no in-between for him. Twenty-four seven. It drove her crazy when they were together on assignments. He said he needed white noise to soothe his wounded soul. She could relate to the wounded soul part, but she took a more proactive method of helping her wounded soul.
Her breath hitched as she yanked the gun from her backpack.
Knock. Knock. Knock .
Nothing.
She drew in a breath, covered the doorknob with her shirt, and twisted. Somehow she wasn't surprised when the door sprang free.
She drew her gun even as the all-too-familiar smell of blood lingered in the air. Tears sprang to her eyes as she sensed what she'd find. Through concerted effort she forced herself to detach and focus.
On the table in the living room, Chinese takeout, complete with chopsticks in the cardboard containers, lay half eaten. An empty bottle of wine without so much as a glass in sight. Straight from the bottle. That was so Nick. She even managed a half-smile at the memory of him downing a bottle in record time on numerous occasions.
She checked the kitchen next, but it was small and spotless. Nothing marred the counter or floor. She peeked out the window leading to the fire escape, hoping maybe he was sitting outside despite the frigid temperatures. But of course he wasn't.
The bathroom was vacant, free from any sign of disturbance. Maybe she was wrong about the sensation in her chest—the memories swirling about her mind evoked images too horrific to contemplate right now.
Except for the closed door at the end of the hall.
One room left to check. Despite her extensive training and everything she'd witnessed in her career, her heart rat-ta-tat-tatted inside her chest as she covered the knob with her shirt and turned.
The room was dark except for the lights flickering from the sign on the café across the street, producing throbbing graphics along the walls and ceiling. She kept her gaze focused toward the upper part of the ceiling, waiting until she was ready. Finally, she shifted her scrutiny to the bed.
Blood.
Lots of it.
Oh my God.
Nick lay on the bed, blood leaking from his body and seeping into the sheet and spreading to the mattress beneath. The bright red color suggested it had been recent. Maybe less than an hour. She bit back the wail desperate to escape her lips.
Had her phone conversation to him triggered this whole problem? It couldn't be a coincidence that he'd been killed even while somebody tried to kill her. Paranoia wasn't paranoia if it was grounded in reality.
He'd been with her that day in Afghanistan. She'd shared with him her discovery. Now he was dead. Just like Alex. Everything inside her knew she was next.
Even though the urge to run skittered down her backbone, she fought it back. This was not a time to wuss out. She needed answers, and maybe there'd be some clues as to what happened. Wasting the opportunity would be silly. She could fall apart later.
Detach .
Like the flipping of a deadbolt, she disengaged her brain from the roiling emotions as she morphed into professional mode.
They'd staged it to appear as a suicide, with a pill bottle propped on the nightstand and bloody wrists. But it was a surface job, either because of expediency or design. A halfway decent detective would read this as a murder scene within the first few minutes.
Had she just walked into a trap? The idea settled inside and it felt right, even though it made her queasy. Coming here had played right into their hands—not that she would have changed her behavior, but still the thought rankled her.
They'd set her up. Being a fugitive of a murder charge would give whoever they were carte blanche to kill her. No doubt that had been their objective all along.
Finding the remnants of that note she'd pieced together had been a lark. But that didn't change the outcome. She had to believe either Alex was alive or somebody wanted people to believe he was still kicking around, waiting to pounce on the bad guys. Was it some sort of
Her breath hitched as she yanked the gun from her backpack.
Knock. Knock. Knock .
Nothing.
She drew in a breath, covered the doorknob with her shirt, and twisted. Somehow she wasn't surprised when the door sprang free.
She drew her gun even as the all-too-familiar smell of blood lingered in the air. Tears sprang to her eyes as she sensed what she'd find. Through concerted effort she forced herself to detach and focus.
On the table in the living room, Chinese takeout, complete with chopsticks in the cardboard containers, lay half eaten. An empty bottle of wine without so much as a glass in sight. Straight from the bottle. That was so Nick. She even managed a half-smile at the memory of him downing a bottle in record time on numerous occasions.
She checked the kitchen next, but it was small and spotless. Nothing marred the counter or floor. She peeked out the window leading to the fire escape, hoping maybe he was sitting outside despite the frigid temperatures. But of course he wasn't.
The bathroom was vacant, free from any sign of disturbance. Maybe she was wrong about the sensation in her chest—the memories swirling about her mind evoked images too horrific to contemplate right now.
Except for the closed door at the end of the hall.
One room left to check. Despite her extensive training and everything she'd witnessed in her career, her heart rat-ta-tat-tatted inside her chest as she covered the knob with her shirt and turned.
The room was dark except for the lights flickering from the sign on the café across the street, producing throbbing graphics along the walls and ceiling. She kept her gaze focused toward the upper part of the ceiling, waiting until she was ready. Finally, she shifted her scrutiny to the bed.
Blood.
Lots of it.
Oh my God.
Nick lay on the bed, blood leaking from his body and seeping into the sheet and spreading to the mattress beneath. The bright red color suggested it had been recent. Maybe less than an hour. She bit back the wail desperate to escape her lips.
Had her phone conversation to him triggered this whole problem? It couldn't be a coincidence that he'd been killed even while somebody tried to kill her. Paranoia wasn't paranoia if it was grounded in reality.
He'd been with her that day in Afghanistan. She'd shared with him her discovery. Now he was dead. Just like Alex. Everything inside her knew she was next.
Even though the urge to run skittered down her backbone, she fought it back. This was not a time to wuss out. She needed answers, and maybe there'd be some clues as to what happened. Wasting the opportunity would be silly. She could fall apart later.
Detach .
Like the flipping of a deadbolt, she disengaged her brain from the roiling emotions as she morphed into professional mode.
They'd staged it to appear as a suicide, with a pill bottle propped on the nightstand and bloody wrists. But it was a surface job, either because of expediency or design. A halfway decent detective would read this as a murder scene within the first few minutes.
Had she just walked into a trap? The idea settled inside and it felt right, even though it made her queasy. Coming here had played right into their hands—not that she would have changed her behavior, but still the thought rankled her.
They'd set her up. Being a fugitive of a murder charge would give whoever they were carte blanche to kill her. No doubt that had been their objective all along.
Finding the remnants of that note she'd pieced together had been a lark. But that didn't change the outcome. She had to believe either Alex was alive or somebody wanted people to believe he was still kicking around, waiting to pounce on the bad guys. Was it some sort of
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