He spent a few moments searching, walking up and down the corridor, but after having no luck decided to head outside. He hoped he’d find Haywood on the patio, but again no luck. Instead, he located the gang seated around the fire pit and discreetly caught them up to speed on what little he’d overheard.

  Avery was chatting with the Coveys—a couple in their mid-to-late thirties—and if the laughter and smiles were any indication, Avery was turning on the charm. The Barrits and Douglasses were also gathered around the fire, the former in their early forties and talkative, the latter in their sixties and looking like apparent introverts overwhelmed by the crowd. Unfortunately, they left the fire before Griffin could reach them. He’d have to catch them at breakfast.

  He scanned the patio again, but there was still no sign of Haywood or the Markums.

  “You all right?” Parker nudged his arm.

  “Yeah. Just wish Haywood or the Markums would show. I didn’t like the sound of Haywood’s voice. He sounded desperate, and the Markums seemed furious.”

  “You think they’ll go to the authorities?” Finley asked.

  “I don’t understand why they haven’t already,” Avery said, leaning in to grab another marshmallow.

  “Maybe they have something in their own financials they want to hide,” Parker suggested.

  Now there was an interesting angle to explore.

  Tanner curled up on Declan’s office couch, happy to not be alone tonight, with Kate at the retreat and the shooting at the boat. She wasn’t shaken per se, but Declan’s presence was soothing . . . calming. She knew she didn’t have to be on guard while he was near and that she could sleep in peace without a worry. It was a nice assurance.

  Shifting the toss pillow under her head, she rolled on her side. Declan lay on the floor, covered with a throw blanket pulled up to his chest, his hands linked behind his head on the other square toss pillow. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay down there?” There were other offices with couches, but he’d insisted on staying close, and while she felt bad he was on the floor, she loved that he wanted to be near.

  He rolled on his side, propping his head on his hand, his weight resting on his elbow. “I’m good. I can sleep anywhere.” Something told her he wouldn’t sleep at all, rather he’d spend the night keeping guard. It brought back memories of knowing she was safe with her dad near, but Declan was a far different man from her father. They had similarities—excelling at their jobs, wanting to protect those they loved—but Declan understood the value of friendship and laughter, and of the saving grace of Jesus.

  “You okay?” he asked with a lift of his chin.

  “Yeah. Just processing.”

  He arched a brow. “Dare I ask?”

  “Just thinking how much I’m enjoying this time with you.”

  His lips twitched into a grin. “You are unique, Tanner Shaw.”

  She frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “Not many—if any—women would make a statement like that after the day we had.”

  But it was with you.

  “But I love hearing you say it.”

  She bit her bottom lip, waiting for him to say something more, to do something more.

  “We better get some sleep. We’ve got an early flight.”

  Not at all what she was hoping he’d say.

  She nodded.

  “Sleep tight,” he said, before closing his eyes.

  God had given him supernatural restraint. That was the only explanation for what had just occurred—or rather not occurred. All he wanted to do was kneel by Tanner’s side and kiss her good-night, but they couldn’t keep kissing without a commitment. He wasn’t that type of man. Though he had no idea if Tanner was interested in pursuing a relationship with him. They needed to talk, but he didn’t want to push her, and there was a part of him that was nervous she’d say no. He was no coward, but being overly cautious could easily be considered a fault of his.

  He exhaled. How had they gotten here? How had Tanner stolen his heart without him seeing it coming, and what did he do about it amidst a case that was threatening their lives?

  12

  Tanner loved the rush of a plane taking off. Adrenaline coursed through her as the aircraft surged into the still-dark sky. Being up before the sun was just plain wrong. And she’d been up for hours. First, stopping by the boat to shower and grab a duffel with a couple changes of clothes, Declan standing watch, armed and alert the entire time, and then dropping by Declan’s to grab his bag, and finally on to the airport. But at least she could crash on the flight if she needed to.

  The plane continued soaring up in its ascent, and she reveled in the sensation of flying. It was addictive, really. She loved traveling, especially the excitement of new adventures and the sense of freedom it brought, but in the last year she’d come to love and appreciate the value of home much more. Not to mention, having friends as close as family who loved her. It was such a blessing.

  She glanced over at Declan, wondering what it would be like if he loved her, romantically. They’d kissed, but she didn’t know how he really felt. And, to be honest, she wasn’t sure what she truly felt in her heart for him, hadn’t really allowed herself to explore the bevy of emotions bubbling inside of her because she’d believed nothing would ever happen there.

  Today she allowed herself the liberty to explore and feel them all—the joy of a growing and deepening friendship, heated frustration when they argued, massive attraction, a strong sense of loyalty, confusion, elation . . . all heightened and fizzing at the surface. Whatever she felt for him, whether or not it could be defined or encapsulated in one word, was coursing through her like the plummet of the falls crashing and frothing the surface at Niagara.

  She studied him in the middle seat beside her. He’d insisted she take the window. It was a lovely gesture, but at six-three and easily two hundred muscular and toned pounds, the poor guy looked like a crumpled suit wedged between suitcase folds.

  “Are you sure I can’t switch with you?” she offered again. Her being five-seven and one-thirty-five, the center seat just made more sense.

  He smiled. “Enjoy the window. I’m going
to have my head in files the whole time.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  He nodded, and her gaze tracked to the stack of papers piled high on his tray table, his knees pushing against the underside of the plastic tray.

  He was taking the flight to reacquaint himself with the information he’d gathered on Steven Burke since the FBI agent’s murder on the Hiram two months back. That information included every case file Burke had worked in the last two years. Declan, if nothing else, was thorough.

  Thorough and, as her thoughts wandered again, an exemplary kisser, her lips still tingling from his touch. Not that she had a ton of kissing experience to compare him against. She’d only kissed three men in her life, Declan being one of the three, but he most certainly left the most distinct and wonderful impression. The fact she’d kissed Declan Grey still staggered her, and yet somehow made so much sense. He was the first man who made her feel fully alive.

  They had yet to broach the subject of their kiss beyond his expressed desire to do so again, but a big part of her was hesitant to be the one to bring it up. It was a new day, and something told her that today he’d approach the subject logically, say their kissing and pursuing a romantic relationship wasn’t wise, especially now that they were working together.

  He was too rational to leave emotion in the equation, and yet a whole new layer of emotion engulfed her now. He was different from her previous impressions. She felt as if she was seeing the true him for the first time. She’d spent the night in prayer over her growing feelings and felt God leading her straight to him, but it was complicated. Though incredibly straightforward, he was complicated. Now would be a really great time for him to be the former.

  His elbow bumped hers as he shifted in his seat, and he smiled at her. She was dying to know what was going on in that handsome head of his.

  The next morning, Griffin and Finley found a table in the sunroom. Miss Ann went out of her way for breakfast. She and her two friends, Susan and Patty, whipped up airy waffles, cinnamon-swirl French toast, made-to-order omelets, and all the sides a person could want—all fresh and ready to dive into within minutes of ordering. On the way in, they had passed Avery and Kate enjoying their coffee out on the back porch, and learned Parker was showering after a sunrise stroll that had turned into a two-hour hike. When she came to take their orders, Miss Ann said that most of the guests had already had breakfast and were out enjoying the beautiful fall morning.

  Griffin prayed today’s investigation went smoother. Though he had yet to spot Haywood and the Markums, maybe, just maybe, Kate could get them together for a down-to-earth discussion.

  Ann served Finley her Belgian waffles and had started to slide Griffin’s plate before him when a horrific shriek echoed down the corridor. The same corridor where he’d overheard Haywood and the Markums arguing. Ann jumped, dropping the plate, the china shattering on the hardwood floor.

  “I’m so sorry.” She bent to pick it up.

  “Please don’t worry about it. I’m going to go see what’s going on.”

  “Yes, please do, Detective McCray.”

  Finley quickly followed, and they moved toward the open room door where a hysterical maid stood screaming and crying.

  “Whoa!” Griffin caught her as her legs started to crumple. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s dead!”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Mr. Grant. In his bathtub.”

  Haywood was dead?

  13

  Tanner and Declan touched down in Houston, deplaned, and settled into their rental car—a black SUV. Why wasn’t she surprised? He certainly preferred the government-issue style of vehicles. Simple. Understated. Resilient. Which suited him.

  Declan punched Steven Burke’s last known address into the GPS. It was a forty-minute drive from the airport, which would give them lots of time to either talk or simply be silent. She wasn’t sure which she preferred. She just prayed he didn’t give her the talk—the one about how foolish or rash his actions had been when he kissed her. Maybe he’d surprise her and not go all analytical.

  The key to their future hinged on what happened next, on how Declan proceeded. Would he shock her and suggest they pursue a romantic relationship, or would he shift to his über-rational self and recommend they ignore what happened along with their more-than-evident feelings for one another? She wanted him to say something, to give her some indication of where his head was.

  “So what did you learn about Burke?” she asked as the SUV hummed down the highway. The silence was becoming unnerving, and she figured that was a safe topic to start with.

  He shifted in his seat. “From all angles, Burke looks to have been a good agent—thorough, intelligent, and he solved more cases than not. There was one in particular that caught my attention.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. A kidnapping case from last December. A young woman from Houston. Eighteen years old. Taken across state lines to Louisiana. Found dead on the shore two weeks later.”

  Tanner frowned, not following. “You think that ties to our terrorism case somehow?” Declan was brilliant, so if he saw a connection, she trusted it.

  “No.” He shook his head. “But some of the particulars of the case remind me of Jenna’s.”

  That jolted her. “Jenna McCray?” Griffin’s sister, who had been murdered just shy of her eighteenth birthday.

  “Yeah. Griffin’s been spearheading the reopening of her cold case. We’ve been working it in our off time, and there’s something about Chelsea Miller’s case that feels like Jenna’s.”

  That’s the second time in as many days that Declan had done or said something based on feelings. Had he always been this way and she was just now seeing it? Or was he changing? Growing?

  “How so?” she asked.

  “Chelsea was abducted at night, rather late, walking to a friend’s house. She was raped and tortured in a similar manner to Jenna, and her body also washed up on shore several weeks after the attack. The main difference was that a neighbor saw a black van pull up and grab Chelsea, so it was reported as a kidnapping rather than a missing persons case, as in Jenna’s situation.”

  Declan draped his right arm across the wheel, tapping it with his thumb. “I’ve always wondered if Jenna’s killer was a mover, or a drifter, since we were never able to catch him. He didn’t seem to have roots, so I believed he wasn’t local.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Yeah, but the frightening thing is if—and I say a big if, as it’s only a gut feeling and a handful of facts—but if it is him, that means he’s been operating for over seven years, as recently as last winter if Chelsea Miller and Jenna were both his victims.”

  “That’s a terrifying thought, because my mind automatically wonders how many other women might have been killed in between.”

  Griffin sprinted into Haywood’s bathroom, only to recoil in shock and stunned sadness at the sight of Haywood’s body resting in a pool of red. Crimson water had splashed over the tub wall and splayed in puddles across the white tile floor.

  Finley dashed in after him, and a rush of air escaped her mouth.

  “Don’t look, honey.” He wrapped his arm around her and guided her to the main room. “Do me a favor, get Parker and Avery in here while I call Jason.”

  Unable to wrap his mind around the fact that Haywood was dead, he called his partner, Jason Cavanaugh.

  Jason headed out while they were still on the phone, promising to bring a handful of officers from the squad with him.

  Griffin was just about to hang up when a piece of stationery lying cockeyed on the floor caught his eye. “I’ll see you when you get here.”

  “ETA fifteen,” Jason said before disconnecting.

  Griffin retrieved the paper and scanned the words scrawled across it.

  It was a suicide note in Haywood’s handwriting. In it, he confessed to stealing from his clients and then murdering the Markums after they threatened to go to the authorities.

&nbs
p; Shock piercing through him, Griffin raced out of the room as Avery and Parker entered.

  “What’s wrong?” Parker asked.

  “Read the letter on the bed.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “I’m hoping you have your equipment in your car because you have a crime scene to investigate.”

  After leaving the scene to Parker and Avery, he tracked down Miss Ann, learned the Markums’ room was at the end of the same hall as Hayward’s, and got her to let him in after no one answered when he knocked.

  The door swung open, and he held his breath at the chaos frozen before him. Chairs knocked over, clothes tossed about the beds, and . . . was that . . . ? He bent down to examine the dark red substance trailing across the plush carpet.

  He’d need Parker to confirm, but it certainly appeared to be blood. Had Haywood seriously murdered the Markums and then killed himself?

  Declan pulled to a stop outside Steven Burke’s apartment building, finding a spot in the visitors’ section. He was just about to climb out and walk around to open Tanner’s door when his cell rang.

  “Grey.”

  “It’s Park.”

  “What’s wrong?” Parker’s tone said something was very wrong.

  Tanner frowned beside him.

  “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I know you’d want to know.” Parker exhaled. “Coach Grant is dead.”

  Declan’s throat went dry. “W-what?”

  “Found in his bathtub. It appears to be suicide.”

  “Coach Grant? No way!”

  “Av and I are just beginning to process the scene. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And, Dec . . .”

  He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what came next. “Yes?”

  “That’s not the worst part.”

  How could it not be? His beloved coach, Haywood Grant, was dead.

  “He left a suicide note admitting to embezzling funds from his clients and murdering the Markums—the couple who called him on it.”