The Hunt

“Whatever it takes,” Miranda said, with little hope. Even Olivia, who loved her job and excelled at it, couldn’t find a clue where none existed. The climate and conditions destroyed any usable evidence.

“He’ll make a mistake,” Quinn said with confidence.

“Right.” She didn’t believe it.

“He might have already.”

Her heart beat faster. “Why do you think that?”

“Penny Thompson.”

“Why bring her up? Her murder was three years old when we found her body.” What remained of it.

“I’m pulling all the University files again. Remember Vigo, the FBI profiler? He insists the killer knew his first victim personally. We spent so much time twelve years ago investigating the associations of you and Sharon that by the time we learned Penny was the first victim, going back to her associations-then three years old-yielded us nothing. Her boyfriend, the guy the sheriff thought responsible for Penny’s disappearance, had an airtight alibi during Sharon’s murder.”

Quinn added, “We’re going to focus on the parts of Vigo’s profile that would help narrow the list even more after so many years have passed-that the killer would remain single, would now be over thirty-five, that he has a flexible job, is physically fit, and has family in the area, or still lives here. It’s worth a shot.”

“It’s a long shot,” she said, she became a little excited. There would be hundreds of records to pore through and investigate, hundreds of men who on the surface fit the profile. But time would have weeded out many potential suspects, those who’d married, who’d moved out of the country, whose jobs were high-profile and inflexible. If they could narrow the list they would be able to dig deeper into those potential suspects and, with any luck, come up with a handful to interview. Maybe even get a warrant to search a car or house, especially if one of the suspects didn’t have an alibi for the time of Rebecca’s murder.

Maybe there was hope that justice would win. Just a little. But she would hold tight to it.

“Right now, it’s all we have.” Quinn paused, then said in a low voice, “Miranda?”

She looked into his eyes, eyes that could melt her or anger her, eyes that reflected love or frustration.

It had been so long, she no longer knew how to read Quinn. He had changed. So had she.

His eyes were warm. The lids lowered almost imperceptibly. His face softened and he leaned forward just an inch. “You’ve lost weight,” he said, his voice low.

“I know.” She simply didn’t think about eating when she was out on a search.

“You’re still beautiful.”

Her breath caught. Was that her heart fluttering? How could he still affect her so profoundly? After all these years, he remained part of her. An important part. He’d helped make her who she was today, both the good and the bad. Without him, she didn’t know if she’d have been able to survive the darkest days, weeks, months after the attack. He’d been her rock, her salvation. Steady and sure, she’d fallen in love with him as much as for who he was as for what he did for her.

That he had such little faith in her after knowing her so intimately tore her up inside.

As if he’d read her mind, he asked softly, “Why didn’t you come back to Quantico?”

What could she say to that? She didn’t completely understand it herself. Except that his lack of faith and trust in her hurt more than the psychology test that said she had a problem with obsession.

“If I’m obsessive, a year wouldn’t change it,” she finally said.

“A year can make all the difference in the world.”

“It had been two years, Quinn.” Two years since her life was irrevocably linked with a killer.

He nodded, leaned back in his chair and fiddled with his fork. “I know.”

They stared at each other. Quinn looked as lost and confused as she felt.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said suddenly.

She swallowed back tears. How could such a simple apology hit her so hard?

Because she knew it wasn’t just Quinn. She was obsessive. There was her intense focus on the search-she’d put everything in her life on hold while looking for Rebecca. Her friends and family took second place to her job, whether it was finding a missing woman abducted by the Butcher or a lost child who’d wandered away from his campground. Nothing mattered to her except the search.

She wanted to rescue someone. While she’d had success finding lost campers, any woman the Butcher got was as good as dead. She desperately longed for a happy ending, but everywhere she looked there was sorrow and pain. Maybe that was simply a reflection of her own guilt.

If her reaction at the cabin was any indication, she’d never fully recovered from the attack twelve years ago. She would always be claustrophobic in small rooms. Windowless rooms. That’s why she had skylights throughout her house and directly above her bed. She had to see the sky no matter which direction she looked.

But even the big sky couldn’t stop Sharon’s cries and the low, cruel monotone of the faceless killer every time Miranda closed her eyes.

“I should have returned to Quantico.” She had never said that out loud before. It surprised her. She licked her lips. “I was just so damn hu-” She was going to say hurt. No. She wasn’t ready to tell Quinn that. She couldn’t tell him. “Angry,” she corrected. “Blinded by anger, I suppose. And by the time the year was up, I was on Search and Rescue and I really liked it. I fit in. It’s-I suppose it’s what I’m cut out to do.”

“You would have made a damn good agent,” he said, his voice gravelly.

Her heart skipped a beat. She wondered what he would do if she kissed him.

The stray thought startled her and she leaned back, her hands clammy. A good agent? Yeah, she knew it. A damn good agent.

One year. A year! She’d waited more than two years after the Butcher killed Sharon, restless, taking extra classes, working at the Lodge, learning self-defense. Anything and everything so she’d never feel vulnerable again.

When she walked out of Quantico ten years ago, she’d never felt more lost. She knew then she would never go back.

“Thanks.” Her voice cracked. She wanted to yell at him, rage at the injustice of what he’d done-regardless of the reasons. Maybe there was a hint of truth in what he’d said, something she had done that indicated she might not be able to handle the job.

She focused on her pie and milk. Quinn did the same. The silence was both comfortable and awkward-she wanted to know what he was really thinking, but didn’t have the guts to ask. She wanted to tell him she’d never forgive him, yet she wanted to extend an olive branch at the same time. The conflicting emotions weighed heavily on her heart and mind.

She and Quinn rose from the table at the same time and brought their plates to the sink. She ran water over them, waiting for it to get hot. He stood behind her, so close his warm, pecan-scented breath caressed her neck. She swallowed, not trusting herself to turn around. Not trusting herself not to touch him, kiss him, ask him to share her bed.

She wanted him to hold her so she could sleep. To love him so she could remember what had been the most wonderful time of her life.

His hands rested on her shoulders, so lightly she didn’t flinch. She closed her eyes. He brushed her hair away from her neck, his long finger drawing a sizzling path from her ear to her throat. With his other hand, he turned her to face him.

When she opened her eyes, her mouth parted. He was so close, his naked chest inches from her. She felt the heat between them, as if he had his own thermostat. She swallowed, wanted to tell him to step back, but couldn’t find her voice.

She was glad she didn’t.

His lips touched hers so tenderly, if she hadn’t felt the jolt of desire flood her body, she’d have doubted he’d kissed her at all.

Then he kissed her again, more firmly, his hand moving from her shoulder to the back of her neck, kneading her muscles, holding her head to him. Deeper, his tongue gently parted her lips until their tongues lightly dueled, back and forth. She leaned into him, tentative at first, then found her arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close.

His kisses moved from her lips, down her jaw, to her neck. She shivered from the heat, from wanting him. A deep yearning that bespoke ten years without him. Without the man who knew exactly where to kiss, where to