“You have four published books?” Jackson asked.
She nodded. “My fifth will be released in a few weeks.”
“And this is your second film?”
“Third. The second is being released in two weeks. This one won’t be out until the end of next year.”
“You’ve done pretty well since leaving the Bureau.”
“Your point?” Rowan asked, irritated. She wanted to help, but these questions were irrelevant. She wanted to take her morning run, then a hot shower. Most of all, she needed time alone to think.
“We’re trying to fit together all the details.” But the detectives exchanged a look that meant they were through. Rowan’s sigh of relief was almost audible.
She walked them to the door. Detective Jackson turned to her. “You should consider taking extra security measures. Do you have an alarm system?”
“Yes, detective, and I use it.”
He nodded approval and extended his hand. Rowan shook it, feeling warmth and strength. “Call me Ben. We’re on the same team here. Either Jim or I will call you later and fill you in. I’m heading back to Denver this afternoon. In the meantime, be careful.”
“Thanks, I will.” She closed the door behind them, turned around, and leaned against the solid oak surface. Slowly, she sank once again to the cold tile floor, her head in her hands.
One brutal murder a thousand miles away had destroyed in minutes the years of relative peace she’d painstakingly built. The realization of her complicity in the crime grew within her. She clenched her uneasy stomach. How could she live with herself if her imagination had manifested itself into evil? While someone else had stolen a life, the manner of evil was her idea, her conception. Her casual decision to name the first victim in
Rowan had learned again and again that death was inequitable and brutal. It cut a path of misery in the hearts of everyone it touched. And death wasn’t blind. It saw the pain, the heartache, and grew stronger.
It had started when she was ten, and it seemed it would never end.
CHAPTER 2
Michael Flynn followed the directions Annette O’Dell had given him to Rowan Smith’s house, but he didn’t need the house number to figure out which of the large beachfront homes was hers. Even now, a day after the story broke, a dozen cars, vans, and a single motorcycle-all sporting press credentials-lined the highway in front of number 25450.
He turned his black SUV down the steep driveway. The house looked deceptively small and nondescript from the front, but Malibu homes in this neighborhood were spacious inside and maximized their ocean view. Smith’s place was at the end of a secluded row of such homes that shared a rare private beach. If he wasn’t mistaken, several of these homes had been destroyed a few years back in a terrible storm. As evidence of the destruction, he noted that cement reinforcements lined the cliffs around the home to prevent the mudslides that were the primary culprit of coastal property damage.
He locked his vehicle on the chance a member of the predatory press was interested in his identity. They must have been warned about trespassing. Though they noticed him, they stayed on the street-and off Smith’s property.
He breathed deeply, relishing the sharp bite of the salt air. He could get used to a place like this.
Glancing around the outside of the house, he frowned. Beachfront property was hard to protect. There were no gates or fences between houses, making the dwelling accessible on all four sides. However, the far side of the Smith residence butted up against a steep cliff. It would be virtually impossible for anyone to access the house from that direction.
That left three sides unprotected.
A bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle practically flew into the driveway, screeching to a halt behind his truck. Michael winced at Tess’s erratic driving. He had been shocked when she’d passed her driver’s test on the first try. She jumped out of the car, laptop computer in hand, and ran to his side, her dark curly hair bouncing. He shook his head. His sister always seemed to have energy to spare.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, her wide grin revealing two dimples.
“You’re not late. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“What do you mean? I’m your
“I meet clients. You run the office.” The little he knew about this case troubled him. He would not endanger his sister’s life. She was a computer expert, after all, not a bodyguard.
She sighed melodramatically. “Not anymore, Mickey. John’s out of town, so you’re stuck with me.” She grinned and winked.
Michael couldn’t help but smile. Tess had done everything he and John commanded for the last two years, willing to take self-defense and gun-training classes, read every book they tossed her way, and put up with the spontaneous drills they created to help prepare her for fieldwork. But neither he nor John intended to allow their baby sister to work in the field, even as she’d become increasingly valuable to their team. In the office, that is.
“This time,” he said, a note of warning in his voice. “From what Annette said, I think we’ll need your computer wizardry.”
Tess patted her laptop and smiled brightly. “Let’s go.”
“Just remember who’s boss.”
“John is, but he’s in South America.”
“Tess,” Michael warned, eyes narrowed.
She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I won’t forget, boss.”
Rowan dropped the blinds in her den, cutting off the view of the two people talking on her driveway. This must be the security team Annette wanted to hire. Great. Her producer, now lurking somewhere outside Rowan’s den door, expected her to consent to protection from a guy who hadn’t seen a barber in months and his teenybopper wife or girlfriend or whoever, who drove a screaming yellow Bug, the model of discretion.
Rowan had locked herself in the den thirty minutes before because she’d finally had enough of listening to Annette treat her like a child. She looked down at the Glock now gripped with both hands.
Sometimes she wished she had died in the line of duty, because taking her life was not an option.
She’d gone round and round with her producer. Annette meant well but was so out of her element here, planting herself in the house yesterday and refusing to leave. She seemed almost excited by the whole thing, which turned Rowan completely off even though she knew it was simply Annette’s way. She’d even insisted on staying in the guest room, though the petite producer was woefully ill-prepared to defend anyone. Not that Rowan thought for a minute she needed defending.
Rowan didn’t know what she’d done to earn such a good friend, and she appreciated the sentiment. But Annette was driving her crazy.
Ultimately, the phone call the previous night from her ex-boss had resigned her to the fact that if she didn’t accept the security offered by the studio, the FBI would assign a team to her.
“Are you okay?” Roger had asked when she picked up the extension in her den.
She heard the fear in his voice, and her heart skipped a beat. She didn’t want to worry him. He’d been more than just a boss. He’d saved her life. “I’m fine, Roger.”
“You’re lying. How can you be fine?”
“You know the details?”
“Every last one. Had the Denver Police fax over a copy of the report. Four agents are assigned to review your old cases looking for anyone who might be capable of this, particularly male friends and relatives.”
“Good. I want a copy of all my files. Maybe something will jump out at me, something I missed, an interview, a relative-hell, I don’t know.” She took a deep breath, then slowly blew it out. “I can’t just sit around and do
