John didn’t realize he was crying until a tear fell onto Michael’s neck. He put his hand over his eyes, squeezing them shut, holding back the hot sting of emotion. His breath came deep, in hitches. His heart beat painfully in his chest.
“Michael, I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I will find your killer. I will have your vengeance. I promise. I won’t let you down again.”
John watched her sleep.
She was curled into the reading chair in her den. By all appearances, Rowan hadn’t left the room since yesterday. She looked vulnerable. Her long hair hung over her face and she rested her head on her arms, which were folded on the armrest. Her feet were tucked under her. Not at all comfortable. Even in the dim light coming from the hall, she seemed too pale. He wondered if she’d eaten, then asked himself if he cared.
He couldn’t care. Not now.
John glanced at his watch. Five-thirty. He hadn’t slept more than an hour, and at four had given up on sleep completely. He couldn’t get the vision of Michael lying cold and dead out of his mind. Yet somehow, he felt calmer. He had a purpose, a goaclass="underline" revenge.
He’d relieved Peterson minutes ago and brewed a pot of coffee. Collins had called and told him Peter O’Brien, Rowan’s brother in Boston, couldn’t have committed any of the murders. He had a pretty good alibi-daily Mass. John had sensed that O’Brien wasn’t involved, especially after hearing he was being watched by the Feds, but he had still insisted that the assistant director look into him and anyone he could think of who might have a motive for going after Rowan in such a sick and sadistic manner.
Collins was checking into the records of the MacIntosh murders and would be faxing over all newspaper articles, photos, everything that might be of use, to the FBI headquarters.
John wished there were another way, but hours of tossing and turning, pacing and sitting, left him with the only possible conclusion: Someone Rowan knew well had killed Michael, and that someone had been in Rowan’s life twenty-three years ago.
Rowan needed to look at the reports and hope something popped so they could get this bastard. Peterson had agreed to bring in Adam Williams to look at photos as well. John was too distraught to feel guilty, though a pang of remorse hit him. The poor kid wasn’t going to be comfortable at headquarters looking at crime scene photos, but John could think of no other way. Adam was the only one who’d for sure seen the killer. He was their best hope of identifying him.
John cleared his throat quietly, not wanting to startle Rowan, but she jumped up, gun in hand. He hadn’t noticed she was sleeping with it.
“John.” Her voice was thick and groggy. She slowly sank back down into the chair to steady herself.
“I made coffee.”
She nodded. “Thanks.” She coughed to clear her throat. “Where’s Quinn?”
“I relieved him.”
Her eyebrow went up as she stared at him. “I-I thought-”
“I’m on the case until we catch my brother’s killer.” His voice sounded harsh, but his emotions were raw and close to the surface.
“I-uh, I guess a run is out.”
“You want to run, we run.” He stared at her, careful to keep his face blank.
“I need a minute,” she finally said.
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” As soon as he closed the den door, he breathed regular again. He hadn’t realized he’d been so tense talking to Rowan. He hated seeing her so scared, defeated, hollow-eyed. But he couldn’t think about her, couldn’t care about her, and sure as hell couldn’t worry about her.
He would protect her life. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Because if it weren’t for her and his damn hormones and his stupid fight with Michael, his brother would still be alive. He’d accused Michael of letting his emotions cloud his judgment, but he had done exactly the same thing. Not only did he think he was the only one who could get Rowan to spill the truth, he had wanted not only her honesty, but her body.
Rowan watched John leave and stifled a cry. She brought her hands to her mouth in a vain attempt to trap the sound. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the day, but she needed to get a grip on herself.
How could she forgive herself? How could John forgive her?
She went up to her bedroom and splashed water on her face. She stared at the ghostlike reflection in the mirror. Was that her? Her pale blue eyes were grayer than usual, dull and lifeless. Her skin had a sallow appearance, her hair was stringy, her breath awful. She brushed her teeth twice, washed her face with soap, and brushed her hair before pulling it back.
She really didn’t want to run, but somehow it seemed important to hold up in front of John. If she broke down, he would have one more thing to worry about. She didn’t want him to be concerned about her. She was a big girl; she’d been living with pain and guilt most of her life. One more murder wasn’t going to break her. She’d simply add it to the chamber in her heart that held the memories of everyone she’d inadvertently had a hand in killing.
Michael was in good company.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a couple deep breaths. It was foolish to run, she knew; she hadn’t eaten since Friday night. But maybe it would help numb the pain.
John looked forward to the run. He needed it. Anything to compete with the pain in his heart. Three laps would be a start. Four might fight the pain. Five might drown it out.
But it would be foolish to get that exhausted. If they were being watched, it would be a good time for the killer to attack.
John peered out the kitchen window, but all he saw was the wall of the house next to Rowan’s and about eighty feet of the sandy, concrete-reinforced cliff between them.
He was on his third cup of coffee and he’d forced down a piece of toast. It tasted like paper and left a lump in his stomach but was doing its job of soaking up the caffeine. He was beginning to feel half-human.
Rowan came into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She looked better than twenty minutes ago, but her face was still pale. Her little dark glasses covered her eyes. But she seemed ready. Rigid. Cold. Expressionless.
A worrisome thought flitted across his mind. Rowan was not as cold as he’d believed when he first met her. It was an act to cover up her feelings, just like the glasses she wore covered her eyes. Maybe all this was getting to her.
Dammit, he couldn’t care. He had a job to do: catch Michael’s killer and keep Rowan out of the crossfire. He didn’t have the energy to worry about her feelings.
“Let’s go,” he said.
On the wet sand, he pushed her pace. He maintained his protective spot two strides behind, but he breathed down her neck, urging her to move faster, harder. How could he purge the pain at this slow pace? He needed the cold air to replace the hot grief, the sting of salt in his lungs.
So he pressed her. When she wanted to stop after two laps, he wouldn’t let her. He wasn’t even winded. He knew she could handle three or more laps. They’d run many times, and Rowan was in fabulous shape. Did she think he couldn’t handle it? Did she think he was going to break down? Not him, not now.
They were almost back to the stairs of her house. Rowan was slowing. “Come on, run!” he shouted in her ear like a drill sergeant.
She stumbled and fell to her knees. He swerved and leaped over her, but made contact with her body and tumbled himself.
He quickly stood in a crouch and surveyed the scene, gun out. Trap, was his first thought. The murderer planted something on the beach to trip them up. Was he waiting to pounce?
He saw nothing but quiet homes set far from the beach. He heard nothing but the roar of the ocean, the breeze, the squawk of gulls searching for fish. No glint of a sniper rifle, no trace of a trap.