Ricochet. Jessica Andersen

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      “Fine.” She climbed stiffly into the SUV.

      As they drove out of Bear Creek State Forest, she felt the sore spots burn and pound, felt her muscles stiffen up. She’d gone from being trapped under hundreds of pounds of rocks and dirt directly to working the scene. She’d refused to go to the hospital with Lizzie because the other victims needed her more than she’d needed medical attention.

      Now, a soft bed and some aspirin was sounding real good.

      When McDermott blasted the heat, she expelled a grateful sigh, let her head fall back against the seat and closed her eyes.

      And opened them right up again, because the first thing she’d seen in her tired brain was a small patch of yellow flashlight beam and a wall of dirt six inches from her face. She shuddered at the memory.

      “I’ve got the heat as high as it’ll go.”

      She glanced at him, then away, trying to ignore how intimate the area seemed as the dusk faded to night. “I didn’t say anything.”

      And she didn’t say anything else until he pulled up in front of the small house she’d leased for a year, with the option to buy if everything worked out with the BCCPD.

      She stared at the lit front entryway, battling the urge to bolt inside, jump into bed and wish the whole day away. “I thought we were going to the hospital to interview Lizzie.”

      That was where she wanted to go. Needed to go. Not just to do her job, but also to reassure herself that the girl was alive. To thank her, ironically, for being human company beneath the ice and snow. If it hadn’t been for the feeling of Lizzie’s ankle beneath her fingertips, Alissa thought she might have lost it completely.

      “We are,” he said. “But you need to take a shower first. Or at least change clothes and wash your face. You’ll terrify the poor kid if you show up looking like that.”

      His voice held a tone of censure, and something else. Something darker and more dangerous, that sent a skitter of awareness shooting through her body.

      With a start, she realized he hadn’t asked for directions. He’d known where she lived.

      She wondered what it meant, and then decided probably nothing. He was a cop. He knew his neighborhoods.

      “Yeah. You’ve got a point.” And, God, would it feel good to soak her bones in the Jacuzzi tub that had sold her on the house. Since there wasn’t time for a bath, she’d settle for a fast shower, but it’d help.

      She pushed open the door and stifled a groan as her weary legs went rubbery. Since there was no way she was asking McDermott for help, she forced some strength into her body and shuffled into the house. All the way, she was too aware of him following, not close enough to crowd, but close enough to catch her if she fell.

      She felt his presence there in the little prickles of electricity on her skin, in the subtle warmth in her core, and was reminded of another time, when they’d followed each other out of the club with no other thought than to get naked, damn the consequences.

      Only, he hadn’t damned the consequences. He’d bailed the moment he’d realized she was a cop and a coworker. Part of her was grateful he’d had the strength. Part of her still yearned for the sizzle. And the whole of her was ashamed that she’d nearly given in to something as pointless as lust with a man who—according to PD rumor—already had one foot out the door.

      Been there, done that. Don’t need to do it again, no matter how hot he is, she told herself.

      Inside the house, she waved him to the kitchen and ignored the oddness of seeing him standing there, in her space. “Food and drinks are in the fridge—take whatever appeals. Guest bath is at the end of the hall. I’ll be five minutes, no more.”

      When she’d picked the house, she’d loved the convenience of having everything on one floor. Now it seemed like a disadvantage. A vulnerability. Even once she was inside the master bath, with its Jacuzzi tub and sybaritic adjoining lounge, she felt exposed.

      She stripped naked and jumped into the shower fast, hissing at the sting of water on bruises and scrapes, then nearly moaning as the warmth eased some of the pain. But she didn’t dally. She had five minutes to shower and dress and get the hell on the road to the hospital.

      She had a witness to interview. A murderer to sketch.

      Two missing girls to find.

      Chapter Three

      At the Hawthorne Memorial Hospital, Alissa and McDermott were ID’d twice, once at the main desk and once again as they approached the private room where Lizzie lay. Though the kidnapper had left her as bait, there was no telling whether or not he’d try to get her back. Frankly there was no telling much of anything yet.

      The whole case was clear as mud, Alissa thought, as she followed McDermott down the hall. The kidnapper appeared to have a plan, but what was it? Would the other girls reappear one at a time? Or were they already dead? Was he using the girls to get to the police—as the canyon attack suggested—or vice versa?

      At the door to Lizzie’s hospital room, Alissa held up a hand. “I’m going in alone.”

      “No way.” McDermott scowled, and the overhead lights darkened his deep-brown eyes to nearly black. “Remember what Parry said? We’re working together on this.”

      “But he didn’t say we needed to be joined at the hip, did he?” She lifted her chin and ignored the fine buzz that ran across her skin at his nearness. “I’m going in alone. I’m betting she’ll be more relaxed with a woman than a man, and the more she relaxes, the more I’ll be able to get out of her.”

      Not waiting for him to argue, she opened the door, stepped through and shut it in his face. Then she breathed through her mouth in an exaggerated sigh of stress. Frustration.

      She wished she knew Chief Parry better, wished she knew whether it was safe to complain to him. Because there was no doubt in her mind that she and McDermott working together was a bad idea. They were just going to annoy each other.

      Distract each other.

      “You okay?”

      The question startled her, because it came in a very familiar voice. “Maya!”

      “Who else did you expect?” The dark-haired beauty unfolded herself from a chair beside the bed, which held the blond pixie that Alissa knew from her picture.

      Sixteen-year-old Elizabeth Walsh, taken from the MovieMogul parking lot by a man in a light-colored van. And now, miraculously, home safe.

      Or so Alissa hoped.

      Almost afraid to ask, she glanced at Maya. “Is she…?”

      “She seems generally okay—bumps, bruises, exposure and hypothermia, but nothing else.” The BCCFD’s forensic psychologist—and counselor—touched the sleeping girl’s wrist. “She’s been in and out. Her parents and younger brother have been here for the past few hours. I just sent them off for a snack and a walk.”

      Maya’s СКАЧАТЬ