She made her jaw unclench.
“You’re taking the fall for this one.” Justin nodded curtly toward her. “Consider yourself on suspension.”
Samantha almost took a step back. Her lips parted—
Don’t take the job from me.
“What?” Blake was the one who’d given that shocked cry. It was Blake who sounded furious as he snapped, “You can’t do that! Samantha is the best—”
“Yeah, right, you think I don’t know about the hard-on you have for her, Agent Gamble?” Justin fired right back. “You two never should have been partners. So take some advice, buddy. Save your own ass. She’s a sinking ship, and you don’t want to go down with her.”
Her boss was a bastard. Lots of men she’d met in the FBI were arrogant assholes. Blake? No, he was a good guy, and that was why she respected him so much.
“Leave your weapon here,” Justin ordered her. “And your badge.”
She unsnapped her holster, walked slowly toward his desk.
My profile was right. I know it was.
She put her gun on his desk, but when she reached for her FBI badge and ID, Samantha hesitated.
“You know, we found pictures of all the victims at his place.” Justin’s voice was flat. “Souvenirs that he kept.”
“Trophies.” It was the first thing she’d said since coming into his office. “Not souvenirs, they’re trophies.” Serial killers often kept them so that they could relive their crimes.
“Shoved in the back of his closet, under the guy’s winter boots.” Justin shook his head. “Dropped like they didn’t matter, and you spent all that time telling us we were looking for a cold, methodical killer. One who wanted to push boundaries and study the pain of his victims. One who wanted to see just how well matched he’d be with authorities. A smart killer, a damn genius. Fuck me, Samantha, Allan March barely graduated high school!”
And that was just one of the many reasons why he was wrong.
Her fingers had clenched around her ID. “Did you ever think...” Her voice was too soft, but it was either speak softly or scream. “Did you consider that maybe Allan had been set up?”
Justin’s hands flew up into the air in a gesture of obvious frustration. “He shot himself! Killed his damn fool self when he blew off half his head! If that doesn’t say guilty, then what the hell does?”
Her drumming heartbeat was too loud. “He could have killed himself for a number of reasons.” Reasons that were nagging at her. He’d lost his life savings battling his wife’s cancer. Extreme financial hardship? Hell, yes, that could lead people to suicide. It could—
Justin yanked the ID from her hand. “Get the hell out, Samantha. You are done. I won’t have you talking this shit in my office—and you sure as hell better not plan on stopping to talk to the reporters outside.”
“Director Bass—” Blake began angrily.
“Don’t!” Justin threw right back at him. “Not another word, unless you want to be giving up your badge, too.”
No, Blake wouldn’t do that. The FBI was his life.
She kept her spine ramrod straight as she walked out of the office. When she reached the bull pen, she heard the whispers—from the other FBI agents there, from the cops who’d come to team up with them. Everyone was staring at her with confusion in their eyes.
She was wrong. She screwed up. She let those women die.
This was all going to be on her. Samantha clenched her hands into fists.
She made it to the elevator. One step at a time. Her spine was starting to hurt.
She slipped into the elevator. Pushed the button to go down to the parking garage. The doors were starting to close—
“Samantha.” Blake was there. Shoving his hand through the gap between the doors, trying to get to her.
She shook her head. “No.” Because she couldn’t deal with him right then. He pulled at her emotions, and she already felt too raw.
Blake. Handsome, strong Blake. Blake with his rugged good looks, his jet-black hair, his bright green eyes and that golden skin...sexy Blake.
Fierce Blake.
Off-limits Blake.
Because her bastard of a boss had been right about one thing. Blake did have a hard-on for her. She’d noticed his attraction. It would have been impossible to miss. An attraction that she more than felt, too. But he was her partner. You didn’t screw around with your partner. That was against the rules.
She’d always played by the rules.
And she’d still gotten screwed.
“This isn’t on you,” Blake gritted out.
Actually, it was. The dead man’s blood was still on her clothes because she’d run to him after he’d blown off half his face. His blood was on her—and the deaths of those three women? She knew her boss was going to push those her way, too. Before he was done, she’d be some rogue FBI agent who’d gone off the playbook—and he’d be the shining superstar who’d somehow managed to stop the Sorority Slasher.
Blake stepped into the elevator. Ignoring her request. The doors closed behind him, and his hands curled around her shoulders. “The profile was off. You’re not God. You can’t predict everything.”
“I don’t want you touching me.” Her words came out stark and hard. Not at all the way she normally spoke to Blake.
He blinked, and, for an instant, she could have sworn that he looked hurt.
“Let me go.” She didn’t have time to choose her words carefully. She was about to break apart, and his touch was sending her closer and closer to the edge.
His hands fell away from her. He stepped back.
“I’m not dragging you down with me.” She licked her lips. “You still have a chance here. You just had the bad luck to get teamed up with me.”
“I don’t think it’s bad.”
“Trust me, it is.” Her heart was racing far too fast in her chest. “Just walk away.” What had Bass called her? A sinking ship?
The elevator dinged. Finally, she was at the parking garage. Maybe she’d be able to get out of there without the reporters catching her. She stepped toward the elevator’s now-open doors, but Blake moved into her path.
Her head tipped back as she stared up at him.
“I want to help,” Blake said.
There he went being the good guy. “Then let me go.”
“Sam...”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” She wouldn’t, but, right then, she would have said anything to get away from him. Blake pushed her buttons. She’d always suspected he would have made for an amazing lover—and with her control being as shaky as it was at that particular moment, Samantha was afraid she would cross a line with him if she didn’t get out of there.
Once you cross some lines, there is no going back...
A muscle flexed in Blake’s square jaw, his green eyes gleamed, but he got out of her way.
She rushed past him. Nearly ran—and she didn’t stop, not until she reached her car.
* * *
WHEN IT CAME to drinking, Samantha had always had an extremely high tolerance for alcohol. That had come, she suspected, courtesy of her dad. A tough ex-cop, he’d been able to drink anyone under the table.
So she sat in that low-end bar, on the wrong side of DC, and she studied the row of shot glasses in front of her.
“I knew I’d find you here. You always come to this place when you want to vanish.”
She looked up at that deep, rumbling voice. A voice she knew—intimately, unfortunately. Another line that I crossed a long time ago. And her gaze met the dark stare of Cameron Latham. Dr. Cameron Latham. They’d known each other since their first year at university. Been friends, competitors. They’d gone all through college and graduate school together, earning their PhDs in psychology.
But after g
raduation, she’d joined the FBI. Samantha had wanted to use her talents to bring down criminals. And Cameron—he’d been bound for the Ivy League and a cushy college teaching job.
And for the college girls whom she knew he seduced. The guy had model-good looks, so the women had always flocked to him. Now he had money and power to go with those looks. He’d finally gotten everything he wanted.
He has what he wants, and I just lost what I valued most. Talk about a totally shitty night.
“Guessing the story made the news?” Samantha muttered. This wasn’t the kind of bar that had TVs. This was a dark hole made for drinking.
And vanishing.
“It made the news.” He pulled out a chair, flipped it around and straddled the seat. “You made the news.” He whistled. “That asshole of a boss really threw you under the bus.”
She lifted another shot glass and drained it in a gulp.
“Drinking yourself into oblivion isn’t going to make the situation better...” Cameron cocked his head and studied her.
Her brows shot up at that. “Cam, I’m not even close to oblivion.”
He should know better.
“The case is wrong.” She slammed down the glass. “Allan March is wrong. I don’t buy it. The scene was too pat. He was too desperate. That guy isn’t the one I was after.”
Cameron blinked. “The reporter said plenty of evidence was on hand—”
“Like people don’t get framed?” She laughed, and the sound was bitter. “I know all about that. My dad lost his badge because he got pulled into that BS about setting up drug dealers on his beat.” Though her dad had always sworn he hadn’t been involved in the frame-ups, his protests did little good for his reputation. “People get framed. It’s a sad fact of the world.” She pushed a glass toward Cameron.
He didn’t take it. He never drank much, and when he did drink, it was only the best. Expensive wines and champagnes. Jeez, the guy loved his champagne. When they’d gotten their master’s degrees, she remembered the way he’d gone out and bought that fancy bottle of—
“Why would someone want to frame that guy?” His quiet question jerked her from the memory of their past.
She rolled her shoulders. “Because Allan was convenient.” Duh. Wait, duh? Maybe she did need to slow down on the drinks. “An easy target. The custodian who kept to himself. The widower with no close friends. Maybe the perp I’m after wanted the attention off his back, so he tossed Allan into the mix.”
Cameron frowned. “Allan... He killed himself.”
“That’s the part I haven’t worked out yet.” But she would. “I don’t understand that bit. I swear, I actually thought the guy was going to shoot me, but then he turned the gun on himself. Weird as hell.” She reached for another shot glass. The bartender had done such a lovely job of lining them up for her. “Maybe he had a deal with the killer. I mean, Allan had a daughter, after all. One that needs money for college, money for life. And Allan didn’t have any money. He barely had anything at all. Maybe the killer offered Allan money to take the fall. Maybe he was supposed to go out in a blaze of glory.” Her eyes narrowed as she considered this new angle. If Allan had gotten a payoff, then perhaps she could find the paper trail. Follow the money. “But... Allan was a caretaker.” Her voice dropped as Allan’s profile spun in her head. “His nature was protective, so in the end, he couldn’t shoot me. Couldn’t shoot at Blake. That wasn’t who he was.” Her lashes lifted as realization hit her. “He couldn’t attack us because Allan March wasn’t a killer. Instead of shooting us, he turned the gun on himself. The only person he hurt was himself.” Excitement had her heart racing.
But Cameron just shook his head. His hair—blond and perfectly styled, as always—gleamed for a moment when he leaned forward beneath the faint light over her table. “Normally, you know I love it when you bounce your ideas off me...”
Her temples were throbbing.
“But the man had a dead woman at his feet. That part made the news, too.”
“And no blood on him,” she mumbled. Because that had been bothering her. That was why the scene had been wrong. When they’d first arrived, Allan had been sweating in his white shirt—and there had been no blood on the shirt. Not until Blake shot him. “The vic’s throat was slit—ear to ear—and Allan didn’t have a drop of blood on him. He should’ve had her blood on him.” She pushed to her feet. “I have to make Justin listen to me. I’m not wrong. Allan was just a fall guy. The real killer—”
Cameron surged to his feet. His hand wrapped around her arm. “You can’t go to your FBI boss with alcohol on your breath and a wild theory spilling from your lips.” His voice was grim. “You want more than a suspension? You want to lose the job forever?”
“I want to stop the killer!”
Don’t miss
AFTER THE DARK by Cynthia Eden,
available April 2017 wherever
HQN Books and ebooks are sold.
www.Harlequin.com
Copyright © 2017 by Cynthia Eden
ISBN-13: 9781488012716
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Copyright © 2017 by Delores Fossen
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