Ricochet. Jessica Andersen

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      ALISSA WAS COLD and sore and scared, but she’d think about it later, when she was alone and nobody could see her lose it.

      She’d been buried alive. She deserved some hysterics, but she’d learned to put off the tears long enough to deal with the immediate problem. When she was younger and her mother had been struggling to keep them together, the problem had usually been money—an irate landlord or a cold Denver apartment in January.

      Now the immediate problem was a crime scene. Actually, it was two crime scenes, one on top of the other.

      Who did the skeleton belong to? How had the person died? How had it come to be buried there? And what were the chances that the rigged explosion would accidentally open another, far older grave?

      Very slim, which suggested they had been meant to find the grave. But why?

      McDermott touched her arm. “They’ve got Lizzie loaded on the chopper. They’re waiting for you.”

      “I’m fine,” she said automatically, though her lungs ached at the words. She moved away from his touch, uncomfortable with how her chilled body yearned to lean into his warmth. She glanced at him and saw that his eyes were as dark as she had remembered, only with irritation, not passion. “Thanks for pulling me out.”

      She would never admit that thinking of him had kept her sane in those last few minutes. She’d used him as a mental crutch, that was all. A focus.

      Instead of accepting her thanks, he snapped, “I wouldn’t have needed to if you’d waited for me. What were you thinking? Never leave your partner like that.”

      Irritation sparked. “If you’ll remember, you left me behind, not the other way around!”

      “Doesn’t matter,” he said, though they both knew it did. “Just get your butt on the chopper.”

      She gritted her teeth. “I’m not going to the hospital when there’s a crime scene to work.”

      “Let one of the others do it. Isn’t that why the chief hired three of you? So there’d be redundancy in the Forensics Department?”

      “No,” Cassie said, neatly stepping between them. “He hired us because our skills complement each other, and because the BCCPD needed an upgrade.” She turned her back on him and locked eyes with Alissa. “You should go with the girl. She’ll need to talk to someone.”

      It was ironic that Cassie was playing the mediator. The tall, blond evidence specialist was usually the abrasive one, the sharp-tongued edgy one, who made enemies more easily than friends and never hesitated to express her opinion. If she was toning it down, it meant she’d been worried. Very worried.

      Alissa clasped her friend’s hand and smiled. “It’ll be okay, but thanks.” She glanced over and saw a petite, dark-haired figure climb into the helicopter. “Lizzie doesn’t need me right now. Maya will help, and her parents will be waiting at the hospital. I’ll go in later and see if I can get a sketch. For now I’ll stay here and work the scene.” She shot a look at Tucker, who stood nearby, glowering. “You got a problem with that?”

      They both knew he did, and he probably had a point. She was tired and sore, and damned if her camera wasn’t down there somewhere, amidst the busted-up ice and rock.

      He scowled and turned away. “No problem. I’m not your keeper. Do what you need to do and leave me out of it.”

      And he was gone, taking the faint, lingering warmth with him.

      Alissa watched him climb to the top of the canyon and work his way toward the back of the blown-out tunnel, where the bomb experts were already congregating. Then she held out a hand to Cassie. “Let me borrow your camera, okay? Mine’s trash.”

      Cass cocked her head. “Want to talk about it?” She wasn’t asking about what had happened in the tunnel.

      Alissa shook her head. “Nothing to talk about. Let’s do our jobs.”