The Prey (12 page)

He put his hands up in a “hands-off” gesture and motioned for her to get behind him. Reluctantly, she did, but pulled out her gun, her heartbeat steadying as she held the cold metal in both hands. Her gun grounded her, made it a job. John glanced at her weapon, nodding almost imperceptibly, a hint of a smile.

She frowned when he turned his back to her and led the way up the stairs. What was with John Flynn?

When Rowan stepped in through the side door, the first thing she saw was Michael leaning against the counter, steaming coffee mug in hand. His casual stance belied his stern expression, but when he glanced at Rowan, his eyes warmed.

Guilt sank heavily in her gut. “Excuse me,” she said, brushing past John. When her arm accidentally touched his chest, she jerked as if burned.

But the heat was from within.

Brief eye contact told Rowan that John felt the same zing, and they frowned at each other. Without another word, she went down the hall and upstairs.

John absently rubbed his arm, not from pain but from a deep need to make contact with Rowan again.

“What the hell are you doing?” Michael demanded as soon as Rowan had left the kitchen.

John glanced at his brother, crossed over to the fridge, opened it, and took out a water bottle. He drained it, then tossed the empty plastic container into the trash.

“She’s in good shape,” John said as he folded his arms in front of him. “Gotta admire that.”

Michael slammed his mug on the granite countertop and took a step toward his brother, fists clenched. “Don’t think for a minute that you’re taking over this case,” he said, jaw set.

John put his hands up. “Hey, I’m only here to help. It’s your gig.”

“I saw how you looked at her.”

“Whoa, brother. It’s not me who has the wandering eye here. You’re going to get yourself in deep shit if you don’t put some distance between you and blondie.” As he said it, he realized he was doing the exact same thing.

The only difference, he thought, was he wasn’t afraid to hurt her to get to the truth. That thought didn’t sit entirely well in his conscience.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michael said. “I’ve been here for the better part of a week and you waltz in and start making demands, scaring her, and—”

“Stop right there.” John pushed off from the counter and took a step toward his brother. “She’s hiding something and you’re enabling her. That ‘Danny’ she talked about, he has something to do with it. And if you don’t start thinking with your head instead of your—” he glanced below Michael’s belt “—you’ll wind up dead.”

“You know nothing about Rowan!”

“Neither do you,” John said, his voice barely audible. “And you’d better start asking questions rather than letting blondie lead you around by the nose. She’s using you, Mickey. She’s using your obvious attraction for her to avoid answering the hard questions.”

“You’re the one lusting after her. Don’t think I didn’t see how you looked at her.”

John shook his head and leaned back against the counter. “Mickey, Mickey. It’s Jessica all over again.”

“Don’t say her name!”

“Hell if I’m going to let you make the same mistake twice! You almost got yourself killed because she lied to you. Well, Rowan Smith’s closed mouth is the same damn thing as lying, and my gut tells me she knows something about this killer.” John tried to pass his brother, not wanting to fight with him, but Michael grabbed his arm and spun him around.

“Let go,” John said.

Michael squeezed tighter before dropping his arm. “Don’t push her. She’s been through hell.”

You don’t know the half of it, Mickey
, John thought. John suspected Rowan Smith had been to hell and back many times. He saw it in her eyes, the eyes she shielded whenever possible because they exposed her to the world. But whereas Michael sought to protect her from reliving hell, John knew the only way to conquer evil was to face it head on.

To do that, Rowan was going to have to spill the beans. The only way she would, John suspected, was if he discovered the truth first.

“Stay out of this,” Michael warned.

“Too late.” They stared each other down. If the situation wasn’t so damn serious, John would have laughed.

The phone rang, but neither man moved to answer it. When it rang a third time, Michael grabbed the wall receiver. “Smith residence,” he said, gruff. “Who’s this?” He paused, then glanced at his watch. “She’s in the shower. We’ll be there in an hour.” He hung up.

John looked at him, eyebrow raised, but didn’t ask who was on the phone.

“That was Agent Peterson,” Michael said. “They’re ready for Rowan to review the Franklin file.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” John said and turned toward the hall.

“What are you going to do?”

John glanced over his shoulder. “I have some calls to make. I’ll watch the house for you.”

“You don’t have to stay here.”

John raised an eyebrow. What Michael was really saying was,
I don’t want you here
.

“I know,” John said, “but I want to.” He started down the hall to find a bathroom to shower in, then stopped and turned back to his brother.

“Mickey,” he said, “I’m sorry about the Jessica comment. That was a low blow.”

“It’s forgotten.”

John hoped his brother meant that. Their argument was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, and it bugged him. They often argued, but always came away friends. “Be careful, okay?”

“I will.” Michael grinned. “And when all this shit’s over, we can battle for Rowan Smith fair and square.”

“There’s nothing to battle.” But as John said it, he realized he had some feelings for the pretty blonde that he couldn’t reconcile with his desire to get her to talk. Where Michael often let his emotions cloud his professional judgment, John vowed not to let that happen with him.

He found the shower at the end of the hall, stripped, and stood beneath the hot, stinging spray. He couldn’t get Rowan Smith out of his mind. Her hard profile and soft eyes. The way she watched everything that went on around her without moving her head. She absorbed her surroundings, taking pains to blend in, but John always knew when she was in the room, even if he couldn’t see her.

Yeah, he had a thing for her. But unlike Michael, he knew the difference between lust and love. He didn’t believe in love at first sight or fate or any of that nonsense. He was practical, and could separate business and pleasure.

The job came first.

As he rinsed the beach run from his body, he planned exactly how he was going to get Rowan to open up. He had a feeling once she started talking, she’d have a lot to say.

The black-and-white crime scene photos were no less graphic for their lack of color.

She stared at the picture of Karl Franklin, gun near his hand, the dark stain spread on the light carpet under his head. Half a head. The other half had been blown onto the wall when he’d shot himself.

She’d read the reports from the Franklin murders and had been surprised to learn the case wasn’t closed. There wasn’t enough substantial evidence that Karl Franklin indeed killed his family, then shot himself. While it was clear that Franklin committed suicide, there were some discrepancies in the physical evidence that showed he might have died
before
the other victims—and that their deaths had all been quick.

She hadn’t known. She hadn’t cared enough to even check.

No, that wasn’t true. She cared too much. That’s why she’d almost had a breakdown and ran away. She’d been too weak.

Technically, the case was ruled a probable murder-suicide but wasn’t closed. After four years, it was cold. Very cold.

Unless Karl Franklin hadn’t killed his family. If someone had gotten away with murder. The file was surprisingly light. No known suspects other than Franklin. They’d interviewed neighbors and relatives and the only surviving immediate family member; Karl’s son from a previous marriage was in college and had a solid alibi.

Because the timeline was so close, and establishing exact time of death difficult under the best of circumstances, the probable murder-suicide had put the case on the back burner.

Rowan slapped the file down on the conference table and the contents skidded across the smooth surface. Quinn stared at her, shaking his head as he straightened the stack. Tess frowned from her spot in the corner at her laptop, and Michael—ever diligent—stood at the door, arms crossed, watching her.

She didn’t care. They didn’t understand. Had her running away caused a murderer to go free? Was Karl Franklin innocent of the crime everyone thought him guilty of?

And if he was innocent, was the guilty party after her for some unknown reason?

“I was so positive something was here,” she said, her voice cracking. She glanced down at the file Quinn was putting back together and saw another photo. One she had avoided. As if penance for her weakness, the picture rested on top of the stack.

“Stop.” She grabbed Quinn’s wrist until he pulled back.

“What?” he asked. She ignored him. Hands shaking, she reached for the image that had haunted her for four years.

And longer.

Rebecca Sue Franklin. She should have been asleep, dreaming of the tea party she’d had with her stuffed animals and dolls earlier that day. Instead, she lay under her white comforter, the dark stain a stark reminder that she was dead. Shot in her sleep. A trail of dark blood streamed from her open mouth, frozen in time.

Her dark pigtails, disheveled from sleep, contrasted with the starched white pillowcase. The dozens of stuffed animals and dolls and toys that stood sentry around her stared with blank, black eyes. Voiceless witnesses.

Rowan didn’t notice the tears running down her face until one hit the photograph. It startled her, forcing her back to the present.

“Nothing. Nothing conclusive,” she said, stuffing Rebecca Sue Franklin back into the folder and closing her eyes. “I think Roger should give priority to reviewing this case. I don’t know why, but there’s something familiar here. How else could the killer know about the pigtails? Why send them to me? I never wrote that.”

“Coincidence,” Quinn said as he picked up the file.

“Bullshit, and you know it. There are no coincidences.”

“We could be chasing our tails, Rowan! Running after a cold case on a hunch—it’s a waste of resources.”

“Do you have anything better?” She was shouting, but didn’t care. “Anything at all? Because none of my other cases gave us even a thread—this is the only anomaly.”

“We’re still running through your other cases, testimonies, everything. It takes time.”

“I know it does, but this case is different. It was my last. Dani—” she caught herself. “Rebecca Sue and her pigtails. What was sent to me. There has to be a connection.”

“Danny?” Quinn asked, a quizzical look on his face.

Rowan waved it away as a slip of the tongue, but didn’t miss Michael’s eyebrow arch up. She’d almost forgotten he was in the room.

“Don’t you see?” she continued. “There’s something here. I want a copy of this file. I want to read it again.”

“I can’t—” Quinn said, then stopped and rubbed his hands over his face. “All right. Take it.”

“Thank you.”

Quinn sighed. “We need to talk about protective custody.”

She shook her head before he’d even completed his sentence. “I’m in this for the long haul.”

“You’re no longer an agent. Don’t play the tough-cop routine with me. I can take you into protective custody like this—” he snapped his fingers “—if you so much as look at me wrong. And don’t think I won’t. Roger has given me the authority.”

The audacity of him! She felt her temper reach the boiling point. “Never.”

“It’s for your own safety, Rowan.”

“I’m not hiding. I’m not running.” Not again.

Michael intervened and stepped forward, putting a hand on her shoulder and giving her a slight squeeze. “We’ve all been under stress this morning. It’s already after noon. Why don’t I take Rowan out for a bite to eat? We’re done here, anyway.”

“Can I stay?” Tess sat at a desk in the corner of the FBI field office conference room that had been converted into a headquarters for information about the Copycat Killer. She was typing away at the computer—doing what, Rowan had no idea. Michael had mentioned earlier that she’d been tagged as a civilian consultant by the FBI because of her computer expertise, after passing a security check. It wasn’t uncommon.

“Sure,” Quinn told Tess. “I have some work to do. I’ll call in some sandwiches.”

“I need to get out of here.” Rowan pushed back her chair and stood. She picked up the file and hugged it to her chest. Tonight. Tonight she’d look at it again and talk to Roger.

She shot a glance at Quinn and walked out. She’d had enough of him today. He just didn’t get it. Just like he never understood how he had betrayed Miranda. For all his brains and all his good looks, Quinn Peterson could be clueless at times.

Protective custody? Never.

Michael followed. She’d expected nothing less. Damn, but she wanted privacy. The ten minutes she’d had alone in the shower this morning was simply not enough time to think. And now with the picture of Rebecca Sue Franklin etched in her brain, she didn’t want to eat, let alone have a conversation.

She pulled a Motrin out of the pocket of her jeans and dry-swallowed it.

Michael grabbed her wrist. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” She jerked her arm away from him.

“That pill. It’s the third time this morning that you’ve taken one. What are you doing?” He put both hands on her shoulders, his lips a tight line.

Rowan glanced around the office to see if anyone had heard Michael’s accusation. If they had, they were wise enough to ignore the scene.

“Let go of me,” she said through clenched teeth.

Michael dropped his arms and ran a hand through his hair. “What are you doing to yourself?”

She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out three more Motrin. “Satisfied?”

He had the sense to look sheepish, but she was still pissed off. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Forget it.” She walked through the office and opened the main door. Michael slammed it closed.