Perfection

her head. She paused and waited until her vision cleared, then persuaded her legs and arms to crawl forward. Plagued with vertigo, she swayed unsteadily on all fours as she inched toward the rushing stream.

The distance seemed to increase before Ellyssa. Must be the fever. She wanted to give up and lie down. Weakness is unacceptable. Ellyssa picked up her hand, and the ground lurched toward her, smacking into her chest, stealing her breath away.

Coughing weakly, trying to reclaim the air she’d lost, Ellyssa lowered her head and was surprised when her forehead dipped into the cool water. Using her toes, she pushed herself the last few centimeters then lapped like a dog, greedily swallowing the cool liquid until the blaze in her throat extinguished.

When nausea threatened to expel all she’d taken in, Ellyssa stopped. She moved away from the stream and rolled over onto her back to give her stomach time to settle. The sun beat down, shining on Ellyssa’s face, but the warmth still stayed at bay. She shivered.

Time to move.

Ellyssa slowly lifted to her feet, pausing for a moment until the swimming in her head stopped and the waves of nausea settled to a gentle roll. She went back to the patch of grass and slipped on her dry socks and shoes. After doctoring her wound again, she returned to the stream, filled the bottle with the iffy water, and placed it inside her bag.

Thinking about nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other, Ellyssa stepped into the cold water that flooded her shoes and pricked her skin like thousands of ice picks. A feeling of misery engulfed her and, for the first time ever, she actually felt like crying.

Unacceptable.

Ellyssa straightened her shoulders and pulled her lips tight; then, as if she had pressed a delete button, all emotion fell away. She’d be damned if the first time she cried would be over feeling sorry for herself.

8

The first purples and dark blues streaked across the sky when Angela finally rolled up the map and sank into the chair. She was tired and irritated, her backside hurt, and her eyes were dry and itchy. The detective rubbed them with the palms of her hands.

Angela had spent half the day researching the ghost towns. A lot of the old towns had been born from mining operations, which meant abandoned mines would need to be added to the search. Complication after complication.

She glanced at Captain Jones. Dyllon sat facing away from her, purposefully turned toward the trees, waiting for the last search team to report. Ever since she’d snapped at him, he’d kept his distance, only talking when circumstances demanded it. For efficacy reasons, she’d have to fix the problem. She depended on the additional man-hours, unable to do the initial tracking all by herself. The world outside of The Center required her to show a certain level of civility.

Angela gathered up the items and stowed them away in her car. Maybe after dinner and a shower, she’d take another look at the map to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Then again, maybe she’d just go to bed and give her eyes a break.

“Captain Jones,” she called, while returning to the camp.

At the mention of his name, Dyllon leaned back in the chair. His head turned in her general direction with robotic rigidity. He raised his eyes, but instead of meeting her gaze, she was fairly certain he was staring over her head. “Yes, Detective,” he replied coolly.

“You and your unit have proven to be very useful. The Center… appreciates your help.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as his brow arched. “And what about you?”

Angela sighed. “I appreciate the help too, Captain.”

A grin twitched Dyllon’s cheeks. “We are a little less formal in my district. But, as I am sure you know, our track record is infallible. We are efficient.”

Angela thought less formal was an understatement; the lax attitude was unnerving. Their record was impressive, though; they’d delivered many members of the resistance to the camps. “I give credit where credit is due, Captain Jones,” she agreed.

Dyllon’s lips pulled into a smile that spread across his face. “You can call me Dyllon.”

First name? The thought made her uncomfortable. But, if such informality was the way they did things here, she’d play along… somewhat. “Dyllon,” she acknowledged, “you may call me Detective Petersen.”

At first, Dyllon’s smile faltered, but then he started laughing. “Fair enough,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Detective Petersen.”

The captain held out his hand in greeting, and Angela accepted. His palm was a little rough, and warm in a pleasant way. She shook once and let go.

Standing there, feeling awkward, Angela stumbled around in her head trying to find the instructions she had for the team for tomorrow.

“Follow me, Cap—I mean Dyllon,” she said, walking to her car. “I want everyone back here at five in the morning. We will pick up where we left off.”

“Five o’clock, it is,” he replied, still smiling.

She held his gaze for a moment before sliding into the car and slamming the door. As she turned the key in the ignition, the engine hummed to life. She turned to wave goodbye, but he was no longer paying attention to her, his body angled toward the tree line. The radio was in his hand, his thumb holding the side button as he spoke into the transmitter.

The detective frowned. She hadn’t heard anything—not the crack of static or the squeal of feedback. Looking down, her hand fell to her waist where the radio sat in its holder. She turned the knob just in time to hear Dyllon say something about securing a perimeter.

Had they found her?

Excitement curling in the pit of her stomach, and the taste of revenge on her tongue, Angela turned with her hand on the door handle and silenced a scream before it erupted. Dyllon was peering at her through her window. His face twisted in amusement. While her heart found the beat it’d missed, she opened the door, pushing him back.

“What the hell?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the captain said but, judging by the slight lopsided grin he held, Angela doubted he meant it. “The search team found her scent. I told them to secure the area and issued instructions for two of the men to stay put. Their partners are on the way back with the dogs to retrieve sleeping bags. I hope that will suffice for the evening.”

The detective’s heart accelerated. “I should go there.”

“Don’t be silly,” Dyllon said. “There isn’t anything you can do tonight. It’s not like in the city. We’re deep in the woods. By the time we set up the necessary equipment and the spotlights, it’ll be morning, anyway.”

Angela hesitated for a moment, one foot planted outside the car.

“I’ll make the appropriate arrangements. Don’t worry about anything.” Dyllon flashed his stunning smile.

Angela’s gaze slid between the wooded area and the car, the prospect of a good night’s sleep tempting her. “Fine,” she said, her mind made up. “First thing in the morning.”

“First thing,” Dyllon promised.

9

As soon as Angela ducked under the yellow caution tape, Dyllon waved her over, a smile lighting his face. He stood next to a patch of grass where the rocky shore ended.

“Look,” he said, pointing toward an area where a darkened, misshapen figure-eight stained the green.