He turned off the ignition and got out of the truck. He shivered and zipped up his jacket. Now that the sun had disappeared, it was hovering around fifty degrees. The weather predicted a low of forty-two. He cringed thinking about Ashley van Auden.
When he’d dated Miranda, he noticed she had a thing for heat. Her showers were scalding. She bundled up in temperate weather. She had blankets and hot coffee in her car at all times. He’d thought it peculiar for the longest time. He never connected it to the Butcher’s attack until one night, shortly before they broke up.
“Hey, Randy, let’s head out to Meyer’s Lake.”
It was summer and still eighty degrees even though the sun was low. The night promised to be beautiful.
“I don’t feel like it.”
Nick frowned. He was used to Miranda’s mood swings, but she was usually spontaneous. She loved to ski, loved to river raft, was the only woman he knew who relished being in the outdoors. It was one of the reasons he’d fallen in love with her.
Meyer’s Lake was the place for couples to hang out and skinny dip.
Oh shit, he’d put his foot in it.
“I’m sorry. I should have thought-”
She cut him off. “I don’t care who sees my body, Nick.”
He frowned. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s going to be sixty degrees tonight.”
He didn’t get it. “I promise, we’ll come home before it gets that cold.”
She looked at him, disillusion in her eyes. “I’m not going swimming anywhere at night.”
They’d ended up staying at Nick’s place and watching a movie. Nick thought Miranda simply didn’t want her scarred body to be seen naked, and he felt bad for suggesting it.
Now, he knew. It wasn’t only being naked, it was being naked in cold water.
He found himself gripping the ten-millimeter police issue he carried. He almost reholstered it.
Instead, he decided caution was in order.
There were no lights on in the cabin. It appeared deserted. He marginally relaxed.
He circled the cabin. It was the standard A-frame-a large room or rooms on the main floor supported by pillars; a loft of sorts in the V of the roof.
He walked up the rickety staircase that led to the wraparound deck. It was obvious no one was here. Dark. No vehicle. Empty. Still, his entire body tensed, his instincts on alert.
He looked through a window, the half moon allowing him to make out shadows. Sparse furnishings-a couch, a chair, a table. No luggage. No food on the table. No gun or knife or woman strapped to the floor.
Yes, it had been a waste of time coming down here.
He holstered his gun, looked around the deck. Two lounge chairs were pushed flush with the house. He crossed the deck and stared at a lake a hundred yards away, the moonlight reflecting off the still surface.
What am I going to do now?
Well, no one knew he’d ventured out this way. Go home, sleep a couple of hours, tell Quinn he’d gone through the property records on a hunch that didn’t pan out. Brush it off and focus on Quinn’s fifty-some-odd men from the University.
It’s what he should have done today rather than pursuing a long shot.
Nick turned away from the railing and saw a pair of boots sitting outside the side door.
Odd.
He reached for his gun.
Before he could draw his weapon, he was unconscious.
Miranda glanced at her watch. It was already seven thirty in the morning; where was Quinn?
Because she’d left her truck at the University, she was dependent on Quinn for transportation back to town. Why had she agreed to ride with him last night?
You were exhausted. Yes, she had feared she would fall asleep at the wheel. Nearly two weeks of virtually sleepless nights had taken their toll.
She’d slept surprisingly well last night. No nightmares, no interruptions. But when she woke up in the morning, she remembered a conversation she’d had with Quinn a year before she was accepted into Quantico. Thinking about it now, she realized he had always had doubts, but not about her ability.
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” Quinn said as he tucked Miranda’s hair behind her ear.
“Tomorrow? I thought you had a week off.”
“I did, but something’s come up.”
His tone clued her to the truth. “A murder.”
“You don’t want to hear about it.”
“Yes I do.”
“Miranda, why do you do this to yourself?”
They were sitting on the front porch of the Lodge. It was late evening and most of the guests had retired, or were having a final drink before the bar closed at eleven.
“I’m going to be an FBI agent, Quinn. I can handle the details.” She’d signed up for psychology and criminology courses; she’d already received her bachelor’s degree by doubling up on her studies last year. She would have entered Quantico this year, except she wouldn’t be twenty-three for ten more months.
“You keep talking about it.”
“I told you my plans.”
“You did. I just thought you’d change your mind.”
“Why?” Had she given him the impression she was flaky? She hoped not.
He looked at her, his dark eyes holding so much emotion she felt wonderfully, completely drowned in him. “I’ve been amazed by you for a year, Miranda. You’ve inspired me when I was becoming jaded with the job. Not catching the bastard who hurt you-” He swallowed and glanced away, but not before she caught a glimmer of moisture in his eyes.
“That’s not your fault. He will be stopped. Someday we will find him.”
Quinn slowly turned back to her, holding her hands tight. She leaned into him, content and confident in herself and her own sexuality for the first time since last spring. “You’re so close to this. I-I think you’re smart enough and driven enough to make a damn good FBI agent. But I think the Butcher investigation is driving you more than wanting to be an agent.” He sighed and stroked her hair. “I don’t know if I’m making any sense.”
“I’ll prove to you I’m capable.” Did she sound panicked? No, just emphatic. “You said you’d give me a letter of recommendation. But if you don’t want to, I can get others.”
“I promised you a letter, and you’ll get it.”
“Besides, I won’t be entering the Academy for nearly a year.” She paused. “You didn’t tell me about your case.”
He held her close to his side and they watched the shadows. She’d bundled in four layers of clothing and had a blanket around her legs. Here, with Quinn at her side, she felt secure.
“The victim is a child,” he said softly. “They’re the worst cases.”
“Miranda?”
She jumped, startled. Quinn stood at the base of the stairs looking at her quizzically.
“Ready?” he asked.
