Deadly Past. Kris Rafferty

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      “Explain,” he said.

      “I blacked out. What did I say on the call?”

      “Nothing,” he said. “I answered, and the line went dead. When I hit redial, it went straight to voice mail. I called your landline. No answer. I called Benton, Gilroy, O’Grady—”

      “Dammit!” She groaned. He’d called her supervisor, and her teammates, so they’d been worrying since last night, too. “Who didn’t you call? Now they’ll—”

      His arm around her shoulders squeezed, making his embrace more restraint than comfort. “I was trying to track you down. I was worried. Tell me about this blackout you suffered.” His protective tendencies had been triggered, and Charlie had slipped into big brother mode. He’d spent the last ten years—even the year he’d been flat on his back after the accident—worrying, doing his best to be a big brother because of a misguided belief he could have stopped her brother from driving drunk and dying. Cynthia knew better. Everyone who had ever known her brother knew there was no controlling Terrance.

      “I’m sorry.” Cynthia pressed the frozen bag to her head again, feeling the weight of those familiar words. Sorry she’d made him worry. Sorry he felt responsible for her, for Terrance’s death. Sorry. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Their tragic history linked them forever, and couldn’t be ignored, because it’d shaped their identities, and now their lives were a mutual tapestry of obligation. Pull one thread, risk unraveling it all.

      Kissing Charlie had pulled a thread.

      “I’m such an ass,” she whispered, and then pressed her face to his chest, resting there, finding comfort in the beat of his heart, so steady and strong. She couldn’t hold the frozen bag anymore. It was too cold, so she dropped it on the cushion next to her and warmed her hand against Charlie’s bare arm. “Why do you put up with me?”

      It was a rhetorical question. They both knew why, but Cynthia felt it was important to ask once in a while, just on the off chance Charlie might start asking that question himself. He deserved to cut bait and live his life out from under the obligation of Cynthia, the little sister he never asked for.

      “Who hurt you?” He picked up the bag, gently pressing it to her injury. “Where were you last night?” His scruffy chin abraded her forehead as his lower lip pressed against her skin. It felt like a kiss, but was simply his lips moving, asking questions.

      “I don’t know. I mean, I know bits, but”—she shrugged—“not everything.”

      “Tell me.” He didn’t bother hiding his worry.

      “I told you,” she said. “I blacked out.”

      “Last night,” he said, “Benton said you’d left work with plans to go to the gym. I called there first, and the front desk said you’d left around ten.” He gave her a little squeeze. “You called me at ten on the nose.” Cynthia pushed off his chest, digging into her pocket to access the flash drive. She held it up, showing him.

      “Security footage placing me at a federal safe house in Chinatown at ten-thirty last night.” Charlie frowned as he took it from her hand. “I don’t remember leaving the gym, Charlie. Just a scattering of weird memories. Horrible memories.”

      “What do you remember? Exactly.”

      “A brick wall. Men on their knees, bags over their heads, tied. Screaming. Begging for their lives.”

      “Bags?” His gaze lowered and lost focus as if she’d triggered a memory for him. Pulling her gun from its holster, she handed it to him. He sniffed the gun’s slide, studying it from all angles. “It’s been discharged,” he said.

      “Recently.” They both knew that Cynthia would have cleaned it after practicing at the range. “I have to call Benton and tell him what’s happened.”

      Charlie stood and lifted the television remote off a side table, then turned on the set. Local news appeared on the screen, broadcasting live. It was a media circus, and the station’s chyron spelled out, “The Chinatown Massacre.” Special Agents Benton, Gilroy, and Modena—three black-suited, white-shirted, black-tied FBI task force members—were on screen, working behind yellow crime scene tape against the backdrop of a brick building.

      “Benton knows,” Charlie said. Cynthia’s heart pounded as she carefully stood, eyes focused on the screen.

      “That’s the place…from last night!” She pivoted toward the living room entrance, where she’d dropped her pocketbook, and made quick work digging out her phone and plugging it into the wall charger. “They must have been calling—”

      “Since an hour ago.” He stepped to her side. “Six dead. Executed, wrists zip tied, cloth bags on their heads, affixed by duct tape circling their necks.” He tilted his head toward the television screen. “Why didn’t you call it in last night? You called me at ten. Shots were reported around then. That’s a half hour unaccounted for, if the video recorded you entering the safe house at ten-thirty.”

      “I know.” She bit her lower lip. “A half hour after the murders, on foot, blocks from the crime scene, holding a recently discharged weapon.”

      “A half hour where you didn’t call for backup.” He spoke with slow, measured tones, but she understood the context. Why? Damned if she knew, but she understood her behavior looked sketchy as hell.

      “My phone must have died.” She’d left it in the car, in her pocketbook. “I don’t know, Charlie, what more do you want me to say? I don’t know.” He tossed the remote on the couch and took her by the upper arms, forcing her to meet his gaze. Whatever he saw there had him pulling her close, holding on. Evidence shuffled in her head like a pack of cards until the facts lined up. Cynthia looked guilty as sin. He wasn’t saying it, but they were both thinking it. “I’m afraid,” she said. His fingers curled into her back as he more completely formed his body to surround hers, even resting his chin on the top of her head. He was her shield against the world.

      “I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

      She believed him. Cynthia had a target on her back, so Charlie would protect her. It made her feel safer, but it was no comfort. Instead, it just filled her with guilt, guilt, guilt.

      Chapter Two

      Charlie held her close, hating how she trembled. They both knew she was in trouble. The only questions seemed to be: to what degree, and how could he help. Both he and Cynthia were supposed to be at the crime scene, although his instinct told him neither should be within a mile of it. Just showing up had the potential to taint an evidentiary hearing, thus creating liability for the District Attorney when it came time to prosecute. If Cynthia was the “unknown subject.” The unsub. Which she wasn’t, couldn’t be, but that didn’t mean a judge or jury of her peers would not see it otherwise.

      “Why did you come to my house last night?” he said.

      Cynthia tilted her chin back, meeting his gaze, but her grip remained strong, as if she feared he’d leave her. “Excuse me?”

      “Last night, sometime around nine PM.” Her confusion had him second-guessing himself. “I saw someone in my driveway and thought it was you. No?” Her expression grew stricken.

      “Charlie…I don’t remember.”

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