“What?” His body tensed, instantly on alert.
She finally glanced at him over her shoulder before turning to her bookshelf. In that moment, her face exposed all the tumultuous emotions she usually kept in check. “He took one of my books. I know it was him. I told Quinn; he had the house dusted, but so far, nothing.
“I don’t know if I can get through this, John.”
He strained to hear her. He put the sandwich and coffee on the desk and stood behind her.
“You will.” He shuddered at the thought that Michael’s killer had been in Rowan’s house. Had he broken in while she slept upstairs? When? How long had he been stalking her before devising this vicious, cruel way to torment her?
“I’m not as strong as you think. I quit the FBI because I was weak.”
“You quit because you had to take a break. Everyone needs a break, especially doing what we do. Surrounded by evil. Fighting evil and not always winning.”
She turned and looked at him, her eyes surprisingly blank. What was she really thinking? Had she given up?
“You never gave up,” she said. “You never gave up fighting for Denny.”
“That’s different.”
She nodded slowly. “Don Quixote and windmills. I’m another windmill, John. Go back to your sister. She needs you. The FBI isn’t going to leave me unprotected.”
She wanted him to leave? “No,” he said. “I’m here until the end.”
She stared at him, her face firm, a slight frown pulling down the corners of her lips. “I can’t live with another death on my conscience.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me.” He took her by the shoulders. He didn’t mean to shake her so hard, just give her a little jolt so she’d know he was serious. But her head jerked forward and he saw some of the fire back in her eyes.
Good. She needed to know he meant business.
“Rowan, I am here until the end. He killed my brother. He’s killed six other innocent people. He’s tormenting you. I will not rest until he’s dead.” He’d meant captured, but didn’t correct himself.
“Or you are,” she whispered as she pulled away from him. She paused by the desk where the sandwich and coffee sat. She looked at the food for a long time, but didn’t touch it. She crossed to the door. “I just talked to Roger. I asked him to send over all the files of my mother’s murder and Dani’s. He told me he’d already done it.” She looked at him, not accusing, but knowing. “When do we leave?”
He should have told her. “I was going to tell you.”
She nodded, didn’t say anything.
“Two hours. Peterson’s putting the files together as they get them from Washington.”
“I’ll be in my room.” She walked out.
Damn. What had just happened? What was she thinking? She had to know he would protect her to the end.
She dreamed.
Powerless to stop the dream, it played in her mind, almost soothing, a lullaby. She stood outside her Colorado cabin, the A-frame she considered home. Peace and joy. Home. Alone at last. Death and violence and blood a distant memory.
It was light when she stood outside the cabin, but when she finally went inside it was dark. None of the lights worked, but she heard someone upstairs. Downstairs. Intruders? Her heart pounded.
Michael? She said his name out loud.
He laughed and she couldn’t help but smile. Dead men didn’t laugh. They didn’t talk and make her feel like everything was going to be all right.
Thank God. Maybe Peter’s prayers worked, and the God she’d thought was cruel and vicious had a streak of kindness.
Dani ran up to her and entwined herself between her legs. She was three, her dark, curling pigtails bouncing up and down.
She playfully pulled on a pigtail like she used to, but it fell off in her hand. She stared at the hair she clutched, then dropped it as if it burned her skin. She looked at her sister, saw the dark stain on her blue jammies, the glassy gaze in her pretty eyes. Dani fell into her arms, her blood seeping through Rowan’s fingers, and she screamed.
Michael again. Michael was dead and he was talking to her.
It was Doreen Rodriguez from the couch. Or, rather, her head. The rest of her body was strewn across the room. A severed hand reached for Rowan and she ran to the other side of the room, Dani in her arms.
Mama was in the kitchen. She came out, covered in blood.
She pulled Dani close to her, but when she looked down again, it wasn’t Dani.
It was Tess.
Why, why, why? She squeezed her eyes shut.
She was falling and she opened her eyes. She was in her bed, her own bed in the cabin’s loft. She wasn’t alone. John lay next to her, touching her breast, her stomach. His hands were warm and she sighed, content. This was where she belonged. She snuggled up against him, feeling a peace and longing she’d never known, a deep desire to be close to someone.
John.
He made love to her. Slow, warm, affectionate. It was beautiful, like nothing she’d ever before experienced. He was a part of her. They were inseparable. They needed each other. She needed him. She needed him like she’d never needed anyone.
She rolled over to face him, her movements slow, awkward, like she was underwater, water as thick as blood.
She reached out to touch him. Her hand came back warm and sticky. Wet. She brought her fingers to her face. Blood. John’s blood.
She sat up and stared at her bed. John lay there, butchered. His head hung from his spine, an arm was missing, his torso a bloody mess of guts and muscle. He stared at her with dark, glassy green eyes, accusing her.
