told her, arms crossed.
She glared at him, his dark, intense eyes trying to command her to do his bidding. She couldn’t help but remember the many times she’d appreciated his intensity, the way a mere gaze melted her like butter on a hot griddle.
She ignored him.
“C-1 through 10,” she repeated as she hoisted her backpack over her shoulders and cinched the belt around her waist. She adjusted her .45 in her waistband for comfort.
“You have a gun,” Quinn said through clenched teeth.
“So do you,” she snapped back, instantly regretting showing that he’d gotten to her. “Do you have a problem?” Damn, she was being sarcastic, a sure sign of insecurity.
She glanced around. The cops and volunteers had grown quiet, showing interest in the brewing argument. However, she certainly didn’t want to be the center of attention.
“Nick,” she said quietly.
“You’re with Peterson,” he said just as quietly, refusing to look at her.
“What?” she exclaimed, forgetting the audience.
“You’re with Peterson or you’re not going. You can have the ‘C’ grid.”
She got the area she wanted, just not the partner. She almost said she wasn’t going.
But that was exactly what Quinn Peterson wanted. “Fine,” she said through clenched teeth.
She turned on her boot heel and spotted him. Elijah Banks. Long dirty-blond hair tied in a leather band, wire-rim glasses, narrow face on a skinny frame. She’d never forget the so-called journalist who’d made her life a living hell after she thought she’d put hell behind her.
Jaw tight, she strode over to the edge of the clearing where Eli stood, camera around his neck, rapidly writing God-knew-what garbage on one of his ubiquitous notepads.
“Banks!” He looked up and grinned. Stopping right in front of him, her feet almost touching his, she grabbed the notepad from his hand. Without looking at what he’d written, she ripped the pages out and threw the pad on the muddy ground, then tore his notes into tiny pieces.
She saw red every time Banks crossed her mind. Every time she saw his pathetic name in the newspaper. Every time she remembered the secrets—her secrets—he’d written about for everyone to read and pity her.
Eli held his hands up and took a step back. “That’s my property you just destroyed.” The damn half-smirk never left his face.
“What fool let you into a secure crime scene?” She glanced around, hating the commotion she was making but unable to stop herself. “You just waltzed right in, didn’t you?”
Nick tapped her elbow and urged her to step back, standing between her and the reporter. “Eli,” he warned, “you need to leave.”
“Sheriff,” Eli said in that condescending mocking tone Miranda despised, “can you confirm that the body of Rebecca Douglas was found this morning by Judge Parker’s son?”
“You know I can’t confirm anything until the body has been identified.” Nick tensed at Miranda’s side. Damn, how did the press find out so quickly?
“So there was a body found?”
Miranda wanted to scream at Eli Banks, to tell him that Rebecca wasn’t a body but a person, but that’s what he wanted. A reaction. She swallowed her anger and spun around, walking right into Quinn. He put his hands on her elbows to steady her.
She glanced up at him, startled.
“He’s not worth it,” Quinn whispered.
She didn’t, couldn’t, say anything. Being this close to Quinn unnerved Miranda. When he looked at her, stared at her with the familiarity of a lover, she couldn’t help but remember she had loved him once, and he’d loved her.
At least, that’s what he’d told her.
“Let’s go,” she finally said, and stepped around him. She breathed easier.
Nick watched Miranda and Quinn leave, then turned back to Eli. “This is my investigation, Eli,” he said. “You’re trespassing on a crime scene. I’ll make a statement tonight.”
“Right. After the paper goes to bed. Good plan.” He pulled
She glared at him, his dark, intense eyes trying to command her to do his bidding. She couldn’t help but remember the many times she’d appreciated his intensity, the way a mere gaze melted her like butter on a hot griddle.
She ignored him.
“C-1 through 10,” she repeated as she hoisted her backpack over her shoulders and cinched the belt around her waist. She adjusted her .45 in her waistband for comfort.
“You have a gun,” Quinn said through clenched teeth.
“So do you,” she snapped back, instantly regretting showing that he’d gotten to her. “Do you have a problem?” Damn, she was being sarcastic, a sure sign of insecurity.
She glanced around. The cops and volunteers had grown quiet, showing interest in the brewing argument. However, she certainly didn’t want to be the center of attention.
“Nick,” she said quietly.
“You’re with Peterson,” he said just as quietly, refusing to look at her.
“What?” she exclaimed, forgetting the audience.
“You’re with Peterson or you’re not going. You can have the ‘C’ grid.”
She got the area she wanted, just not the partner. She almost said she wasn’t going.
But that was exactly what Quinn Peterson wanted. “Fine,” she said through clenched teeth.
She turned on her boot heel and spotted him. Elijah Banks. Long dirty-blond hair tied in a leather band, wire-rim glasses, narrow face on a skinny frame. She’d never forget the so-called journalist who’d made her life a living hell after she thought she’d put hell behind her.
Jaw tight, she strode over to the edge of the clearing where Eli stood, camera around his neck, rapidly writing God-knew-what garbage on one of his ubiquitous notepads.
“Banks!” He looked up and grinned. Stopping right in front of him, her feet almost touching his, she grabbed the notepad from his hand. Without looking at what he’d written, she ripped the pages out and threw the pad on the muddy ground, then tore his notes into tiny pieces.
She saw red every time Banks crossed her mind. Every time she saw his pathetic name in the newspaper. Every time she remembered the secrets—her secrets—he’d written about for everyone to read and pity her.
Eli held his hands up and took a step back. “That’s my property you just destroyed.” The damn half-smirk never left his face.
“What fool let you into a secure crime scene?” She glanced around, hating the commotion she was making but unable to stop herself. “You just waltzed right in, didn’t you?”
Nick tapped her elbow and urged her to step back, standing between her and the reporter. “Eli,” he warned, “you need to leave.”
“Sheriff,” Eli said in that condescending mocking tone Miranda despised, “can you confirm that the body of Rebecca Douglas was found this morning by Judge Parker’s son?”
“You know I can’t confirm anything until the body has been identified.” Nick tensed at Miranda’s side. Damn, how did the press find out so quickly?
“So there was a body found?”
Miranda wanted to scream at Eli Banks, to tell him that Rebecca wasn’t a body but a person, but that’s what he wanted. A reaction. She swallowed her anger and spun around, walking right into Quinn. He put his hands on her elbows to steady her.
She glanced up at him, startled.
“He’s not worth it,” Quinn whispered.
She didn’t, couldn’t, say anything. Being this close to Quinn unnerved Miranda. When he looked at her, stared at her with the familiarity of a lover, she couldn’t help but remember she had loved him once, and he’d loved her.
At least, that’s what he’d told her.
“Let’s go,” she finally said, and stepped around him. She breathed easier.
Nick watched Miranda and Quinn leave, then turned back to Eli. “This is my investigation, Eli,” he said. “You’re trespassing on a crime scene. I’ll make a statement tonight.”
“Right. After the paper goes to bed. Good plan.” He pulled
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