by Melinda Colt
Maybe I’m just imagining things. Being a thirty-five-year-old spinster with no sex life must be addling my brain. All those hormones and chemical reactions can alter the nervous system. I hope I’m wrong about Jack Dunhill. I want him to see me as a competent therapist, nothing more.
She closed the document thoughtfully, then opened her browser to check her email. She experienced a jolt of excitement when she saw an email from Evan titled “Autopsy & forensic reports on S. Brody case.” She downloaded the documents, opened them, and began reading. She was so engrossed in the files she barely remembered to check the soup. After she turned off the heat and set the pot aside to cool, she returned to the table.
She was disappointed to see neither report offered any major breakthrough in the case. As she read the autopsy report, she considered the fact that the killer had been filled with explosive rage. He had bashed Shannon’s head, and although she was already dead, he’d then proceeded to strangle her. Was the killer clinically insane? She thought the probability was high. She didn’t remember mentioning this to Evan, so she made notes in a fresh document; however, combined with the flimsy forensic report, it didn’t offer much headway on the case. She wondered if they would ever find Shannon’s murderer, or if he would remain forever undetected. If he got away with it the first time, there was no stopping him from doing it again.
But why? What triggered him? It was all about the bloody motive, which they couldn’t find. Frustrated, she shoved her hair away from her forehead. She was about to push her laptop aside and eat when she received a new email. She might have left it for later, but the headline drew her attention like a magnet: FBI AGENT SHOT BY HIS GIRLFRIEND, AN UNDERCOVER MEMBER OF CYBERCRIME GROUP.
Frowning, she checked the sender, noticing it was a well-known American online publication. She clicked on the email and started reading the article.
FBI Special Agent Evan Gallagher was shot in his home in Sacramento on Wednesday morning by his girlfriend, Amanda Brosnan, aka Mandi Klein. The thirty-two-year-old woman was a member of the cybercrime group known as Robin Hoods, responsible for multi-million-dollar internet frauds in several states. Having kept a low profile, Klein was not on the wanted list and was never identified or suspected. Apparently, S.A. Gallagher was making progress in the cases involving the criminal group and closing in on the suspects. It is believed that Mandi Klein had approached him posing as a civilian and infiltrated herself into his private life by developing a romantic relationship with the cybercrime specialist. Gallagher discovered the real identity of his girlfriend yesterday morning, but Klein had somehow anticipated this and managed to shoot the agent in the shoulder before he apprehended her. Gallagher’s wound is mildly severe, and he was able to detain the suspect and call for backup to have her arrested. Later in the day, Gallagher reported having already discovered the names of all six members of the group.
Later update: all members of the cybercrime group Robin Hoods have been arrested, and are awaiting trial on several charges. S.A. Gallagher was decorated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and has recovered from his injuries.
By the time she finished reading the article, Chelsea realized she’d forgotten to breathe. Stunned, she reached for her phone to call Evan, but stopped herself when she noted the date of the article: February 15th. Nearly eight months ago.
A chill crept down her spine as she reread the article. Poor Evan must have gone through pure hell. Knowing as much as she did about human psychology, she suspected he blamed himself immensely for having been fooled, even temporarily. Being decorated for what he probably saw as the biggest fuckup of his life was even worse for a man like him. That must be why he’d decided to move to Ireland and keep a low profile.
This was one solved mystery, at least partially. But the question that remained was how and why this eight-month-old article had arrived in her inbox, when she’d never subscribed to the American publication?
Chapter Eight
Evan hadn’t been to a funeral in twenty years, not since he’d attended the one for his parents. When Mrs. Brody had called him this morning to ask if he had any news about the case and to tell him they were burying Shannon today, something compelled him to attend. Maybe the expectancy in her grief-filled voice, or the thought this might be an opportunity to find himself in the same space with the killer. He was convinced the bastard would be smug enough to be right here, in the candle-lit church that was almost too small to accommodate all the people who’d come to see Shannon on her last journey.
Evan stayed near the entrance, careful not to impede people from coming in or going out. The scent of burning candles and wilting roses was overwhelming; the priest’s words summoned memories that, for many years, had been too painful for him to bear.
It had been a long while after the accident before he was able to remember the good times he’d spent with his parents, to relive the moments of joy without them being immediately swallowed by crushing pain. He was ashamed of many things he’d done as an angry, misguided teenager, and even later, as a young adult. But in the end, he hoped his mom and dad would have been proud of the man he’d become, the man he tried to be every day.
His gaze lingered on the iconographic art adorning the walls of the church. Probably Bible scenes, saints whose names he didn’t know, and a benevolent Christ in front of the altar, hands spread wide in blessing or forgiveness. Evan noticed the paint was slightly cracked in places, as were the ornate pillars supporting the beautifully painted dome. The church must be centuries old, a work of art born from a faith he didn’t really understand.
Tradition was different here. While in America most people preferred to be cremated, in Ireland many chose to honor the dead by keeping their bodies intact. He was glad there was enough of a crowd to block the coffin from his view. He saw Shannon’s parents next to it, their heads lowered, their postures curled up by grief. He wanted to pay his respects, to let them know he cared enough to come. But what comfort could he bring them? He had no real clue yet as to the person who’d killed their daughter. There was nothing he could say to ease their pain. The only thing he could do was act.
He studied the faces around him, wondering if the killer was here and had come to see the aftermath of his handy work. All he saw were sad gazes. Some of the mourners dabbed at their tearful eyes with handkerchiefs or tissues. He spotted Patrick sitting on the other side of the church, away from other people. Tears glinted in his eyes, which seemed vacant, the glass doors to an empty shell. Evan could only imagine the young man’s pain. He and Shannon hadn’t been together long, but that didn’t mean they weren’t in love. They might have built a life together, got married, had children... Any chance of that was now ruined because of the monster who’d put that pretty young woman in a coffin.
Evan turned to go, pushing aside the sadness and anger. They wouldn’t do Shannon any good now. The only thing he could do was to doggedly pursue all the leads he had. He’d just made his way out of the church when someone grasped his arm. Surprised, he turned his head and stared into Chelsea’s eyes. Their lavender color was even more vibrant amidst the shadows of fatigue.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asked, drawing her to the side, away from the mass of people getting ready to leave for the cemetery.
“I read about the funeral in the newspaper. I didn’t expect to find you here.”
Her skin appeared translucent in contrast to her black coat. Her hair was drawn back from her face in a tight knot. As he looked down at her, still holding her shoulders between his hands, Evan felt a searing urge to take her in his arms. Her pale skin and light-colored eyes reminded him too much of the other woman, the one lying in a wooden box, waiting to be covered in earth. He’d faced death too many times to count, but after his parents had died, he’d never cared for anyone enough to be terrified at the thought of losing them. Emotions he couldn’t explain flooded him, and he cupped Chelsea’s cheek protectively. Her skin was cold against his large palm. He couldn’t tell what
she was thinking and didn’t know if all these indefinable feelings were a side effect one experienced when confronted with the reality of mortality.
Chelsea must have shared these feelings, because she surprised him by taking a step forward and into his arms. The simple, natural way she buried her face against his chest made his throat tighten. Wordless, he drew her closer and just held her, enjoying the warmth of her body close to his.
Several moments later she withdrew. Embarrassment glinted in her eyes along with a trace of tears, as she looked away from him toward the people leaving the church. He felt awkward and didn’t know what to say. What the hell had happened anyway? They hardly knew one another, they hadn’t even known the victim, and they were hugging like saps at her funeral?
He cleared his throat briskly. “I came to check things out. Thought the killer might be here and, you know, turn himself in.”
She smiled weakly at his lame joke. “Aye, that sounds like a valid possibility. No luck?”
“Not yet. Did you get the reports I emailed you last night?”
“I did. Maybe I’m missing something, but I didn’t read much in them.”
Evan shoved his hands into his pockets. The thick fog didn’t back down an inch, making the air seem even colder, damper.
“There’s nothing groundbreaking. I have to follow up on some leads, but it doesn’t look good so far.”
Her mouth twisted and she bit her lower lip in frustration. Evan figured he must be seriously depraved since he found this gesture arousing.
Chelsea pulled her black scarf higher, her delicate ears half buried in it. “Want to get a drink? I’d like to talk more about the case, if you don’t have other plans.”
He shrugged and gestured for her to lead the way. “Sure. I tracked down the other three men Shannon met on that dating website other than Patrick. I have their names and addresses, and I plan to question each of them today.” As he walked beside her, he tried to match his large stride to her narrow footsteps.
She glanced at him sideways. “Do you think you’ll find them at home?”
“I suppose.” He furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, because it’s the Halloween weekend. I don’t know what it’s like in the USA, but Halloween is a public holiday here, and we celebrate it on the last Monday of October—which is the day after tomorrow. Most people go to parties this weekend, to bonfires, to festivals; others go to visit their families. It’s not a good time to question people, or find them home for that matter. Better wait until Tuesday.”
“And let the trail grow colder? No way.”
Chelsea expelled a breath. “You’re not sure if this is even a trail, are you? You’re more likely to get taken as a trick-or-treater in a Garda uniform.”
He looked down at her. “Really?”
She laughed. “Okay, maybe not a kid knocking on doors for candy. But you have a better chance if you wait a couple of days. You’ll get better info from sober men. Besides, you need a break. You look worse than a zombie. How many hours have you put in this week?”
“Who’s counting?”
Chelsea waved a hand shortly, obviously trying to contain her annoyance. “It’s your call. I just gave you my opinion.”
“And I appreciate it.”
Evan stopped when Chelsea took a corner, then pushed open an ornate wooden door.
The pub was crowded, the air warm and filled with delicious smells of food and beer. Evan was suddenly parched. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he hadn’t realized until now how thirsty he was. He guided Chelsea through the maze of round little tables, keeping his hand at the small of her back, until they found a vacant table near the window.
They had taken off their coats and hung them on the nearby hanger when a waiter approached them. The dimples in his cheeks and the bright orange freckles on his nose made him look so fresh and carefree Evan almost envied him.
“Good day, Ma’am, Sir. What can I get ya?” the young man asked.
Evan gave Chelsea an inquiring look.
“Hot cocoa and a stack of pancakes,” she said, smiling in return.
“Make that two,” Evan added, as he sat opposite Chelsea. “And a bottle of water, please.”
“Coming right up.”
After the waiter left, Evan leaned back in his chair. It was surprisingly comfortable, with its curved wooden backrest and cushioned seat. Gazing around, he had to admit he loved this place. If someone had told him a few months ago he would enjoy a tiny European restaurant with tables too small to fold his legs under, crammed together so you could hear everyone’s conversations, he would have thought them crazy. Yet he liked it here. Maybe because everyone seemed cheerful and friendly, and this crowd of people felt more like a foreign family than a bunch of strangers. Or maybe because he was here with Chelsea.
As their gazes met, the warm intimacy of the embrace they’d shared in the churchyard still hovered between them. Evan regretted the only thing they had to talk about right now was murder. But it was a start—if a macabre one. It was their job.
“So, have you run a check on those three men Shannon dated before she met Patrick?” Chelsea asked, unwrapping the thick scarf from around her neck. She wore a black sweater, and as she leaned over to place the scarf on the chair beside her, Evan caught a glimpse of her neckline. It wasn’t low, quite the opposite, but that quick peek at the curve of her breasts ignited his imagination. He wasn’t drawn to what he could see, but to the shapely unknown hiding underneath the soft wool.
He coughed, covering his mouth politely. It was only a tactic to regain his self-control and give himself a mental slap. He was not looking for a relationship of any kind, especially with a shrink, for God’s sake. She probably studied him like she would analyze a rat under a microscope, speculating on his thoughts, his feelings, his reactions. Although she seemed to be a decent human being, he could never trust a woman again, and by no means a psychologist.
He focused on answering her question. “I did, yes. I have their information.”
“Anything pop?”
“If you’re asking whether either of them has ‘killer’ in their résumés, then no.”
Her laughter was contagious. If a homicide detective and a criminal profiler couldn’t joke about these things, who could?
“Sorry to hear that,” she said at last. “Unfortunately, most killers hide well wearing the masks of ordinary people. Any other leads?”
He debated for a couple of seconds, then told her about the comment from the mysterious person nicknamed Black Dawn.
“It’s not exactly a lead, but something about it is bugging me. I’ve nothing to go by, but I got the distinct impression it’s a woman. Or a very bitchy man,” he finished, toying with the box of paper napkins, his fingers restless. “Do you think I’m grasping at straws?”
Chelsea gazed thoughtfully out the window, lips pursed. “I don’t know. It would seem a huge coincidence if you were on to something, but… You have good instincts. I would trust those instincts.”
He felt slightly puzzled when their eyes connected.
“You hardly know me,” he said. “How can you be sure I’m not the crappiest cop on the force?”
“A crappy cop wouldn’t have single-handedly uncovered the Robin Hoods and taken them down.”
Slowly, Evan leaned back in his chair, away from her. The waiter brought their order, but they hardly noticed. Their gazes were locked together, as if in battle. Evan felt the cozy intimacy between them cool down and dissipate, and his jaw turn to steel.
“I see you did your research on me. So did Mandi, but I suppose you already know that. I’d be an interesting case study, right, Doc?”
Chelsea placed a hand on the table, palm down, fingers outstretched, as though she wanted to reach out to him. “It wasn’t like that. I stumbled across an article on the internet last night. The headline caught my attention, and then I read it and realized it was about you.”
He didn’t know whe
ther to believe her or not. He didn’t know anything about this woman, and now she knew the most embarrassing things about him and his life.
“Well, the internet and the tabloids were full of information when that shit happened. I guess I should have been flattered. For weeks I got more coverage than movie stars or global warming. You’d think people had more important stuff to gossip about.” He glanced away, tasting the bitterness of the biggest failure in his career all over again. Then his eyes moved back to Chelsea. “Did that article cover all the scintillating details, or is your curiosity still unsatisfied?”
Her expression was a mix of insult and hurt. He cursed himself for noticing and cursed those big, expressive eyes that could mesmerize the most jaded of men.
“I didn’t say that to fish for information, Evan. I meant it. I don’t know how you felt about that situation, but I think you were a hero. You were essential in identifying and apprehending an important cybercrime organization.”
“While getting shot like an idiot by one of the key members,” he retorted angrily.
“The article said you had discovered her true identity already.”
“Not soon enough. The bitch had me fooled for almost three weeks. I guess you could literally say she fucked my brains out.”
“She must have been very smart and cunning,” Chelsea said reasonably. “But your blaming yourself for it is wrong. You had enough brains left to figure out who she was and act accordingly. That’s what matters.”
He scoffed. “I should have read through her act, if I had any brains at all.”
“You may have lost a battle, but you won the war.” She raised her voice, looking exasperated. “People can be deceiving. Especially a woman who knows how to use her feminine charms to manipulate a man. All humans have impulses, weaknesses, flaws. Sometimes it’s impossible to resist a temptation that lands in your lap, all wrapped up and irresistible.”
His mouth twisted in a humorless smile. “You’ve read all that in an article?”
