To Catch a Killer. Kimberly Meter Van
forget. He’d still not forgiven her for leaving Lantern Cove and breaking Neal’s heart in the process.
No, she thought sadly, Matthew would never know that the one night they both betrayed Neal had resulted in a wonderful little girl. And that was for the best—for everyone.
Breaking her reflective silence, she met Matthew’s stare with a short smile. “The job is enough for me.”
His own smile turned wintry. “Well, we both know you sacrificed a lot to get where you’re at.”
“Yes, I have.” More than you know. “And on that note … I’m going to have to say good night. Thanks for the food.”
Matthew went to the door. “Don’t mention it,” he murmured. And then he was gone.
Kara brushed her teeth and finally climbed into bed, her eyelids feeling weighted with cement, which was a welcome feeling. Working herself to exhaustion was the only way she ever got any sleep, especially when she was under the gun to catch the bad guy.
She couldn’t have been asleep long before something jerked her awake with the certainty that she wasn’t alone.
Pitch-black filled the room. Without adjusting her position, she peered into the darkness, managing to keep her breathing slow and steady as if she were still asleep, but she could discern nothing. Confused, she slowly sat up in the bed, and flicked on the bedside lamp.
Nothing. Her room was exactly as it was when she went to sleep. Rubbing the grit from her eyes, she sighed and chalked it up to extreme fatigue. Snapping off the light, she fell back against her pillow and closed her eyes, determined to catch more zzzz’s before her alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. Just then, a soft voice whispered in her ear and nearly stopped her heart.
“She’s here.”
Kara’s head ached and her skin itched.
“What’s wrong?” Dillon asked from above the rim of his coffee cup. “You look like shit.”
She ignored him for the moment and took a bracing swallow of her own coffee—black without sugar—before attempting an answer. The hot brew burnt the crap out of her tastebuds but oddly the flash of pain was more welcome than the uneasy thoughts making soup of her brain. “Just because you say that with an accent doesn’t make it any less insulting.”
Dillon made a face. “Someone’s gone into mommy-mode. Next are you going to tell me that if I’ve got nothing nice to say I should—”
“Shut the hell up?” she provided with a false smile.
“Something like that. I seem to remember that saying being a little less acerbic and more polite but that certainly gets the point across. So, what’s with the nerves? You’re drumming your thumbs,” he pointed out, which immediately made her slide her hands under the table away from view. “Something’s got you strung pretty tight. What is it?”
She could try and pass it off as extreme fatigue—hell, she’d been trying to do that since 4:00 a.m.—but it was no use. Someone had whispered in her ear. She’s here. And yet, her room had been empty. How the hell was she supposed to say that without looking as if she’d just spilled her crackers? “I didn’t sleep well,” she said, leaving it at that.
“Not me. I slept like a baby. This motel sure doesn’t look like much from the outside—in fact, it looks like the kind of place where the crazed proprietor slits your throat in your sleep—but in all, the beds are quite adequate.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” she said wryly, choking down another hot swallow as she started to feel the caffeine working its way into her body, clearing away the cobwebs of sleep until she felt somewhat back to herself. It was a dream, she rationalized with a great deal of relief. A very lucid, very vivid dream. Not uncommon for people who are extremely fatigued. Now she felt just a little ridiculous for wasting so much of her precious sleep time shaking in her bed over something that was clearly not real.
Just in time. The rest of the CARD Team came into the small breakfast joint and Kara was grateful for the need to focus on the job.
D’Marcus Jones, the high-tech computer specialist who looked as far from a geek as one could get, slid into the seat beside her while Tana Miller and Zane Harris took the seats flanking Dillon. Everyone except Tana signaled for coffee. Tana preferred green tea and always brought her own. All she required was a mug of steaming hot water.
“Does it always rain like this here?” D’Marcus asked, eyeing the dismal weather with something of a scowl. “I feel like I’m gonna mold or something. Even the sheets felt damp.”
“I think it’s invigorating,” Tana said, her cheeks still pink from the early-morning run she’d taken on the black-sand beach a short walk from their motel. “I could live here.”
Kara withheld comment. The beaches here were savagely beautiful with sharp, craggy cliffs that accepted the ocean’s constant battering with stoic dignity, eroding with time until deep fissures ran with seawater as the spray erupted with a violent explosion against the rocks. Many a tourist, inexperienced with the nature of Northern California’s coastal beaches, sank to a watery grave when they turned their back to the ocean.
And it wasn’t warm. Not even in the summer. The water remained a chilly temperature and dive suits were necessary if prolonged exposure was planned. But Kara never went into the ocean. Not after her dad took a fishing boat into a squall after a bender and never came back. It’d been her senior year. Neal’s family had taken her in so she could graduate.
“Didn’t you grow up here?” D’Marcus asked, pouring two creams into his white ceramic mug.
“Yes.” How many times had she wished she’d been born somewhere other than the Emerald Triangle, the place where marijuana grows as freely as the foxglove? More times than she could count. She’d never truly fit in with the locals—but she was one. “Let’s get this meeting started,” she said briskly, ending the invitation for story hour or trips down Memory Lane. “The weather is likely to get worse before it gets better and if you don’t want to spend the entire day wet and puking your guts out, we’d better get a move on.”
“What’s this puking part?” D’Marcus asked, his dark brows drawn in a troubled line. “I don’t like the sounds of that.”
“You know the road from Willits to Westport?” Kara asked, and D’Marcus nodded warily. “Well, the roads we’re going on will put that road to shame. Ten-mile-an-hour switchbacks, seven percent grade … you might want to take some Dramamine before we head out. We’re going deep into the redwoods today.”
“We who? I thought we’re staying here to set up the command center while you and that police chief guy are going out to the backwoods?”
Kara startled. “What? Who said that?“ She shot a look at Dillon, who returned her hard stare with a nonchalant one that made her want to strangle the shit out of him. She’d enjoy watching his eyeballs pop out like little marbles and roll around on the floor. Then she’d stomp on them. Little sneaky Brit.
“Listen, don’t get your panties in a twist. I called the police station, looking for a trail guide, so’s we don’t get lost in the heathen beauty of this place you used to call home and get our heads shot off by one of the hippie locals because we stumbled on their retirement plan. Lucky for us, the chief volunteered.”
“We don’t need him,” she said, brushing off Dillon’s idea quickly. She was not spending all day tromping around the forest with Matthew. She suppressed a shiver that wasn’t entirely born of distaste and ignored Dillon’s expression. “D’Marcus, you can come with me. Chief Beauchamp can worry about his own investigations. I’m sure he has plenty to do without horning in on ours.”
“Actually,