An approving murmur vibrates my lips. That’s smart. Regan is part of Isaac’s team, so forensics wouldn’t be suspicious about a set of gloves collected from Isaac’s apartment being logged into his evidence chain.
“How long until we get a match?” I stretch to loosen the massive knot in my back. I haven’t slept on a couch since my college days, so my back is on a long list of body parts feeling the effects of my restless night.
I want to blame a lumpy sofa for all my restlessness, but it only accounts for one-tenth of the shit I've been dealing with the last eight hours. Leaving Regan untouched last night. . . frankly, I didn't think I had it in me. My chest tightens just at the thought of the sleepy smile she gave me in the seconds leading up to my departure. She knows I'm holding back; she just has no clue why. I could come clean and save us both a whole heap of heartache, but considering I’m more scared of losing her than keeping her safe, that option didn’t linger in my mind for long.
Brandon breaks my train of thought by disclosing, "We may not get a match. I handled the gloves carefully, but you know how finicky latex is. With the amount of powder coating the fingers, any evidence may be too degraded to process." His tone is as disappointing as the sigh parting my lips. "No useable hair follicles were found in the hat."
It pains me to say, but I somehow manage it, “That’s not surprising. Good perps don’t leave a contaminated crime scene.”
Brandon murmurs, agreeing with me. While raking my fingers through my hair, which is still in bad need of a cut, I drop my eyes to the evidence Brandon had couriered to my apartment over an hour ago. Regan's stalker is as smart as the woman he is harassing. Her apartment was spotless, even more than usual since he drenched every surface he touched with bleach. He even wore the disposable socks and overalls our forensic guys don while combing a crime scene. Unfortunately, they disintegrated in Regan's fireplace before Brandon could salvage them.
“What about surveillance? Are the security personnel at her building being cooperative?”
Brandon makes apfftsound. “They say access can’t be granted without authority from the owner. He is supposedly on a business trip until next month.”
The slam of a van door drowns out my huff. “Lucky I don’t need his permission. I’ve got all the data I need right in front of me.” A keyboard stroke bellows down the line before Brandon asks, “Who do you want the unencrypted data sent again?”
"Dane Lieberman." I spell out Dane's surname to ensure it goes to the right person. "He's not officially in our agency anymore, but he has a way with computers. He’ll find an entrance no matter how tight their doors are shut."
A tense stretch of silence crosses between us. It is so long, I’m wary our call has been disconnected. If it weren’t for Brandon’s heavy breathing from his gallop down the stairwell of Regan’s apartment, I’d check our connection.
Brandon’s silence comes to an end when he asks, “He’s not a rogue agent, is he?”
A rumbling of laughter bubbles up my chest, more a pained laugh than one of happiness. It is similar to my laugh when I convinced myself over a dozen times last night that Regan didn’t want me to reenter my room to answer the questions I left wide open. She wanted me to return for the same reason I wished I could have. It is distressing how quickly she has slithered under my skin. Five years ago, I excused my stupidity based on my age and rookie status. I can’t use that excuse now.
Annoyed by both Brandon’s insinuation and the shitstorm I’ve thrown myself into, I snarl, “Dane is as far from a rogue agent as you can get.”
“Then why is he unofficial? There are only two ways agents leave: they’re either dead or on charges. Which category does he belong to?” The authoritativeness in Brandon’s tone shocks me. He is too demure to pull off such a tone.
“Your pulse doesn’t need to flatline for this job to kill you, Brandon.” I say his name with the same sternness he used when addressing me, but mine is more convincing of my anger. “Dane paid his dues in ways you’llneverunderstand, so I suggest the next time you consider insinuating he’s a corrupt, rogue scum, you stop and take a hard fucking look at yourself because Dane has more patriotism in his pinkie finger than you have in your entire body.”
Regan’s entrance doesn’t prevent me from continuing my speech. If anything, her presence adds gasoline to the fire brewing in my gut. “A hero is a man who walks into the gunfire—not the one directing him from behind a safety barrier.”
Stealing Brandon’s chance to reply, I disconnect our call. Unlike last night, Regan barely blinks at my temper when I peg my phone across the living room. It shatters on impact, scattering warped plastic and glass onto the carpet the Bureau had installed two weeks before I moved in.
I drag my hand across the scruff hiding my jawline while sucking in deep breaths. It takes several slow inhalations before I garner the strength to raise my eyes to Regan. Thankfully, she isn’t scared by my display of violence. She’s turned on by it.
That’s not something I can handle right now, not with Dane in the forefront of my mind. I’ve told myself many times the past five years that Regan isn’t responsible for Dane’s injuries, but I’m having a hard time swallowing that argument this morning. If I hadn’t gone after Regan, Dane wouldn’t have backed me up. If he didn’t always have my back, he wouldn’t have been shot. That makes Regan just as much to blame for Dane’s life-altering injuries as I am. We both played a part in that fateful day.
“Tell me everything you know. I need to know it all, Regan.”
When Regan shakes her head, either denying my request or advising she is unsure of my demand, I growl, “The perp is approximately twenty-six to twenty-eight years old. He has golden hair, similar to mine. From his slim build and lack of strength, he would have been the dweeb at school, someone people like you and your hotshot friends would have picked on—”
“Hey!”
I continue talking as if she didn’t interrupt me. “Stalkers don’t turn violent for no reason. You must have done something to him, pissed him off in some way. This could be as simple as denying an advance or circulating a dick pic he sent you, but it has to be something. He didn’t target you for no reason, but if you continually play the victim, we’ll never understand why he wants to harm you, possibly even kill you. . .”
I stop talking when an apple smacks into my chest. The hit is so brutal, my chest protests by making me cough up half a lung. My brain has barely registered the first blow when I’m struck again. This time, it’s an orange.
“Don’t you dare put this on me!” Regan snarls before tossing a pear, banana, and a thankfully ripe dragon fruit across the room. “I’m playing the victim because IAMthe victim! I didn’t ask him to stalk me, and I sure as hell didn’t ask you to rush in and save me!”
Out of both fruit and words, she charges for the front door. Her anger is so white-hot, she doesn’t register she is wearing only a satin slip and has bare feet. I guess she doesn’t need to be concerned about being harassed on the street. Her glare is sufficient to have any man running scared. Me included. Except, I’m not running away from her; I’m running to her.
Before she can escape my apartment, I slam the door shut and crowd her against it. She has the ability to take me down in under a second. I’ve witnessed her complete the necessary maneuver multiple times during the self-defense classes she takes twice a week at a local gym, but since she knows I have no intention of hurting her, she keeps her elbows tucked into her sides and forehead braced on the door. If I couldn’t see the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, I have no doubt she’d put up more resistance.
“You saw what I saw, Rae. You read what he wants to do to you. If you don’t open up to me, hewillhurt you.” The honesty in my tone can’t be concealed. I’ve seen cases like this many times in my career. It rarely ends well for the victim. “I swear to you, you know who he is. You’ve just got it locked away as a bad memory or don’t want to recall it because it will riddle you with guilt, but I guarantee you, during some stage of your life, you have met the man responsible for what happened last night. It could have been last week, or it could have been years ago, but you know him. You’ve just got to dig deep to unearth his identity.”
When she remains quiet, I push back from the door, giving her enough room to slip away from me. With memories of Dane’s injuries holding my empathy bone hostage, I went in too hard. I shouldn’t have pushed her, I’m just. . .scared.You have no idea how hard that is for me to admit. I didn’t sleep a wink last night because all I could see was Regan’s stalker’s threat being played out. I’ve seen some fucked up things in my time, but this was by far the worst. Her stalker doesn’t just want to disfigure her, he wants to mutilate both her body and spirit. And in a way, I just played into his hand by placing the blame on Regan’s shoulders instead of the man truly responsible.
