The Darkest Joy (22 page)

“Ye-es,” I whisper, my bowels clenching, every muscle tense.

“Agent Luke Haller,” he says. “Anchorage division.”

I feel slightly faint. He steps away, his hold loosening on my arms, and I lean back against the bus. The solidness of it is wonderful. Concrete.

“You scared me,” I say.

“I apologize . . . I was sent by our Seattle division. You didn’t get the communication?”

Oh yeah
. The note.

“Ah . . . hang on, ’kay?” He cocks an eyebrow and nods.

I scramble to my car, feeling for my cell that’s emitting Lacey’s banshee wail.

“Hey!” I say in a breathless gasp.

“Jesus! What the hell happened? Are ya okay?”

“Yes!”

“Who’s there? Did you get in a wreck?”

I put up my palm. “No . . . listen. The FBI is here.”

“Well thank God. I talked to Clearview . . .”

I grin so fast my face hurts. “Clearwater,” I correct.

“Whatever.” I can see her wave her hand dismissively. “Hottie in Fed suit,” she replies.

“Anyway,” I enunciate slowly, “he startled me. I think he was on the way to Aunt Milli’s cabin and I was on the side of the road . . . I just wasn’t expecting it, is all.”

“Uh-huh. Well, here’s the thing: let them do their job, Brooke. This sackless maniac is on a killing spree.”

“Who . . . is dead now?” I ask, not wanting the answer.

“The guy’s family.” Which I’m aware of from Clearwater’s earlier call.

I’d been speculating. It seems ridiculous now, but maybe he is responsible. After all, women were never serial murderers. Hardly ever. Now another Juilliard contender family has been stolen from them. Not a competitor, not a pianist. It blew my speculations out of the water. I can feel myself frowning.

“Miss Starr,” I hear the agent behind me say.

Kinda forgot about him. “Gotta go, Lace.”

“Check his ID,” she whispers into the mouthpiece.

I get a full blanket of gooseflesh over my body. “Okay . . . right.” I swipe
end
.

I turn around and there he stands in the standard black suit. God, talk about stereotype squared. But the tie throws me: bloodred. Then he smiles and I relax. Just out for a ride in FBI-issue uniform in the middle of nowhere . . . no need to freak out.

“May I see your ID?” I ask, shoving my cell into my pocket and wiping damp hands on my jeans.

“I’m sorry, I should have presented that first off.”

He smoothly reaches inside the interior pocket of his suit and the pebbled butt of a handgun reveals briefly, then is swept behind his jacket again as he hands it over to me. I flip open the walletlike ID. A card is there, with a gold embossed emblem. Above that is a holographic superimposed image over the capital letters of the acronym: FBI. His signature appears
above his photo ID. My eyes flick to his, color unknown in this light. Agent Haller is tall and fit, moves gracefully, and seems confident. One of those people who are comfortable in their own skin.

Must be nice.

I know the ID because I’ve seen them a hundred times since my family’s death. I suddenly feel lame for asking.

I press on anyway. Staring your own death in the face tends to make a tenacious person even more so. “Who sent you?”

“You mean the field assignment?”

I cross my arms under my breasts, cocking a brow.

“Decatur Clearwater,” he replies, sliding his ID back into his pocket and pushing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Unperturbed, nonchalant.

I let him off the hook. “You stand out like a turd in a punch bowl here, Agent Haller.”

He gives a snorting laugh and sticks out his hand. “Just call me Luke.” His eyes meet mine.

I let him shake my hand, which is warm and dry against my damp palm. He gives me a slow pump and I smile. “I guess I’m glad you’re here.”

He cocks his head to the left, slanting his eyes in my direction. “You shouldn’t be. I’m not the only agent assigned to protect the surviving family members.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“You headed to your place?”

I nod, getting back into the bus.

He looks the car over. “Some paint job.”

I laugh at his expression. “Yeah . . . it was a surprise.”

“I’ll bet.”

He taps the window rim where it’s rolled down. “I’ll follow you home.”

I let out a breath I don’t realize I’m holding and crank the window up. I guess I didn’t know that I’ve been stressed out. I have. Now that I’m feeling everything again, it’s more than I can bear. The emotions are like a perfume you think you’ll miss until you wear it again and realize you never liked it.

I nod and he moves to his unmarked SUV—all black.

I wait until his lights come on, piercing the back of the bus and roll away from the shoulder.

We make our way toward Aunt Milli’s cabin.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt safe.

I
catch the sun glinting off the windshield of Brooke’s vintage bus. You can’t miss its clash against the backdrop of the wooded acreage that encroaches around her aunt’s cabin.

I move off the deep porch when a black SUV comes into sight.

What the hell is this?

I’ve always had pretty good instincts, having relied heavily on them on the sea . . . and on land. They’re never more crystalline than at this moment.

My mind flashes instantly on the message from the Fed I’d seen by accident. The dots connect that fast.

If the Feds have shown up, the decision’s been made that the stakes are too high. My eyes roam the sleek ebony lines of the SUV, the satellite antenna, all-weather wheels, and the mound of a mountable light on the dash are the main clues. My hand falls to my gun, hanging in a solid lump inside my jacket, then
falls away. You don’t need a concealment permit in Alaska to carry; it’s like a rite of passage.

But I bet the Fed will get excited if he notices one on my person.

I watch Brooke step out into the twilight that Alaska has for half the hours of the day and see the guy unfold out of his rig, FBI stamped all over him.

I don’t like him on sight. I study him: the dark suit, the unneeded sunglasses that hide his expression. Mostly I don’t like the way he carries himself. He has that sense about him, that male potential that makes another guy stand up and take notice: dangerous.

I do like what he represents. Then I remind myself that Brooke doesn’t know one critical thing: that I understand why she’s here, even if she doesn’t. A part of my past that mimics her in consequence, even if the circumstances are different. I’ve had to face that particular demon, or the power of the past never lets go. She’s running from a past that doesn’t have a statute of limitations and the long arm of the FBI has come calling to remind her. Brooke needs someone other than herself; it’s bigger than her. From what I read, this killer has murdered three families so far. All in a bid to what?

I begin walking to where they stand, Brooke’s face registering first surprise with a heel-biter of anger.

Great.

I look to the Fed in his suit, a thing that’s as foreign to the Alaskan landscape as Brooke’s wildly painted bus. Somehow he doesn’t jibe with that thumbnail photo that’d come up on her phone number list.

No, this is a different dude.

I walk within arm’s reach, my conclusions forming.

“What are you doing here, Chance?” Brooke asks.

Ouch
, frosty.

I shrug and go for the truth, since I’ve had moderate luck with that in the past. “I didn’t like the way we left things, wanted to straighten things out.” My eyes slide to the witness to our personal shit and frown at Suit Man.

I watch Brooke fold her arms, the classic stance of
you’re not getting anywhere with me
.

Fuck me.

I sigh, pegging my hands on my hips, my eyes shifting to Suit Man. I hate not seeing someone’s eyes, I can’t gauge shit.

“Agent Luke Haller,” he says, holding out his hand. I shake it like I’ll crush it and he gives good press right back.

Strong.

But my hands are strong from fishing; it’s not artificial but acquired. What are his hands strong from?

Before I can give it too much thought Brooke says, “This isn’t a good time, Chance.”

Agent Haller throws up his hands. “Listen, you two have something to discuss, I was really just surveying the lay of the land, so to speak.”

I look at him again, he speaks differently. “You say you’re from Anchorage?”

He smiles. “I didn’t.”

Right. I wait. Silence can be useful.

“Chance . . . he’s been . . . well, that’s a discussion for
another time,” she says quietly, casting her eyes down, hiding some of what she’s thinking.

If I hadn’t been with Brooke so intimately, I’d swear her indifference is real. But I know better. Brooke’s hands twist together in knots, a fine sheen of sweat decorates her upper lip.

She’s nervous. Brooke doesn’t know I know. She’s looking at all this from my perspective of presumed ignorance. Yeah, it’d be damn weird for the FBI to show up.

I look at Haller and he stares coolly back

“I’m going to take off now,” he says, turning to Brooke. She starts, her gaze moving from her feet, to me . . . and finally to him. They shake hands and he gives me a measured look. “I’ll be around,” he says to us both.

No,
nice to meet you
, no pleasantries exchanged. I nod back at him and he hops inside his rig, turning the engine on and smoothly backing out as if he has a hundred times before.

Brooke and I watch him move down the driveway, dust plumes following his tires as they crunch over what little gravel remains.

Brooke takes a deep breath, her soft violet eyes find mine, her full bottom lip trembles, and I watch her roll it into her mouth, nibbling on it, and God help me, I want her. With the weight of everything between us . . . the imperative to work out the mess of her recent history, to apologize for my caveman turn of events today, and now the FBI showing up. . . . I just do. My need to protect her, shield her from all of this, takes over . . . just like it did that night on the pier.

I want to press her up against a hard surface and take her to the moon.

“Chance . . .” she begins, shaking her head.

I say it. I’ll figure out the logistics later. “You’re fired.”

Her eyes snaps to mine and her mouth drops open. “What?” she asks in a breathless whisper, disbelief dripping from that one word.

“You’re officially let go. Canned. No longer employed . . . terminated,” I say with quiet intensity.

“What . . . I didn’t do anything . . .” she says in a plea, her palms out in supplication, her eyes welling with tears.

“Yeah you did,” I say, coming so close it would have been easier to touch her.

Her eyes search mine. I touch my hand to my heart. “You made me care more about you than the sea, my boat . . . whatever life I had before you.”

Brooke gives me wary eyes and I know there’s explaining to do. “I’m sorry,” I begin and dip my chin to my chest, letting out a sigh, then meet her eyes again. “I shouldn’t have lost my shit back there . . .”

She gives a soft shake of her head, her black hair sliding around her shoulders. “You made them think we’d . . . you and me . . .” Brooke glares at me, her face wavering on that fine line between righteously pissed off and tears.

“We haven’t, I didn’t . . . they’re fucktards. They were just talking out of their asses, not knowing the facts—anything. Hoping for something they’ll never have.” I look at her, willing her to hear me. To listen. “Something I hope to have.” I let my arms fall to my sides and cautiously step closer. “I’m so
goddamned sorry, Brooke.” I mean it so hard my body physically reacts to my own words and I watch her eyes widen at the emotion she sees there.

Her face cracks, the anger sliding away, and with a gasping sob, Brooke throws herself in my arms and I wrap myself around her. The altercation’s like a trigger her recent past, Brooke can’t handle a hint of betrayal from anyone. Her small strides to get back to center will be swept away by insensitive bullshit like what went down today. “Shush . . . I know, it’s okay.”

Brooke pulls away from me, her face wet, lavender eyes pools of sadness as they look deeply into mine, searching. “Know . . . what?”

God,
I can’t say it
. Then I do. “I know about your family, Brooke.”

She backs away like I’ve hit her instead of held her.

No . . . this isn’t the way this is supposed to go. I move toward her.

Brooke retreats. “No. Just go . . . just leave,” she says, warding me away with her hands.

I clench my hands into fists. “No.”

Her face shows her surprise.

“You need to face this. You tried to kill yourself, Brooke. You’re running. This cabin”—I swing my palm around to encompass the small homestead—“your job working for me . . . it’s an escape. And if you haven’t noticed, you’re still a prisoner.”

Her face crumples as her hands drop to her sides. I don’t wait for an invitation; I stride to her, wrapping my arms around her again and pressing her face against my chest. I speak without thinking. “Let me help you, Brooke Starr.”