SWAT Secret Admirer. Elizabeth Heiter
squad, then been out with her brother and best friend when she’d gotten the call to come back for the SWAT arrest. But she was full of energy. When was the last time she’d been this happy?
Six months ago, she realized. Before the first letter had arrived. Grant had been on her team for three months at the time. They’d hit it off from his first day. Besides being a solid addition to the team, he was funny and just so dang happy all the time. Being around him made her happy.
SWAT was an ancillary position—agents did it on top of their regular squad duties. Still, dating a teammate, even in a secondary team like SWAT, was forbidden. So she’d tried to keep her feelings hidden. But just knowing that she was capable of feeling this way, after everything...
Stop dwelling on the past, Maggie scolded herself. She knew Grant had been able to tell these past few months that something was wrong. But unlike a lot of agents at the WFO, who’d heard the rumors over the years, she was pretty sure Grant didn’t know her history. And she wanted to keep it that way.
She liked the way he looked at her, no trace of pity or worry. He’d never shown any sign that he’d heard about her past. The case agents had been good about keeping her connection under wraps over the years; though inevitably agents who’d been in DC for a long time found out. But Grant had only been here nine months. In that time, the only thing she’d ever seen in his eyes was friendship and camaraderie. And lately, something else, something that went beyond the bonds of the team.
Maggie carried her gear up the narrow stairs to her bedroom, flipping lights on along the way, then stared into her closet. She didn’t own date clothes. Not that this was a date.
Everything in her closet belonged to a woman who, somewhere deep inside, was still afraid. Not of being a victim, not anymore. But when was the last time she’d actually wanted a man to look at her with appreciation?
Frowning, Maggie grabbed what she’d always worn to O’Reilley’s—jeans, combat-style boots way too similar to the ones she wore for SWAT and a loose-fitting T-shirt. They’d only stay an hour or so anyway, chat and play darts and let the adrenaline fade. Then, one by one, the exhaustion would inevitably hit, and they’d head home and conk out.
She needed to get over there, or she’d miss everyone. Changing quickly, she looked into the bathroom mirror, taking a minute to lift her shirt up and look at the damage to her back. A bruise was blooming fast, huge and purple, snaking its way along her spine in the general shape of a sub-machine gun.
She poked at it and flinched, then pulled her shirt back down, combing a finger through her bob. It was just long enough to cover the back of her neck, and Maggie’s fingers twitched as they skimmed the puckered skin there.
The tattoo she’d gotten years ago hid the image of a hook, but nothing could fix the damaged skin underneath. The brand that had been left on her.
She threw some water on her face, then dug through the drawer under her sink until she came up with some lipstick and mascara. The guys were probably going to stare at her as though she’d grown an extra head. Or maybe they wouldn’t even notice. Most of them were like brothers.
Only Grant might spot—and appreciate—her pathetic attempt to look a little more feminine, since most of the time she tried to hide it.
She stared at herself in the mirror, resisting the urge to wipe off the makeup, then laughed aloud. She was being ridiculous. Just because she didn’t wear makeup to work didn’t mean everyone at the bar would know why she’d put it on tonight.
Maggie took the stairs down two at a time, still grinning. It wasn’t that she didn’t date, but most of the time, even when she truly had feelings for a guy, it felt obligatory. An attempt to feel normal that never quite worked.
But nothing about Grant Larkin felt obligatory.
And she was ready to take a chance. She had no idea how they’d handle the FBI rules—assuming he was interested. But the heated glances he hadn’t quite been able to hide over the past few weeks told her he was.
At the bottom of the stairs, Maggie picked up the pile of mail and dumped it on the table and reached for her keys. But before she’d finished turning away, dread rushed over her. The plain business envelope. The corner of a neatly printed return label sticking out from the huge pile of mail like a flashing beacon.
She looked back at the mail slowly, dreading what she was going to find. But she hadn’t been dreaming. She didn’t have to open it to know. Another letter.
All the excitement drained out of her, buried under a decade-old fear.
Her movements robotic, she walked into her kitchen and slipped on a pair of latex gloves before returning to the front hall, even though she knew there’d be no prints. There never were.
She shouldn’t even open it. It was evidence in an ongoing case. She should call the agents from the Violent Crimes Major Offenders, VCMO, squad assigned to the case. They’d have to be called anyway, because this letter would have to go in the case file along with the others. She should just let the case agents open it.
But even knowing what would be inside, she couldn’t stop herself from carefully slicing open the top of the envelope. She slid out the plain white paper and unfolded it carefully, only touching the edges. She knew it was useless, but she still tried to numb herself as she started reading.
Anger and resentment—along with the guilt and shame she couldn’t suppress—crept forward, even as she tried to remain clinical and approach it the way she would one of her own cases. It read just like the previous letters, three of them over the past six months. To someone who didn’t know the sender, it would sound like a love letter, fondly recalling their time together.
But it wasn’t. It was a letter from the Fishhook Rapist, the predator who’d evaded capture for almost a decade. The predator who had started by abducting her on her way home to her dorm room at George Washington University all those years ago. He’d let her go the next morning, drugged and disoriented, carrying a permanent reminder on the back of her neck.
Maggie felt herself sway and clutched the table as she read the last line. It was different from any of the previous letters.
The Fishhook Rapist was coming back to DC. And he was coming back for her.
“You got another one?” Maggie’s older brother, Scott, was scowling furiously, clenching his fists so tightly, the knuckles looked ready to break through skin. He was standing in the entryway to her row house a mere thirty minutes after she’d called him, which meant he’d broken a lot of traffic laws to get there.
Normally, Scott was all charm, all the time, with an easy grin and a swagger. But today, even with his eyes red from being ripped from sleep before dawn, he looked angrier than she’d seen him in a long, long time.
Their best friend, Ella Cortez, had arrived ten minutes earlier; she lived within DC and closer to Maggie’s house. Maggie had called them instead of heading to the bar, and Ella had gotten in her car practically before Maggie had finished telling her what had happened.
Now Ella put a hand on Scott’s arm and gave him a look Maggie could read as well as Scott could. Go easy.
The three of them had grown up together, back in Buckley, Indiana, and Ella might as well have been her and Scott’s other sister. After Maggie’s assault her senior year of college, they’d made a pact together. Throw out all their plans for the future and join the FBI. Stop this kind of thing from happening to anyone else.
But she couldn’t even stop the man who’d hurt her.
Maggie tightened her jaw, tried not to let them see her fear. “Yes. But the letter was different this time. He said he’s coming back to DC. He said he’s coming back for me.”
“What?” Scott shouted.
He