The Enforcer. Anna Perrin
sigh. “I’m just making an observation, doc. No need to get all worked up.”
“I think we need to consider why you’re so angry and find a way to—”
A piercing wail had made further conversation impossible. The fire alarm.
Later, she’d learned there was no fire, that some prankster had pulled the alarm. But by then the damage had been done. Forrester had refused to continue the session. However, his “permanent fix” remark coupled with his cold eyes and sly smile had her believing him capable of violence, possibly murder. So she’d arranged for him to be taken to Ridsdale for a full assessment.
She rewound the tape and played it again, this time cranking up the volume and stopping at intervals throughout their conversation. Forrester’s references to “MIOG op” and “IPO” remained unfathomable, but her anxiety deepened. A would-be killer wouldn’t take kindly to her interference.
Had Forrester been the shooter last night? Gene believed the man wanted to harm her, and Brent clearly thought Forrester was responsible for the bullets that had smashed through her window, but she still wasn’t convinced.
During their first session, Forrester had openly admitted that after growing up in foster care, he had joined the FBI because he wanted respect. Then he’d asked her what she thought was fair compensation for risking his life. She hadn’t known how to answer him, but the question had prompted her to delve deeper into his priorities since it was apparent the financial aspect of the job had not lived up to his expectations.
Money was a recurring issue with him. One bitter childhood memory was of his third foster mother stealing his paper route money. He had contemplated pouring drain opener in her drink, but fear of her boyfriend’s rock-hard fists had stopped him from doing it. Forrester might kill if he felt cheated out of money, but not because she’d sent him to Ridsdale for a few days. The outburst to the nurse had been angry venting, not proof of deadly intent toward her.
Of course, her opinion would have to change if physical evidence linked him to the crime scene that encompassed her house.
A tantalizing smell redirected her thoughts to her immediate surroundings. Was that coffee? Brent must be awake. She could use a cup. Or three. But to get to the coffee, she’d have to see Brent, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that just yet. Following his revelations the night before, he’d clammed up, then stalked off to his room.
She’d made her way to the other bedroom, the one that had been Sanderson’s. Even though she was exhausted, she’d had trouble falling asleep, her mind filled with unanswered questions and images, many of them involving her cabinmate.
The unwelcome attraction she felt continued to baffle her. And her late-night sensual fantasies starring Brent had to be a manifestation of stress. She certainly wasn’t going to have hot, grinding sex with him to relieve it. If the symptoms persisted, she would try a different solution. Like a career change.
She checked her watch. 9:04 a.m. She’d been awake and without caffeine for over an hour. Time for a break. Maybe even time to admit she needed assistance deciphering Forrester’s tapes.
The obvious person to do that was Brent Young. He and Forrester worked in the same office, shared the same FBI training and job classification. If Forrester was using work-related jargon—which she suspected was the case—Brent would be familiar with it. That might lead to the person Forrester blamed for wronging him.
Last night, she’d been too rattled to ask Brent what he knew about Forrester. And even if she had, he hadn’t been in a communicative frame of mind after their conversation about Sanderson.
Hopefully, this morning they could start off fresh.
Because if he couldn’t help her decode Forrester’s cryptic words, someone would die.
“GOOD MORNING.”
Brent finished pouring coffee into a mug before turning from the counter.
Claire stood in the doorway, her dark blond hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders. Her green eyes looked clear and alert as if she’d been up for a while, and he wondered why it had taken her so long to emerge from the other bedroom. Was the prospect of his company so distasteful?
The thought bothered him more than it should have, which irked him further.
“That smells good,” she said, gesturing to the coffee.
“Help yourself.” He stalked over to the oak table on the far side of the kitchen. His job was to protect her, not fetch and carry for her. He might as well make that clear.
If she noticed his brusque tone, she gave no sign of it as she wandered over to the cupboards and checked through them.
“There’s sugar next to the stove,” he said, relenting. “But if you want cream, you’ll have to wait until we pick up groceries later.”
“That’s okay. I take mine black.”
After she’d filled a mug with coffee, she turned and leaned against the counter. “How well do you know Andy Forrester?”
After their disagreement over Forrester’s involvement in last night’s events, her question surprised him. “We’ve attended the same staff meetings, but I’ve never worked an assignment with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Have you ever talked to him outside of work? Maybe gone out for a beer with him?”
“Nope, can’t say that I have.” He tipped his chair back against the wall. “In retrospect, I’m glad. If I’m going to be shot at, I’d rather it’s done by a stranger than a friend.”
Claire frowned, apparently disappointed with his answer.
“You think that’s a bad attitude?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t say that.” Her tone implied that he was getting his back up over nothing.
Maybe so, but it was hard for him not to feel defensive in the presence of a psychologist. “You’re the one he shared his deep, dark secrets with.”
She stared at her coffee. “He said only enough to alarm me. But he didn’t stay at Ridsdale long enough for a full psychological evaluation—”
“Psychological evaluations are a load of crap.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “And you know this because…?”
He smiled tightly. “We’re not here for you to question me.”
“Look, I’m sorry if you had a negative experience—”
The “negative experience” she alluded to had almost wrecked his life. But he had no intention of unloading his personal history to an FBI shrink.
“Nobody can know what Forrester is capable of just because of some boxes ticked yes on a questionnaire.”
“Is that how you think I evaluate patients?” she sputtered.
No doubt about it. This time, she was the one feeling defensive. That was a whole lot better than her believing they were buddies just because they’d escaped from her house together.
A muscle twitched in Claire’s jaw, but when she spoke her voice was calm. “I don’t use questionnaires. I ask whatever questions I think will give me an understanding of the patient.”
Nice recovery. He caught himself wondering if she ever lost control—and not just of her temper. Because something about her suggested she kept a lot more than anger bottled up inside her.
What would it take for her to let loose? He wanted to witness that explosion. Hell, he wanted to trigger it.
“I even tape our conversations,” she said, “so I can listen to them again later.”
“Is that legal?” he asked, goading her just because he felt like it.
“With my patient’s