The Prey

Because he could.

“Rowan.” Quinn walked to her side, crunching glass into the carpet. He frowned at the mess, but said nothing. “We need to put you into a safe house.”

“No.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. Her headache that had disappeared sometime last night was now back with a vengeance.

“Be reasonable! Roger would not allow you to-”

“Just, no. The killer will come for me. I’ll kill him.”

“He’s elusive. Smart. I can’t let you put yourself in danger.” He put a hand on her shoulder; she shrugged it off.

“It’s not your choice. I’m not going to run so he can kill more people. If he can kill Michael”-her voice hitched and she swallowed back a sob-“he can get to anyone. You. Tess. Roger. But it’s me he wants. He’s deviating to show me he’s smarter. Stronger.”

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “He doesn’t know who the hell he’s up against.”

Rowan sat on hold for a good five minutes. Finally, Roger came on the line.

Without preamble, she asked, “What have you found out?”

“Rowan, I spent all night going over your files. I have a team tracking down every cop who was assigned to the investigation. And-well, the thought came to me last night. What about the families of the two guards Bobby killed? I can’t see how or why they would go after you, but it was the only thing that came to mind.”

Her heart beat faster. Revenge. They were tormenting her because her brother had brutally killed their father, their brother, their son. It was plausible, especially since Bobby was dead and in hell and they couldn’t go after him. But why now? Why like this?

There had been many, many nights over the years when Rowan had woken in the dead of night, wishing Bobby were alive so she could kill him herself. He’d stolen everything from her, everything but her life, and her very existence felt hollow since Bobby had killed her sisters.

If it connected to Bobby somehow-that would make more sense to her.

“You’re checking?” She was desperate. Desperate and grasping at straws. “But why wait twenty-some-odd years? Why wait at all?”

“I have Vigo working on a profile, but he hasn’t come up with anything useful yet.” Hans Vigo was the top profiler in the agency. But Rowan knew a profile was only as good as the information given to the profiler.

They were missing a lot of information. More than they should. For the first time in four years, she regretted quitting the Bureau.

“What about the Franklin murders? You said you were going to talk to Karl Franklin’s brother. Did-?”

Roger interrupted. “Nothing. I visited him, talked to him. The man is in a wheelchair. I went to his doctor and it’s legitimate. He can’t walk. He couldn’t be involved, even if he had the motive. Everything else in Nashville-a dead end.”

Dead end. And she’d been so sure this had something to do with the Franklin case. The pigtails.

Dani.

It was about Dani; it was about her family.

“It’s about the past. Roger, you have to find out what’s going on. And tell me right away. I’m serious, Roger, don’t try to protect me. I have to know the truth.”

Next she tried Peter at the rectory in Boston, but he was in church. She left a brief message, their personal code, then sank into the oversized chair in the den. Burying her face in her hands, she allowed herself a moment of self-pity, to mourn her life. Her dead family. And now, Michael.

And the loss of something she had almost had with John, a connection she felt with him that she’d felt with no other man. Something that for a short time she thought might become bigger, better than she deserved.

But it was gone. Like a life ended before its time, whatever fleeting connection that existed between her and John had been abruptly severed.

What did she expect? She didn’t deserve John. She’d often thought of herself as half a person, incomplete. Less than whole. What she missed she couldn’t lay a finger on, but she knew she lacked something. Why else could she not bond with others like a normal person? Why did she find it so hard to stay in contact with her few friends, like Olivia and Miranda? Why couldn’t she form relationships with men?

Already she had developed a stronger bond with John than any of her previous lovers, but look where they were now.

John wouldn’t forgive her. She couldn’t forgive herself.

The ringing phone startled her, but she grabbed the receiver on the second ring.

“Rowan, it’s Peter. What’s wrong?”

He knew she’d never leave a message unless it was an emergency.

“The bastard killed Michael. My bodyguard.”

“Dear Lord.” She could picture Peter making the sign of the cross. “Were you-hurt?”

“No. He was killed during his night off.” While I was making love to his brother. Her entire body shook with restrained guilt.

“I can be out there in a matter of hours-”

“No! Stay there. You’re safe.” She hadn’t meant to shout, but if anything happened to Peter-she couldn’t think about that. “Isn’t there some nice, safe monastery you can hang out in for a week or two?” She tried to make her voice light, but failed miserably.

“If he hasn’t come for me, he doesn’t know about me.”

“If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I would do.”

“I’ll be on alert. And there’s a couple of your FBI friends parked in a very obvious unmarked sedan across from the rectory. I’m sure I’m perfectly safe here.”

That’s what Michael had thought. She shuddered. “Peter-”

“I’m staying. Unless you need me there.”

“Stay far away from me.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“I can take care of myself.” She sounded like a petulant child. “I think this guy knows everything about what happened to Mama and the girls. Everything. For some reason, he’s after me. Can you think of anyone-no matter how far-fetched-who could be doing this? Do you remember anything from that night, that time, anything at all, to give to Roger for follow-up?”

“Roger already called me the other day.”

“The other day?” She frowned.

“Yeah, Wednesday I think.”

Wednesday? But that was before Rowan had talked to him about her new suspicions. Maybe he came up with them himself and hadn’t wanted to worry her. But he didn’t mention that when she’d talked to him earlier.

“What did he want?”

“Exactly what you asked. Memories. And I told him I didn’t have anything. Bobby’s dead, and he’s the only one who I can think of who could kill so mercilessly.”

Heart pounding, John paced Tess’s small apartment like an irate tiger trapped in a cage. His skin burned. Every breath shot hot, piercing pains into his gut.

Michael was dead.

When he told Tess, she became hysterical. Gut-wrenching sobs, agonizing cries. For an hour, she clung to John. She blamed Rowan.

“It’s my fault,” John told her. “I insisted he take time off.” So I could screw Rowan. Black guilt squeezed his heart.

“No, no, it’s her! Y-y-you s-said she was k-keeping secrets! She killed him. She killed my brother!”

It took John a long time to calm Tess enough to convince her to lie down. She quietly sobbed, and when she stopped John checked on her. Asleep, her splotchy face bore her grief.

His rage, his anger, and his guilt ate at his gut until all he saw was red, his fury consuming every pore. He