Page 47 of Dead Drift

Griffin shot up in bed, sweat clinging to his brow.

He hadn’t had that nightmare in years. Now that they were so close to catching her killer, it had returned, plaguing his sleep with the horrible image of Jenna washed up on shore.

He stood and moved to the window, pulling the curtain farther open so he had an even better view of the moon.

His gaze shifted to the parking garage across the alleyway, a warning sensation darting up his spine.

Something was wrong.

His gaze raked over the structure, and the clear shadow of a man shifted on the level directly opposite him.

He grabbed his gun and opened the sliding door. Finding a corner pipe only a foot to his right, he climbed over the balcony rail and lunged for it before shimmying down. Reaching the ground, he raced for the garage, but a dark car roared out the opposite end, speeding for the end of the alleyway. Griffin ran barefoot along the uneven gravel, but the car—license plate covered—peeled around the corner, and by the time Griffin reached the street, the car had disappeared.

Griffin stood there, the cool of night wrapping around him, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The intruder had come closer still, as if taunting him, declaring they weren’t out of his reach.

Finley leaned over the balcony. “Griffin! Are you all right?”

“I’m okay, but I think I’ll use the front door to come back up. Shut the sliding door, lock it, and pull the drapes closed.”

She nodded and did as he’d asked.

When he returned to the room, Finley insisted on helping clean up the scrapes on the soles of his feet.

“Do you think it was him?” she asked.

He nodded. “It’s just now registering, but the shadow I saw was too short to be the intruder who left the message in our other hotel room earlier.” He was about Thornton’s height.

“Might there be two of them?”

Could there be two killers, working together? It went against everything in the profiler’s assessment . . . and against Griffin’s gut.

He swallowed, the dream he’d endured kicking back the flood of emotions he’d felt at the sight of poor Jenna’s face upon finding her.

“Hey.” Finley rested her hand on his arm. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just thinking.” He raked a hand through his hair. What had he been thinking right as he drifted off to sleep, before the nightmare took over? He’d been envisioning a barn, wondering why . . . “Why did Burke keep the key words hidden in code in a book?” he said.

She frowned. “What?”

“Think about it. The only people who know we are here are cops, federal agents, the ME’s office, and the victims’ families. And I keep wondering why Burke hid the key words.”

“It’s a good question.” She finished cleaning out the last scrape, and with a thank-you kiss, he planted his feet on the floor, ignoring the sting.

“Do you think he suspected the killer might be someone he knew?” she asked.

“It could have been.”

“Someone in the Bureau? Someone he worked with?”

“Yes. Or possibly someone he’d talked to during his investigation?” Maybe Burke had an idea who the killer was or feared the killer was paying attention to his investigation. Maybe, until he figured out who the killer was for certain, Burke had decided to play it very close to the vest.

A chill raced up Griffin’s spine at the thought. Had they already talked face-to-face with Jenna’s killer—or were they about to?

20

Hank’s warehouse was eerily quiet, still.

Luke swallowed. Ungood. “Wait here,” he said as he opened his car door.