Fatal Exposure. Gail Barrett

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      Still quivering wildly, she dragged in a breath, knowing she’d had a lucky escape. Everything about Parker McCall reeked of danger—from the jut of his steel-hard jaw to those penetrating black eyes that scrutinized every move. He was too smart. Too determined. And there wasn’t a chance he’d leave her alone.

      Especially since he’d found that photo in Tommy’s shoe.

      She hugged her knees even tighter, unable to stop the rush of guilt. Seeing that photo had demolished her composure, bringing back a swarm of regrets. Of all the mistakes she’d made in her life, of all the hell that she’d been through, the day Tommy had died had been the worst.

      And it was all her fault. That sweet boy was dead because of her.

      Struggling against a tide of emotions, she forced the memory aside. She couldn’t wallow in the past. God knew, she’d berated herself for it enough. She had to keep moving forward, keep the truth from coming to light and survive.

      But how? Parker would never give up. And if he’d already found her, the others couldn’t be far behind.

      Her head jerked up at that thought, and she frantically scanned the street—but nothing moved, no one emerged from the row houses, not even a car drove past. Easing out a tremulous breath, she willed herself to calm down. Nadine was safe in Peru for now. But she had to warn Haley fast. And she’d better prepare her agent, Joan Kellogg, for the upcoming media storm.

      Wishing she still had her cell phone, she grabbed her backpack and rose. Since her agent lived only a few streets over in the heart of Old Town, she would head to her house first. She could notify Haley from there.

      Aiming another quick glance at the shadows, she scurried down the empty street. The cold wind blew, sending goose bumps down her neck, and she buttoned her coat to block the chill. Returning to the area had been a gamble, she’d known that. And it was one she’d been reluctant to take. After Tommy’s horrific murder the three runaways had made a pact—they’d hidden the evidence, changed their identities and vowed never to reveal what had happened, no matter what the cost. Then they’d gone on the run, moving from city to city for years. Eventually Nadira—Nadine now—had moved to New York to get her medical degree. Haley had come to D.C. to start her shelter for pregnant teens.

      And although she’d hated to admit it, Brynn had been lonely. Haley and Nadine were the only family she had. She’d finally decided to chance it, figuring enough time had passed. As long as she steered clear of her stepfather, as long as she avoided the Baltimore neighborhood where Tommy had died, no one would notice her here.

      Her agent had helped. Although Joan didn’t know the details of Brynn’s past, she’d guarded her identity religiously from the start of her career—arranging her exhibits, appearing for her in public, hiring publicists to manage her website and promote her work. And no matter how intense the pressure—even after those awards—she hadn’t cracked.

      That safety had been an illusion, of course. Parker McCall had just proven that. Now she had to keep him from discovering the truth about Tommy’s death before more innocent people got killed.

      She darted across the road, the buzz of traffic on the distant beltway mirroring the hum of dread in her nerves. A few blocks later, she reached her agent’s house. Still hurrying, she unlatched the iron gate, crossed the small brick patio and rang the bell. Then she shot another furtive glance behind her, relieved that no one had followed her here.

      So far.

      Seconds crawled by. Her agent didn’t answer the door. Frowning, she stepped back and surveyed the windows, for the first time noticing that the house was completely dark. But Joan had to be in town. She always notified her clients before she took a trip. Brynn reached for the bell again, then froze.

      The door was hanging ajar.

      Inhaling swiftly, she spun around. The bare trees creaked overhead. The withered mums along the walkway bobbed in the frigid wind. Dried leaves tumbled across the bricks, skittering into the corners like frightened mice.

      Longing for her missing handgun, Brynn nudged the door open wider and peered inside, but she couldn’t make out much in the dark. Her heart stuttering wildly, she crept through the open door.

      She waited a beat, letting her eyes adjust to the shadows, the destruction making her reel. Tables had been overturned. Glass covered the floor, remnants of the once-majestic chandelier. Ruined paintings lay amid the shards, their canvases slashed, their gilded frames snapped apart like twigs.

      Appalled, she glanced from the ruined foyer into the equally demolished parlor and tried to breathe. Joan’s row house had been trashed. But why? By whom? And where had her agent gone?

      Her nerves coiling, she crept inside, inching past the staircase into the kitchen while trying not to make any noise. But broken plates crunched under her feet. Smashed groceries littered the floor, adding to the senseless mess. Behind the kitchen, Joan’s office looked as if a tornado had touched down with desk drawers ripped out, papers flung everywhere, her computer gone....

      Along with any client information she’d stored on the machine.

      Beating back a rush of panic, Brynn prowled back through the foyer and up the staircase, the creaking steps erupting like gunshots in the tomblike house. She checked out the vandalized guest rooms, then continued down the hall to the master bedroom and peeked inside.

      Her heart skidded to a halt. Joan lay sprawled across the rug in a sliver of moonlight, her eyes closed, her skin sheet-white, her body completely still. Blood glistened on her forehead and matted her silver hair.

      Horrified, Brynn raced to her side and knelt. “Joan.” Oh, God. The sixty-year-old woman was far too pale.

      She seized her agent’s wrist, feeling frantically for a pulse. Each tortured second seemed an eternity before she detected a feeble throb. She was alive. But barely. Her skin felt much too chilled.

      Desperate to save her, Brynn leaped to her feet, lunged for the telephone on the bedside table and punched in 9-1-1. “I need an ambulance. Fast,” she added, reciting the address. “Joan Kellogg. She’s been attacked in her bedroom upstairs. Hurry.” Ignoring the dispatcher’s questions, she hung up.

      Then she dropped to Joan’s side again. “Hold on,” she pleaded. “Help’s coming soon. I promise.”

      Her agent’s eyes fluttered open. “Brynn?”

      “Don’t talk. Save your strength. An ambulance is on the way.”

      Joan fumbled to grasp her hand. “Man...black hair. Snake tattoo. Looking for you...”

      “Shh. It doesn’t matter now. Just rest.” Her throat thick, Brynn gently squeezed Joan’s hand, her clammy skin icing her heart. Where was the blasted ambulance? Why was it taking so long? She shot a desperate glance at the window, despising the feeling of helplessness—and guilt. Joan had nearly died because of her.

      But who had sent the attacker? How had he connected Joan to her? Had he seen Brynn’s photo in the newspaper—or found her some other way?

      “Go. Hide,” Joan croaked out.

      “Forget it. I’m not leaving you alone.” She’d already caused enough problems. The least she could do was stay and protect her from further harm.

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