Protective Duty. Jessica R. Patch
and he grabbed her upper arm to help balance her, the nearness overwhelming him. The scent of oranges was dizzying in an oh-so-good way.
“So you think it was the killer? Out here watching?”
“Who else would it be?”
Now that Eric wasn’t scared out of his mind, that was a good question. The fact Bryn was back in Memphis where so many tragic things had transpired might mean she was running from something—or someone—in Ohio. “You tell me.”
She paused again and peered up at him. Confusion clouded her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” He swallowed. “Why are you back? Why here of all places?”
Squinting, she studied him until he wanted to shift his feet. “I know I’m the last person you want to see—”
“I didn’t say that.” He had mixed emotions about seeing her.
“You didn’t have to.” She rubbed her temple. “I don’t know who it was. I can only assume the killer. I don’t have any answers right now. I haven’t even had time to look at the case files.”
Fine. “He say anything? You get a solid look at him?”
Bryn shook her head. “Got me from behind and put me in an iron headlock. I tried every defense I knew—”
“Even the whistle?” He couldn’t help but chuckle. In college, Bryn had carried a shiny silver one on her key ring. Once she’d blown it in his ear. He might have deserved it. She’d always been a hothead. He’d always liked that about her.
She grimaced. “No, not the whistle. Not like I would’ve had the breath to let out more than a faint tweet.”
“I thought you could go like twenty minutes without breathing.” Bryn had been a stellar swimmer back in the day.
“Eight, and that’s after being pumped with oxygen for thirty minutes and hydrating well. Besides, you can’t blow a whistle without air.” She tossed him the “duh” look. “Maybe they need to check your head.”
He hid his grin. Bryn hadn’t lost her feisty tongue. She might not have a concussion after all. “Back to the guy.”
“He was tall,” she said. “Over six feet. Beard—scraped against my cheek. A fairly full one. Steel-toed boots, so he might be a blue-collar worker. And he had a tribal tattoo on his hand. I think I can draw it.”
“Way to observe, Sherlock.”
“Thought I was Marco.” Her lips twitched. “How about plain old Bryn?”
There was nothing plain about Bryn. Never had been. She stormed up ahead of him, but he spied the tremor in her hand before she shoved it inside her coat pocket.
Eric caught up with her at the crime scene. He put a few techs on the area surrounding Bryn’s encounter. Maybe he left a shoe impression. A cigarette butt. An address and phone number tacked to a tree with an arrow.
Bryn picked leaves from her hair and put on a brave front. He’d known her long enough to know when she was hurt. Known her since he and her cousin Holt McKnight were in the Academy together. She was in high school. Too young for him. Until she turned nineteen, and he made his move. Two years together after that, heading straight for the altar and forever. If Rand hadn’t heinously intervened.
“What do you have so far?” Bryn asked.
All business. Trying to pretend she hadn’t almost been killed with dozens of officers nearby. This guy was either a complete idiot or entirely too confident in himself. Both were dangerous attributes. But he’d run down the trail with her. She might need a few minutes to collect herself. Focusing on the dead victim—not the living one staring straight at him with eyes that had always unraveled him—would help. God, thank You again for protecting her.
“I only got here fifteen minutes before you.” He stared at the victim. “I’m not a fan of morning TV.”
“Because you aren’t up.” Bryn snorted and shoved her other hand in her windbreaker pocket. “Wind’s gonna kill us. We better get while the gettin’s good or we could lose evidence.”
“Yup.” Eric wasn’t sure how all this was going to play out. “So, you’re assisting? Just assisting?”
Bryn flexed her jaw. “I don’t want to take over your case. I’d like to work together. But if you go getting a chip on your shoulder, I can’t promise to play nice. Our past—”
“Won’t dictate the case.” Eric ground his teeth. Over the years, he’d made peace with what happened. Lots of prayer and extra time in the Word had helped. Some days were harder than others, but he didn’t blame Bryn for Rand’s actions, and he would work with her to catch the killer. “I’ve labored for months on this. My partner and me. I want to be the one to get this guy.”
“Where is your partner?”
“Honeymoon.” Must be nice. “Holt never mentioned you’d gone into law enforcement.”
“Why would he?”
Why would he indeed? After things crumbled—no, disintegrated—Eric hadn’t even mentioned Bryn’s name. Not to Holt. “I guess he wouldn’t.”
“You see him much?”
“Some. He helped out in a case a few months back when he was working undercover to take down a drug dealer who was a suspect in one of our cases.”
Bryn raised her chin in a nod. “Here’s my card with my email address. I’ll make sure a major case room is set aside for us. We can work from there.”
Assisting, huh? Felt like taking over. “I’ll send the case files tonight and meet you in the morning. You drink coffee?”
Bryn gave a tight-lipped smile. Was she struggling with their nearness as much as he was? Was it regret or resurfaced attraction? Because he was feeling a bit of both. Or maybe she was just loopy from the attack. The one she was shrugging off as if it hadn’t happened, which scared him a little.
“Nothing fancy. Just black with a couple creams and a sugar.”
She never had been fancy. Didn’t need to be. She stood out without all the bells and whistles. Well, minus the whistle. He chuckled again.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She grunted. “Once we get set up in the room, we’ll need to track down Bridgette Danforth’s family. Does she have any?”
Eric inhaled the chilly air, struggling to ignore her scent that he’d once loved. “Divorced. No kids. Workaholic.”
“How long she been divorced?”
“Few years. You think her ex copycatted the other killer’s work?” Eric scratched the back of his head. “The dramatic display of laying her out looks identical to the other three, and we kept that from the public, as well as the fact he takes a token of jewelry. Bridgette is missing an earring.”
“Could have come out during the struggle or if he dragged her.” She touched her own earlobes. Two simple gold studs in each ear.
“No drag marks. But maybe.” Or the killer had taken a trophy like he had with the others.
Bryn scanned the area, ignoring the shouts from the media begging for a statement and asking if she was the new lead on the case. Eric’s ears heated. He swallowed his pride. He had to. He needed some assistance.
“I don’t want to make any assumptions. Not until I’ve read the files.”
Cautious. That was new. Anything else new? He glanced at her left hand. No ring. His was achingly bare, too. Or maybe she didn’t carry the ache of their failed relationship. But then, he knew that wasn’t true. The way it had ended between them had affected more than just