The Guardian. Cindi Myers
Graham said. “They’ll be in at nine in the morning if you need help with camping permits or something.”
Her eyes narrowed, focused on the tan uniforms, then on the name badge pinned to Graham’s shirt pocket. “Captain Ellison. Are you a law enforcement officer?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
She pressed her lips together, as if debating her next move, then nodded. “I need to report a crime. A murder.”
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees, Michael was sure, and the group around the table leaned forward, all eyes—including the dog’s—focused on the petite woman in the doorway.
“Why don’t you come in and give us a few more details.” Graham motioned the woman forward.
As she moved past him, Michael caught the scents of wood smoke and sweat and something lighter and more feminine—a floral perfume or shampoo. An awareness stirred in his gut, a sense of familiarity, and the hair rose on the back of his neck. Where had he seen this woman before?
“I’m a biologist,” she said, speaking primarily to Graham, but casting nervous glances at the rest of them. “Or rather, I’m working on my master’s degree in biology. I’m studying several plant species found in the park for my thesis. I was out collecting specimens this morning when I heard people approaching. They were shouting in English and in Spanish, and they appeared to be searching for someone.”
“Did you get close to them?” Simon asked. “Did you talk to them?”
She shook her head. As she did so, her hair swung away from her face, revealing a jagged scar diagonally bisecting one cheek. The scar was bizarrely out of place on such a beautiful face, like a crack in an otherwise pristine china plate. Michael’s gut tightened, and he struggled to control his breathing. He was sure he knew her now, but maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. Post-traumatic stress throwing up some new, bizarre symptom.
“They were some distance away—maybe two hundred yards,” she continued. “I hid behind a large boulder and waited for them to leave.”
“Why did you do that?” Simon asked.
“Because she’s smart,” Carmen said. “A woman alone in the middle of nowhere sees a group of rowdy men? Of course she hides.”
Simon flushed, like a kid who’s been reprimanded. “She looks as though she can take care of herself.” He nodded to the weapon at her side. “You got a permit for that thing?”
“Yes.” She turned away from him. “I couldn’t see what they were doing—the terrain is rough out there. But I heard gunshots. Then they quieted down and left.”
“You’re sure they were gunshots?” Graham asked.
She nodded. “I was in the army, stationed in Kandahar. I know what gunfire sounds like. This was a semiautomatic. A rifle, not a handgun.”
Michael gripped the underside of the conference table until his fingers ached. This was no trick of a war-stressed mind. This was her—the woman who’d lingered in the back of his mind for the better part of five years. The one he could never forget.
“All right.” Graham leaned against the table, his pose deceptively casual. “What happened next?”
“I waited ten minutes to make sure they were gone, then I resumed collecting the specimens I’d come for. I headed back toward the road where I’d parked my car. I had walked less than half a mile when I stumbled over something.” Her face paled and she swallowed hard, her lips pressed tightly together, holding in emotion. “It was a body,” she said softly. Then, in a stronger voice, “A young man. Latino. He’d been shot in the chest.”
“He was dead?” Randall asked.
“Oh, yes. But not for long. The body was still warm.”
“So you think the men you heard shot him.” Simon couldn’t keep quiet long. Clearly, he liked playing the role of interrogator.
“It’s your job to decide that, not mine,” the woman said, a sharp edge to her voice. Good for her, Michael thought. Put Simon in his place.
“Can you show us where the body is?” Graham asked.
She nodded. “I think so. I was collecting specimens near there and I made note of the GPS coordinates. I should have noted the coordinates for the body, too, but seeing it out there was such a shock...” She looked down at the floor, hair falling forward to obscure her face once more. But Michael didn’t need the visual confirmation anymore. This was her. And to think he’d thought he’d never see her again.
What were the odds that he’d run into her now—in this place half a world away from where they’d last met? Then again, his mother always said everything happened for a reason. Michael told himself he didn’t believe in that kind of divine interference—in fate. But maybe some of his mother’s superstition had rubbed off on him.
“We’ll want a full statement from you later.” Graham pulled out a pen and turned to a fresh sheet on his clipboard. “Right now, if you’ll just give me your name and tell me where you’re camped.”
“Abigail Stewart.”
Only when the others turned toward him did Michael realize he’d spoken out loud. Abby stared at him, too, her mouth half-open, a red stain coloring her previously pale cheeks. “How did you know my name?” she demanded.
He stood, forcing himself to relax, or at least to look as if he didn’t have all these turbulent emotions fighting it out in his gut. “Hello, Abby,” he said softly. “I’m Michael Dance.”
“I don’t know a Michael Dance,” she said.
“No, you probably don’t remember me. It’s been a while. Five years.”
She searched his face, panic behind her eyes. He wanted to reach out, to reassure her. But he remained frozen, immobile.
“You knew me in Afghanistan?” she asked. “I don’t remember.”
“There’s no reason you should,” he said. “The last time I saw you, you were pretty out of it. Technically, you were dead—for a while, at least.”
He’d been the one to bring her back to life, massaging her heart and breathing in her ravaged mouth until her heart beat again and she’d sucked in oxygen on her own. He’d saved her life, and in that moment forged a connection he’d never been quite able to sever.
Having a total stranger announce to a bunch of other strangers that you’d come back from the dead didn’t rank high on Abby’s list of experiences she wanted to repeat—or to ever have in the first place. From the moment she’d entered the trailer parked alongside the park ranger’s office, she’d felt the tall, dark-haired officer’s gaze fixed on her. She couldn’t decide if he was rude or just overly intense; she hadn’t spent a lot of time around law-enforcement types, so what did she know?
And what did she care? Except that the agent—Michael Dance—had made her care. He knew things about her she didn’t. He knew what had happened in the hours and days she’d lost to unconsciousness and trauma. That he’d seen her ripped open and clinging to life by a thread felt so personal and intimate. She both resented him and wanted to know more.
As for Michael Dance, he seemed content to keep staring at her, and when she’d agreed to take the officers to the body she’d found, he’d slipped up beside her and insisted she ride with him.
“You could ride with me and Graham if you’d rather,” Carmen, the only other woman in the room, offered, perhaps sensing Abby’s unease.
“No, that’s all right. I can ride with Lieutenant Dance.” Alone in a vehicle, maybe she could ask him some of the questions that troubled her.
But