SILENCE IS HER ONLY PROTECTION

Pulitzer Prize–winning photojournalist B. K. (“Brynn”) Elliot chronicles Baltimore’s grittier side with her lens—a talent cultivated from her years as a teenage runaway. A reclusive figure, Brynn lives under everyone’s radar...until a photo from her past plunges her into the crosshairs of powerful enemies.

Detective Parker McCall has devoted fifteen years to trying to solve his brother’s murder, and with the release of a photo implicating Brynn as a potential suspect, he feels close to finding justice. Determined to get answers, Parker must ignore the inexplicable attraction he feels for the haunted beauty in the photo. And Brynn must decide if Parker will protect her or betray her in his hunt for a killer.

Sweat glistened on her waxy face.

Then her expression changed, her eyes filling with acceptance—the same resignation Parker had seen on his father’s face before he’d committed suicide.

Denial rose inside him. Desperation screamed through his skull. He had to do something. He had to stop her somehow. But the slightest move, and Brynn would die.

Her trigger finger moved. Knowing it was hopeless, Parker dived off the bed toward Brynn, flinging himself toward her with all his strength. But she was too far away.

The gun went off, the suppressor silencing all but a quiet pop.

Buried Secrets: Three murder witnesses, one deadly conspiracy

Dear Reader,

Desperate people do desperate things. Sadly, for millions of troubled teenagers, this often means running away from home. But life on the streets can be brutal, exposing these vulnerable children to dangers they never expected, making it difficult to stay alive.

That’s the premise for my Buried Secrets trilogy. Fifteen years ago three desperate girls left their homes for different reasons, then banded together for protection on Baltimore’s treacherous streets. But their lives grew even more precarious when they witnessed a murder committed by a powerful man—who saw them watching. Terrified, they hid the evidence, changed their identities and went on the run to survive.

Now fifteen years later, a chance photograph in the newspaper exposes their identities, blowing the lid off their secret past—and sending each on a journey more dangerous than they’d ever dreamed.

I hope you enjoy their stories as they face down their pasts, confront enemies determined to silence them permanently and finally find the love they deserve.

Happy reading!

Gail Barrett

Fatal Exposure

Gail Barrett

www.millsandboon.co.uk

GAIL BARRETT

always knew she’d be a writer. Who else would spend her childhood grinding sparkling rocks into fairy dust and convincing her friends it was real? Or daydream her way through elementary school, spend high school reading philosophy and playing the bagpipes, then head off to Spain during college to live the writer’s life? After four years she straggled back home—broke, but fluent in Spanish. She became a teacher, earned a master’s degree in linguistics, married a Coast Guard officer and had two sons.

But she never lost the desire to write. Then one day she discovered a Silhouette Intimate Moments novel in a bookstore—and knew she was destined to write romance. Her books have won numerous awards, including a National Readers’ Choice Award and Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart.

Gail currently lives in western Maryland. Readers can contact her through her website, www.gailbarrett.com.

MILLS & BOON

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To Binnie Syril Braunstein,

a woman with a generous heart.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank the following people for making this story possible: Tom Beck, Chief Curator and Head of Special Collections at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, for answering my questions about photography; Lesley Gourley of Photohunter, whose phenomenal talent is matched only by her kindness; Wesley Wilson, Chief of the Enoch Pratt Free Library, for taking time out of his busy schedule to give me a personal tour of the library and helping me find a place to hide the film; Loni Glover, Karen Alerie and Mary Jo Archer for their invaluable input and support; and last—but definitely not least—an enormous and heartfelt thanks to Officer Robert Carusone of the Baltimore Police Department for not only answering my endless questions, but letting me tag along with him on patrol. Rob, you’re the best! Any mistakes are definitely my own!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Cold case detective Parker McCall tightened his grip on the newspaper, his gaze riveted on the photo of the woman splashed across the Baltimore Sun’s front page. She could have been any affluent shopper strolling out of the pricey art gallery—her long, glossy hair tumbling over her shoulders, the collar of her woolen coat turned up against the brisk November wind.

Except for her wary eyes.

The eyes of his brother’s murderer.

The eyes that had eluded him for fifteen years.

He lowered the newspaper to his cluttered desk, the laughter and banter of the detectives beyond his cubicle receding to a distant buzz. Then, hardly breathing, he tugged his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. Working as carefully as a scientist handling nuclear material, he extracted a worn, faded photo and placed it alongside the page.

For several excruciating seconds his gaze lingered on the image of his younger brother, his heart making its usual lurch of guilt and remorse. Sixteen years old, his cheeks badly hollowed, his body wasted by his addictions, Tommy leaned against a graffiti-sprayed wall near Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, one emaciated arm slung over the waiflike girl at his side.

The girl Parker had failed to find.

Until now.

He shifted his scrutiny to the girl, taking in her sparrow-thin legs, the baggy sweatshirt dwarfing her scrawny frame, her unruly mop of auburn curls. Then he homed in on her eyes—bleak, world-weary eyes aged far beyond her years.

He sliced his gaze back to the woman in the newspaper. She was still petite, still thin and older than the adolescent slouching against the wall beside his brother, but he’d stake his life they were the same.

A punch of adrenaline making his heart sprint, he skimmed the article accompanying the front-page spread. Amazingly, the woman appeared to be B. K. Elliot, the world-renowned photojournalist whose exhibit had opened in the gallery that week—a photographer so reclusive that no one had known what she looked like until now. But rumors about her abounded, claiming she was everything from a traumatized war vet to a homeless woman disfigured in a fire.

Regardless of her identity, B. K. Elliot’s photos had caused a worldwide furor in recent years, winning both the Pulitzer for Feature Photography and the prestigious Hasselblad Award. Even Parker, who didn’t know squat about photography, could recognize the power in her unsettling work. Her photos chronicled the poverty and violence of street life with brutal, disturbing honesty.

A perspective only a former runaway could know.

The exhibit’s grand opening had been mobbed, bringing the bigwigs out in droves. Parker’s boss, Colonel Hugh Hoffman—head of the Baltimore Police Department’s Criminal Investigation Division—had attended, along with his political mentor, Senator Alfred Riggs. Helping teen runaways was one of the Colonel’s signature projects, as was this cold case squad.

Parker switched his attention back to his brother’s photo, dead sure now that the women were the same. But he needed expert verification, something more concrete to go on before he charged off to find her, half-cocked.

Rising, he scooped up the paper and photo, then strode past the cubicles lined up like jail cells, the stained industrial carpet muffling his steps. Too late he spotted his supervisor, Sergeant Enrique Delgado, manning the coffee machine near the exit. Unable to avoid him, Parker slowed.

“Packing it in already?” Delgado asked, his shrewd gaze taking in the newspaper tucked under Parker’s arm. “Another exhausting day at the desk?”

Parker tamped back a spurt of dislike. Nicknamed “Iglesias” for his slick Latin looks and equally slick reputation with women, Enrique Delgado had transferred in from the gang unit when his cover got blown and a shoot-out nearly claimed his life. But Delgado considered this assignment in the cold case squad beneath him—an opinion he voiced freely, not earning him any friends. Even worse, the Colonel had put Delgado in a supervisory position over far more seasoned homicide detectives, like him.

Brownnosing and office politics at their worst.

Parker leveled him a glance. “Yeah, I threw my back out opening a drawer.”

“Whoa, you should put in for hazard pay.”

Ignoring Delgado’s mocking laughter, Parker shouldered open the door to the hall and strode out. Still scowling, he bypassed the snail-paced elevator and made a beeline for the stairwell, then started up the scuffed steps. Technically, he should have informed Delgado about what he’d found. Like it or not, the man was his supervisor—and with Parker’s dubious family background, he couldn’t afford to buck the rules. But there wasn’t a chance in hell Delgado would let him investigate his brother’s death. And Parker had worked for too many years to forfeit his chance at the killer now.

Silencing his protesting conscience, he exited the stairwell two floors later and veered to the nearest desk. “Is Sudhir in?” he asked the secretary, who was speaking into her headset. She nodded and waved him past, her silver rings glinting in the fluorescent light. Seconds later, Parker knocked on the police artist’s door.

“Come in,” Sudhir called out, and Parker strode inside. Balding, his paunch encased in a purple-and-black Baltimore Ravens T-shirt, Sudhir Singh had been a fixture in the precinct for years, long enough to warrant an actual office, albeit with a Dumpster view. He worked a variety of jobs, from sketch artist, interpreter and polygraph test administrator to unofficial coordinator of the underground football pool.

“Hey, Sudhir. You going to the game this weekend?” Parker asked by way of greeting.

“You bet.” Parker waited, muzzling his impatience until Sudhir wound down his tirade over the team’s most recent trade.

“So whatcha got?” he finally asked.

Parker handed him the old photo. “This girl. I need you to age her fifteen years. I think I’ve found a match.”

His attention instantly snagged, Sudhir swiveled toward his equipment, motioning absently in the direction of an empty chair. “Have a seat.”

Parker pulled up the chair and sat. Leaning forward, he locked his gaze on the monitor as Sudhir scanned the photo in. Several seconds later his brother and the runaway girl appeared on the computer screen.

Parker’s belly went taut, the sight of his drugged-out brother prompting the usual litany of self-reproach. He should have done more to save him. He should have found a way to keep him in rehab until he’d stopped destroying his life. He should have fired that useless counselor and searched for someone better, someone who could have found a way to reach him and convince him to stay off drugs.

And he definitely should have anticipated the effect their father’s arrest and suicide would have on Tommy, who’d idolized the man.

But Parker had failed. Only twenty-two himself when his father had died, he’d been too busy salvaging his budding career, trying to prove that he wasn’t corrupt. And his brother had paid the price, running away from home, embarking on a downward spiral of drugs and crime that had ended with his senseless death.

But the day he’d lowered Tommy into the ground, Parker had made a vow. He wouldn’t fail his little brother again. He would bring Tommy’s killer to justice, no matter how many years it took.

His jaw clenched, his gaze still trained on the monitor, Parker watched intently as Sudhir cropped his brother from the photo and zoomed in on the runaway girl. Several keystrokes later, her face filled the screen, those big, bleak eyes a sucker punch to his gut. She didn’t look like a killer; he’d give her that much. She looked too young, too fragile, too harmless. But the most innocent face could hide the blackest heart.

“She looks about twelve, maybe thirteen, in this photo,” Sudhir said, tapping on his keyboard. “So her current age would be what, late twenties?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Switching to his mouse, Sudhir began using his age progression software to manipulate her face. “What kind of lifestyle does she lead? Does she smoke? Drink? Do drugs?”

“Drugs, probably.” Tommy had only hung out with other addicts toward the end.

“Any other factors that might affect her appearance, like wind or sun damage to her skin?”

Parker frowned. As a runaway, she would have been exposed to the elements. But if this woman really was B. K. Elliot, her photos sold for thousands of dollars a pop—meaning her impoverished days were long gone.

“Let’s say she was homeless during her teen years,” he decided. “Then she straightened herself out and led a comfortable life after that.”

Sudhir added a trace of squint lines around her eyes. “Weight gain?”

Remembering the photo in the newspaper, Parker shook his head. “No, keep her thin.”

“How about her hair?”

He studied the image taking shape on the screen. “Longer, just past her shoulders. And not so curly, just kind of wavy and thick.”

Sudhir continued to work, slowly transforming the scrawny adolescent into a young woman. A hauntingly beautiful woman with a small, feminine nose, elegantly sculpted cheekbones and an intriguingly sensual mouth.

His heart picked up its beat.

But what held him captive were her eyes. Her eyes were wounded, poignant, raw, as vulnerable as those of the children in B. K. Elliot’s photos. They drew him in, sparking a sense of awareness, an oddly tumultuous feeling that went beyond the usual pull of attraction for a pretty face.

Something he had no damned right to feel for a woman involved in his brother’s death.

With effort, he shrugged off the erotic tug.

A moment later, Sudhir released the mouse and sat back, his chair creaking under his weight. He tilted his head to the side. “So what do you think?”

His heart beating triple time, Parker unfolded the newspaper and held it beside the monitor. Sudhir’s low whistle echoed his thoughts. She was a dead ringer for the woman in the paper.

“I think I found a killer.”

Now he just had to track her down.

* * *

Unable to shake the weariness dogging her steps, Brynn Elliot pushed open the door of her Alexandria, Virginia, row house and trudged inside, the blast of heat enveloping her like a caress. God, she was tired. A week spent scouring the streets of New York City in near-freezing temperatures had done her in—and not just physically. It was the suffering that got to her, the violence inflicted on those defenseless kids. And with every passing year the runaways looked younger, more cynical, their wounded eyes filled with more despair.

A feeling she’d once known well.

Knowing better than to go down that depressing track, she deposited an armload of newspapers and junk mail on the kitchen table, then shrugged off her backpack and coat. She couldn’t change her past. And neither could she rescue the world. She simply tried to reveal the truth, to force the hypocrites in high society to face the hell of these children’s lives—lives they had betrayed and destroyed.

Really not wanting to revisit those old ghosts, she glanced at her kitchen phone, its voice mail indicator light flashing like a squad car at a crime scene, then crossed the kitchen to the pantry and rummaged for a can of soup. The messages would be from Haley, a perpetual worrier, needing to make sure she was safe. Brynn had missed her weekly call-in thanks to the punks who’d stolen her cell phone in New York. She was just glad they hadn’t noticed her camera. The photos she’d taken of the child prostitutes on Rockaway Boulevard were her most poignant work to date.

Impatient to upload the photos to her computer and get to work, she dumped the soup into a bowl and stuck it into the microwave to heat. Then she called up her voice mail, set the phone to speaker and started disposing of her junk mail so she could clear a space to eat.

“Brynn, are you there? Pick up the phone,” Haley’s voice called out. Smiling at her friend’s predictability, Brynn tossed several pieces of junk mail into the bin.

“Brynn, it’s important. Call me right away,” her next message said.

“I will,” Brynn promised. “Just give me a minute to eat.”

“Why haven’t you called me back?” Haley demanded in her third call, desperation straining her voice. “Where are you?”

“In New York, fighting off a couple of punks.” Punks she could have evaded in her younger days. Making a mental note to buy another disposable cell phone, she threw another batch of junk mail away.

“For God’s sake, Brynn, why haven’t you called me? Have you seen the newspapers? I need to talk to you right away.”

The papers? Brynn paused, unable to ignore the urgency in Haley’s tone. Had there been something about Haley’s shelter in the newspaper, something that might have exposed her friend’s identity—a danger they all had to avoid?

Worried now, she dumped the rest of the advertisements in the trash, then started flipping through various newspapers, not sure what she was supposed to find. But whatever it was had to be important. Haley wasn’t the type to panic. She dealt with high drama daily in her shelter for runaway, pregnant teens. And if she was worried enough to call...

Her sense of anxiety growing, Brynn riffled quickly through the papers, scanning political columns and crime reports to no avail. Then a front-page photo caught her attention, and everything inside her froze.

It was a photo of her.

The room swayed. She gripped the table for balance, a dull roar battering her ears. Someone had photographed her leaving the art gallery—and splashed it across the front page. But how had they figured out who she was? She hadn’t spoken to a soul. She hadn’t even greeted the clerk. She’d simply strolled through the exhibit, discreetly checking the status of the photos, then left.

Praying she was somehow mistaken, she unfolded the newspaper, but there wasn’t any doubt. The headline screamed “Mystery solved!”

Reeling, she sank into a chair. How could this have happened? She’d been so blasted careful. She’d lived off the grid for years—always on the move, constantly changing her identity with her friends’ help. Even later, when her career had taken off, her agent had stepped in, doing all the promotional work, accepting awards on her behalf, never revealing what she looked like or where she lived. Now a momentary lapse—a quick visit to the gallery to estimate her earnings—had destroyed everything. And all because she’d needed to upgrade the plumbing in Haley’s shelter before she left on her New York trip.

Staggered by the scope of the disaster, she pressed her fingers to her forehead and tried to think. A reporter had connected her to her work. Exactly how he’d done that, she didn’t have a clue. But the media would come out in droves. Her stepfather would hunt her down. So would Tommy’s killer, assuming he was still around.

Panic bubbled inside her. She was in danger. Terrible danger. So were Haley and Nadine.

No, Nadine would be all right. She’d called a few weeks back to let Brynn know she was heading to Peru, journeying to the remote mountain villages to do her charity medical work. No one would find her there.

But Haley... She was in D.C., running her shelter for pregnant teens—an open target for their enemies.

If she wasn’t already dead.

Horrified, Brynn leaped to her feet, knocking over her chair as she lunged across the kitchen and grabbed the phone. Punching in Haley’s number, she prayed that she’d pick up.

The doorbell buzzed.

Her heart slammed to a halt. She snapped her gaze to the door. The microwave dinged, but she didn’t move, didn’t breathe, her attention riveted on the front door.

She’d never met her neighbors. No one knew she lived here except for her agent and two close friends. And the media couldn’t have found her this fast. She’d bought the historic row house under a fictitious name.

The doorbell sounded again.

She silently disconnected the phone. All her senses hyperalert, she tiptoed across the kitchen to the door, careful not to make any noise. She stopped and held her breath, afraid that even the tiniest hitch would give her away. Then she put her eye to the peephole and peeked out.

A man scowled back. She took in his black, slashing brows, the harsh angles of his chiseled face, the dark beard scruff shadowing his jaw. He was tall, in his late thirties with a strong neck roped with tendons, shoulders as thick as planks. His midnight hair was short, his mouth drawn flat. Authority radiated from him in waves.

A siren went off in her head. A cop. After a lifetime spent on the streets, she could detect one from a mile away. And even wearing a leather jacket and jeans, everything about this man screamed police.

Her thoughts whirling wildly, she backed away from the door. He must have seen her come home. He’d probably staked out her house and lain in wait. It was too late to pretend she wasn’t here.

Struggling not to succumb to panic, she fled back into the kitchen, jerked her coat off the chair, and pulled it on. Then she threw her backpack over her shoulder—just as the doorbell sounded again.

“Be right there,” she called out, hoping to buy some time.

Knowing she only had seconds to escape him, she sprinted into her small home office, grabbed her laptop from the desk and shoved it into her bag. Then she knelt at the fake outlet beside the bookcase and pried the cover off. She pulled out her stash of emergency cash and added it to her bag, then took out her semiautomatic handgun and slammed a magazine home. She stuck the weapon into an outside pocket of the backpack and rose.

She spared a glance at the basement but instantly ruled it out. A cop wouldn’t come alone. He probably had a partner watching her backyard—including the tool shed, which hid the cellar door. But she’d prepared for this day, planning for this very emergency. She’d even bought an end-unit row house with this disaster in mind.

Moving faster now, she raced up her stairs to the guest bathroom, which faced the open side. Then she quietly pushed open the window and peered out into the night. The crisp autumn air chilled her face. The rumble of traffic from the D.C. beltway hummed its usual background noise. A car sped down the street, its headlights sweeping over the ancient oak tree growing beside the house and illuminating the edge of her fenced backyard.

No sign of a partner. Maybe the cop really had come alone.

Unwilling to take that gamble, she scrambled onto the windowsill and grabbed hold of the nearest branch, the cold bark rough on her palms. But then she paused, her throat tightening with a stab of regret. She was so damned tired of this. She’d spent more than half her life on the run, always looking over her shoulder, always terrified she’d be found. This row house was her first-ever attempt to set down roots, to lead something even remotely resembling a stable life. To have a garden, a home. To put an end to the utter loneliness that plagued her in the dead of night.

But she knew the futility of dreams. Predators ruled this brutal world, a lesson she’d learned at an early age. And unless she wanted to end up a victim, she had to go on the run again.

Jerking herself back to reality, she adjusted her grip on the tree branch and swung onto the sprawling limb. She crept to the trunk, inched over the huge, gnarled branch that stretched across the neighbor’s fence, then dropped onto their patio, landing with a muffled thud. Her heart racing, she darted into the bushes and hid.

For several seconds, she didn’t move. She held her breath, listening for signs that she’d been seen. But no one looked out the neighbor’s window; no one raised an alarm. Praying her luck would hold—and the cop would keep ringing her doorbell instead of circling around to the back—she snuck through the shadows to the gate and pressed her ear to the wood.

Silence.

Now came the risky part.

She had to exit through the alley. There wasn’t another way out. And she couldn’t wait; once that cop realized she’d fled the house, he would search the entire block—including the neighbor’s yard. She just hoped that if he did have backup, his partner would be watching her back door instead of the neighbor’s gate. Her pulse quickening, she cracked it open and peeked out.

She swept her gaze down the dark alley, over hulking, tomblike cars, past trash cans looming like phantoms in the quiet night. The cold wind gusted, ruffling the bushes lining the fence, but she seemed to be alone.

Now or never.

She sucked in a breath, swung the gate open wider and stepped through.

Just as the shadows leaped.

Chapter 2

Parker lunged at the woman fleeing the alley, a hot rush of fury fueling his steps. There was no way she was going to escape him, not after all this time.

“Stop! Police!” he ordered, grabbing hold of her shoulder. But she whipped around, catching him off guard, and rammed her elbow into his head. He staggered back at the sharp jolt of pain.

Damn. The woman could fight. But she still wasn’t getting away.

Shaking off the pain, he surged forward as she took off running again. His feet jackhammered the pavement. Shadows zipped past in the night. He put on a burst of speed, catching up to her in a few long strides. Then he went in low, locking his arms around her waist, and lifted her off her feet.

She twisted and thrashed like a hellcat, but he gritted his teeth and held on. She dropped her pack, snapped her arm back in another attempt to hit his head, but he ducked and dodged the blow. Then she reached down and grabbed his leg, jerking it up hard between hers. Thrown abruptly off balance, he fell.

Hell. He’d underestimated her. Again.

But this time he didn’t let go. He dragged her down to the pavement with him, his arms encircling her waist. She landed atop him a split second later, knocking the breath from his lungs. Grunting, he rolled over and pinned her down.

“Stop fighting,” he rasped between gasps for air. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m a cop. I only want to talk.”

But she wriggled and squirmed, managing to pin his arms to his sides with her legs before he anticipated her intent. Then she jabbed her finger beneath his ear, sending excruciating shocks sizzling through his nerves. White spots danced behind his eyes.

So she wants to fight dirty. He could accommodate that.

Furious now, he wedged his elbow around her knee and swung his leg over hers. Then he flipped her over, reversing their positions, and trapped her between his legs.

For a moment she went stone-still, her uneven gasps filling the night. Then she shoved against his chest, struggling to gain enough space to break free. But he bore down even harder, using his strength to make her stop.

Sweat trickled down his jaw. His breath seesawed in time to his careening pulse. After several futile attempts to get loose, she stopped.

“Let me go,” she cried, her voice muffled.

“Why should I?”

“I can’t breathe.”

He didn’t doubt it. He probably had seventy pounds of muscle on her.

“Please.” She sounded desperate now. “I...can’t...breathe.”

Unable to dredge up any sympathy, he steeled his jaw. “You going to talk to me this time?”

“Yes.”

“Somehow I’m not convinced.”

“I said I would.” Despite her predicament, temper flared into her voice.

“You’d better,” he warned. “You try running again, and I’ll hurt you for real this time.”

Too ticked off to trust her, he rolled over, positioning himself on top. Then he lumbered to his feet, every sense alert in case she tried to bolt. When she didn’t make a move to join him, he reached down and pulled her up. Still breathing heavily, he pulled out his badge and held it up.

“Put your hands behind your back and face the fence,” he ordered, taking out his handcuffs.

“What?”

“You heard me.” He wasn’t taking the chance that she’d run again.

“You have no right—”

“You ran from the police. You assaulted an officer. I don’t need another reason than that. Now turn around—unless you’d rather I haul you in.”

Her gaze flicked to his shield again. Even in the dim light trickling from a nearby row house, he could see her jaw go tight. But she turned and held out her hands.

Wary of another trick, he slapped on the handcuffs, the delicate feel of her wrist bones causing a startling burst of heat in his blood. Forget that she’s a woman, he reminded himself as she whirled around. She was a possible suspect in his brother’s death, the last one to see him alive, not a potential date.

He picked up the backpack she’d dropped and searched it, unearthing the small, semiautomatic pistol she’d hidden inside. Still keeping one eye on her, he removed the magazine. “You have a permit for this?”

Her gaze skidded away.

“Right.” Stupid question. He stuffed the gun in his jacket pocket and shouldered the bag.

Her eyes returned to his. “So what do you want?”

“Information.”

“You always tackle people you want to question?”

“You always climb out the window when someone knocks on your door?”

Her mouth pressed into a line.

“I’m here about Tommy McCall,” he added.

“Never heard of him.”

He ignored that blatant lie. “I suggest you remember fast, or I’ll haul you in for questioning.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that you have information about his death.”

“I told you. I don’t—”

“Your choice.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number, calling her bluff.

She held his gaze. Several tense seconds ticked past. “Fine,” she bit out at last. “You want to waste your time on useless questions, ask away.”

He pocketed the phone with a nod. “Let’s take this inside.”

Her jaw dropped. “You expect me to let you into my house?”

“You expect me to believe you won’t run if we stay out here?”

“How can I? You’ve got me in cuffs.”

“I’ll take them off inside.”

Her lips tightened again, distrust flickering in her shadowed eyes. Then she huffed out an angry breath. “All right, but I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time.”

Her staccato steps rapping the pavement, she led the way up the alley and back through her garden gate. Parker hugged her heels, unwilling to give her an inch of space. He wouldn’t put it past her to try to escape again, even wearing the cuffs. They crossed a tidy, fenced-in patio and entered her house through a mudroom door. Once inside, he snapped on the overhead light.

He continued trailing her into the kitchen, his gaze still glued on her rigid spine. They came to a stop, and he spared a glance around, noting the empty soup can on the granite counter, the time flashing on the microwave. A wrought iron table occupied one corner, one of its chairs overturned. A stack of newspapers covered the glass.

The top one showed the photo of her.

“All right,” she said. “Undo my hands.”

“You promise to answer my questions?”

“I said I would.”

He tossed her backpack onto the pile of papers and pulled out the handcuff key. He reached for her wrists and unlocked the cuffs, trying to ignore the alluring fragrance of her skin and hair. Then he stepped back, his impatience mounting as he waited for her to do her part.

But she took her time, righting the chair, taking off her peacoat and draping it over her bag. At last she turned to face him, and for the first time, he got a close look at her in the light. She was even more attractive than he’d expected with her wary green eyes and delicately winged brows, that long tumble of auburn hair. Her mouth was evocative and full, her high, sculpted cheekbones tinged with pink. A smattering of freckles dusted her small nose.

He raked his gaze down the rest of her—over her small, high breasts and slender waist, slim hips clad in low-slung jeans—and his heart began to thud. She looked amazingly like the computerized image, but softer, far sexier. More vulnerable.

Vulnerable? He stifled a snort. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

He returned his gaze to hers. And without warning, a sense of awareness arrowed between them, a deep tug of sexual attraction that caught him unprepared. His belly went taut, a rush of adrenaline accelerating his pulse.

He bit back hard on a curse. Wrong time. Wrong place. Definitely the wrong woman, considering she was a potential suspect in his brother’s death. And her reaction didn’t help—her eyes going wide and dark, her breath catching on a quiet gasp, impacting him even more.

“I need a drink,” she muttered, spinning around.

That made two of them.

“You want one?” she asked, as if reading his mind. “Whiskey?”

“Sure.”

Disgusted by his reaction, he looked away, but the sudden memory of her silky skin prompted another swarm of heat in his blood. So she appealed to him. So she attracted him in a gut-deep, visceral way. He had to nip his reaction fast.

Needing some mental distance, he took stock of her kitchen, the pile of junk mail spilling out of her trash can evidence of a recent trip. Then he shifted his gaze to her front room. This room was messier, more lived-in with magazines scattered about and a red sweater tossed over a chair.

But what really snagged his interest were the photographs arranged in groups on the walls. He eyed the nearest group—half a dozen shots of abandoned buildings in various stages of ruin—and couldn’t help but be impressed. She used shadow and light to bring out subtle details—peeling paint, ripples in the weathered wood—to stunning effect. The photos pulled at something inside him, managing to churn up his emotions somehow. The buildings seemed alive, forlorn, haunting in their decay.

Even more intrigued now, he slid another glance her way, watching as she fixed their drinks. Then he edged farther into the room, lured to a series of photos of street kids this time. The mix of innocence and betrayal in their faces slammed through him like a kick to the solar plexus, impossible to ignore. She’d captured the shocked dullness in their eyes, the weary cynicism made more poignant by their startling youth.

This woman didn’t hold back. She didn’t soften the brutal truth. She depicted these traumatized children with an intimacy born of experience, demanding a response.

Making him wonder who had betrayed her.

That rogue thought stopped him cold. He didn’t care about her past. He didn’t care why she’d run away from home. Somehow, this woman held the key to Tommy’s death—and he couldn’t forget that fact.

Turning back to the counter, he picked up the tumbler she slid toward him and took a sip, savoring the smoky taste as the whiskey glided down his throat. He arched a brow, impressed. “Great whiskey.”

Her gaze tangled with his, another wild flurry of attraction tripping his pulse. This close, he realized her eyes weren’t the green he’d originally thought, but a deep, slate-blue with golden starbursts—definitely unique. But nothing about this woman was typical, from her lethal street-fighting skills to the outrageous talent in her work.

Another flush suffused her cheeks. “I don’t see the point of drinking rotgut.”

She could definitely afford better, given the money her photos earned. “So what does the B in B. K. Elliot stand for?” he asked.

“Brynn.”

That suited her. “Why the pseudonym?”

“I like my privacy.”

“Most people would like the fame.”

“I’m not most people. Is that a crime?”

No, but running away from a murder scene was. Not to mention pulling the trigger. “I’m here about Tommy McCall,” he said, getting down to business. “What do you know about his death?”

“Nothing. I don’t know him. I told you that before.”

Right. He set the tumbler on the granite counter, pulled his brother’s old photo from his wallet and slapped it down. Then he pinned his gaze on hers.

For a minute she didn’t move. Her gaze dueled with his, her chin rising to a stubborn angle as she held her ground. But several seconds later, she broke the connection and glanced down.

The color leached from her face. Freckles stood out on her suddenly pasty skin. Fearing she might faint, he lunged across the kitchen toward her, but she grabbed the edge of the counter and held on. Emotions rippled through her eyes—shock, sorrow, regret.

“Where...” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “Where did you get this?”

“He’d hidden it under the insole in his shoe.” The shoe Parker hadn’t inspected until years after his death, when he’d finally decided to dispose of his brother’s clothes.

He’d shown the photo to the head of C.I.D.—by then, his boss—who’d agreed to reopen the case. But no one remembered the girl by then. The witnesses who’d seen her leaving the crime scene had long since disappeared. And after several futile months spent canvassing the area, the case was closed for good.

Until now.

He pocketed the photo again. “How well did you know him?”

Her hand shaking, she picked up her glass and drained it in a single gulp. “Not well. We talked a few times on the streets, that’s all.”

He doubted that. Tommy wouldn’t have kept that photo unless she’d mattered to him. But she’d barely been a teenager back then, far too young to be his girlfriend. More of a kid sister, perhaps?

“So what can you tell me about his death?” he pressed.

“Nothing.” She shook her head, the expression in her eyes still stark. “Why? What does it matter now? Why start asking questions after all this time?”

“His murder’s never been solved.”

“A lot of murders aren’t.”

True enough—which was exactly why the Colonel had made the homicide cold case squad his priority, allocating extra resources to the cause. But Parker had another reason to care. He took out his business card and tossed it down.

Brynn picked it up. Her face went pale again. “You’re Tommy’s brother?”

So Tommy had mentioned him.

“And you’re a detective.” She sounded numb.

“That’s right. And I want answers. Justice.” No matter how many years had passed.

“Justice?” She barked out a strangled laugh. “That would be a first, coming from a cop.”

Parker gritted his teeth, her accusation striking home. His father had been corrupt. He’d paraded as a model citizen—a decorated cop, a dedicated family man—until a police corruption sting had stripped away the illusion, exposing the truth behind the facade.

And then he’d taken the coward’s way out, leaving Parker to deal with the mess.

His suicide had ripped the family apart. Parker’s mother had turned into a recluse overnight. Tommy had rebelled, lashing out against authority and getting hooked on drugs. As a rookie cop, Parker had battled to save his job, struggling to live down his father’s reputation and prove that he wasn’t the same—a doubt that still lingered in the force, even after all this time.

“All cops aren’t bad,” he said, his voice flat.

“No?” She jerked her chin toward the photos on her walls. “Ask those kids about that. They can tell you about justice and the police.”

“They’d be wrong.”

“The hell they would.” Her voice turned hard. Her gold-flecked eyes darkened to steel. “They know a lot more about reality and justice than you do. They’ve been raped, robbed and abused—and the police don’t give a damn. The only thing they care about is power.”

He wanted to argue the point, to defend the life he led. But he didn’t have to justify his choices to a suspect. He hadn’t done anything wrong. And he wasn’t about to let her distract him from his brother’s murder—the reason he was here.

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” he said.

“That’s generous of you,” she snapped back. “But it’s not an opinion. It’s a fact.”

“Regardless, I still want answers about my brother, and you were the last person to see him alive.”

Her head came up. “What makes you think that?”

“Witnesses saw a girl matching your description running from the scene.”

Her jaw went slack. “You think I killed him?”

“Didn’t you?”

She stared at him, her eyes sparking with a kaleidoscope of emotions—shock, outrage and something else. Something that looked a lot like guilt. “Get out.”

“The hell I will.”

“I said to get out of my house.”

“Not without answers.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“I think you do.”

“You’re wrong.”

Not this time. This woman knew what had happened to Tommy. And after fifteen years trying to find her, he wasn’t going to back off now.

“Tommy was your friend,” he fired back. “He carried that photo around in his shoe. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Don’t you care what happened to him?”

“Care?” A flush climbed up her cheeks. Fury vibrated her voice. “You’re the one stirring up trouble. You’re going to get people hurt—innocent people who don’t deserve this grief. So don’t accuse me of not caring!”

“What people?”

Her lips pressed tight.

“What people?” he demanded again, stepping forward.

She bumped against the counter and stopped. “Leave me alone.”

“I can’t.”

“Everyone has a choice.”

And he’d made his. He’d vowed to bring his brother’s killer to justice, and he refused to stop until he did.

A shrill ring split the air. Their eyes waged a silent battle, tension crackling between them as the telephone rang again.

“I need to get that,” she said.

Parker braced his hands on his hips and scowled, refusing to let this drop. If Brynn hadn’t killed his brother, she knew who did. He’d bet his badge on that. He had to convince her to talk.

The telephone trilled again. When he still didn’t move aside, she arched a brow. “Do you mind? I really need to answer the phone.”

Cursing the interruption, he expelled his breath. “All right, but we aren’t done yet.” He inched aside, just far enough to let her pass.

Her eyes blazed into his for another heartbeat, her anger clear. Then she turned and stalked past the microwave to the phone. He lowered his gaze to her hands, tensing in case she tried to incapacitate him somehow. But in a move so quick he could hardly believe it, she lunged sideways, scooped up her coat and backpack then upended the table into his path.

He sprang into instant action, stumbling over the chair as he raced after her into the hall. But the split-second delay had given her a head start. She flung open the basement door and dove inside, slamming the dead bolt home just as he grasped the knob. Her steps thundered down the basement stairs.

Swearing, he rattled the knob. He rammed the door with his shoulder, but the thick wood didn’t budge. Unable to believe his stupidity, he ran through the mudroom and out the back, searching the shadows for a cellar door. But there was no other exit in sight.

The toolshed. He sprinted to the corner of the patio. The side gate hung ajar. He raced through it to the sidewalk, then stopped and turned in circles, scanning the empty street. The cold air brushed his face. A siren wailed in the quiet night.

But B. K. Elliot was gone.

Chapter 3

Brynn pressed deeper into her neighbor’s doorway, her entire body trembling as Parker McCall stalked into view. His sharp steps bludgeoned the brick sidewalk. Fury radiated off his powerful frame. He veered to a black pickup truck beneath a streetlight and leaped inside, then gunned the engine and roared away. Brynn held her breath, plastering herself flatter against the building as the truck’s high beams swept past. The engine’s growl faded into the night.

Thoroughly rattled, she sank to the cold cement door stoop and pulled her knees to her chest, her frenzied pulse refusing to slow. What a disaster. Her picture had appeared in the newspaper. Her identity had been revealed. Now Tommy’s brother had found her.

And he was a cop.

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.

A siren finally cut through the night, and Brynn expelled her breath. Thank God. The ambulance was nearly here. But then a new worry thrummed through her nerves. In seconds help would arrive—along with the police. They’d ask questions she couldn’t answer, scrutinize her in ways she couldn’t afford.

“Go,” Joan whispered again, echoing her thoughts.

Red lights flashed outside the window. The siren abruptly cut off. Torn by conflicting emotions, Brynn dithered over what to do. She couldn’t abandon Joan, not after her agent had worked tirelessly to safeguard her. But neither could she stay and let the authorities find her here.

“Hurry...”

“All right,” she agreed. “I’m going. But I’ll call you later at the hospital. And I’m hiring you a bodyguard. I’m going to make sure you stay safe.”

Voices filled the house. Footsteps hammered on the stairs. Her pulse accelerating, Brynn grabbed hold of her backpack and rose, then glanced around the room. The house had to have a servant’s staircase. All these historic places did. Spotting a likely cupboard beneath the eaves, she rushed around the bed, flung the small door open and stepped inside. Then she felt her way down the unlit staircase, a steep, narrow passage with shallow treads. Seconds later, she emerged in the office behind the kitchen and exited the house through the alley door.

But as she blended back into the night, questions whirled through her mind. Who had attacked her agent? Not Parker McCall; he didn’t fit Joan’s description of that snake tattoo. And she couldn’t see him harming a woman, no matter how angry he became. She’d repeatedly provoked him in the alley, and he’d refrained from hurting her.

So someone else was on her trail, someone connected to her past. Someone ruthless enough to harm an innocent woman to get to her.

The gang leader she’d witnessed executing his prisoner? Her stepfather? She shuddered hard at the thought. Both men were equally vicious. Both men wanted her dead.

And now that her photo had appeared in the newspaper, they would hunt her down, endangering anyone connected to her. And who would be next? Haley? The pregnant teenagers in her homeless shelter? Some unsuspecting passerby on the street?

But what could she do to stop them? If she spoke out, if she broke her vow of silence and revealed the truth, she would jeopardize Haley and Nadine.

They were in danger either way.

She lurched to a stop at a lamppost, leaning against it as she caught her breath. What about Parker McCall? Was there any chance she could trust him?

Her nerves coiled tight at the thought. She’d be crazy to trust him. The police always banded together. He’d take her stepfather’s word over hers.

Wouldn’t he?

She started jogging again, slower this time, thinking back to Parker’s face—his hot black eyes, the harsh angles of his square-cut jaw, that unbridled masculinity that seeped from every pore. The man was dangerous, all right, disrupting her equilibrium in ways she absolutely couldn’t afford. And he clearly wouldn’t give up. She hadn’t missed the resolve in those lethal eyes.

But behind that determination she’d caught a glimpse of something deeper, darker. Pain. He’d cared about his brother. Really cared. And that gave her a glimmer of hope. If she could control the information he gleaned, if she could keep him from unearthing too much too fast, maybe, just maybe, she could use him to her own end.

And maybe she was insane. Trying to control Parker McCall would be like riding one of those sixty-foot waves she’d seen in Hawaii one year. If she made a mistake, if she had one second of inattention, he’d crush her alive.

But did she have a choice?

Spotting a convenience store with a pay phone, she stopped. For several long moments, she debated what to do, combing through her options again. But one thing was crystal clear. She could no longer run. Joan’s attack had guaranteed that. She had to protect the people around her.

And Parker was her only hope.

Her belly tensing, she checked her watch. Less than two hours had passed since he’d left her house. She doubted he’d be asleep.

She was right. Two short rings later, his deep voice rasped into her ear. “Parker McCall.”

She inhaled to steady her nerves. “It’s me. Brynn Elliot. If you still want information about your brother, I’m willing to make a deal.”

Silence crackled across the line. “What kind of deal?” he finally asked.

“I’ll tell you in person.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow at noon.” She named a coffee shop on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. “And Parker...”

“Yeah?”

“Come alone or the deal’s off.” Not waiting for an answer, she hung up. Then she leaned back against the glass and hugged her arms, feeling as if she’d just stepped onto a high wire over Niagara Falls. She’d taken the plunge—but she had to watch her step. She had to keep her head, stay in control and somehow manage Parker McCall.

Before the killers destroyed them all.

* * *

Parker drummed his fingers on the round metal table inside the coffee shop the following afternoon, convinced that he’d lost his mind. He’d spent years obeying the rules, trying to live down his father’s legacy and prove he wasn’t corrupt. And now he was risking everything to meet with a possible suspect in his brother’s death—his reputation, his integrity, his job.

And for what? He already knew that he couldn’t trust her. She’d lied about knowing his brother. She’d fled the scene of his murder, evading the authorities for years. Even now she was trying to conceal her identity, eschewing money and fame to escape scrutiny, a sure sign she had something to hide.

And those bizarrely cryptic comments she’d made...What “trouble” was he stirring up? Which “people” was he going to hurt? Nothing but vague innuendos designed to paint her as the victim and throw his investigation off course.

He gulped down the last swallow of his espresso and checked his watch, then let out a huff of disgust. Insane is right. He’d risked everything he believed in to meet her here, and she would probably stand him up. If he had any sense he’d walk out now, turn the case over to his supervisor like he was supposed to and let him investigate Tommy’s death.

But then the door swung open and she strolled inside—her pale cheeks flushed, a black watch cap pulled low over her head, exposing the flame-colored ends of her hair. She still wore the same black peacoat and jeans and had that pack slung over her back. Her gaze collided with his, and she paused.

And damned if another shock of awareness didn’t sizzle through him, like a lightning strike to the gut. His heart began to thud, a predatory kind of alertness pinning him in place. And judging by her startled expression, she felt it, too—this crazy, magnetic pull.

Disgusted at his reaction, he scowled back. Appealing or not, B. K. Elliot was a suspect—one he wouldn’t underestimate again.

Her flush climbing higher, she gave him a cautious nod, then wove through the half-empty restaurant, heading his way. But as she neared, he picked up on subtle details—the slight crease puckering her brow, the grooves bracketing her lush mouth, the nervous way she kept scanning the restaurant like a criminal on the lookout for cops.

Even more on guard now, he watched as she took her seat. “You want something to drink?” he asked.

“No, thanks. I’m good.” She pulled off her cap and shook out her tousled hair, the deep hues catching the light. Then she glanced around the room again.

“Something wrong?”

“What? No.” Her gaze danced back to his.

She’s lying. The woman looked spooked as hell. “Something’s bothering you.”

“I just thought... You came alone like I told you, right?”

“I said I would.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone you were coming here?”

He cocked his head. “You accusing me of something?”

“No, I...I just needed to be sure.”

He worked his jaw, a spurt of annoyance hardening his voice. “I don’t lie, and I don’t go back on my word. I said I’d come alone, and I did. Now if you’ve got a problem with that, I need to know because I didn’t come here to play games.”

Hesitating again, she searched his eyes. “I thought someone followed me here. I guess I was wrong.”

Not quite willing to believe her, he crossed his arms. “So what’s this about a deal?”

She lifted her backpack onto her lap, pulled out a five-by-seven black-and-white photo and placed it on the table, facing him. “This girl. Do you know who she is?”

He dropped his gaze to the photograph. The girl was young, barely pubescent, with long blond braids and troubled eyes. He frowned, trying to place her, certain he’d seen her before. And then the memory broke loose. “You had a photo of her on your wall.” She’d been part of the homeless group.

“But you don’t know who she is?”

“Should I?”

Her eyes studied his again. She gave him a nod, as if he’d confirmed something she already suspected, and put the photo away. “Her name was Erin Walker. She was a runaway. I met her on the streets a while back.”

“Pretty young for a runaway.”

“Some kids grow up fast.”

He couldn’t argue that. “Go on.”

“The police picked her up and took her home. Her parents have money, so they sent her to High Rock Camp. It’s a place in western Maryland for at-risk youth, one of those wilderness therapy camps where they do survival things.”

“I know it.” In fact, his boss, Colonel Hugh Hoffman—the head of Baltimore’s Criminal Investigation Division—had founded the camp. And it was a great success, generating so much positive publicity it had spawned imitations in other states. It had even impressed Senator Alfred Riggs, who’d taken the Colonel under his wing, fast-tracking his political career.

“Erin died there,” Brynn continued. “Supposedly she committed suicide.”

Parker nodded, not sure where she was going with this. “Sad, but it happens.”

“Not usually with a girl that young.”

He studied her blue-gold eyes. “You don’t believe she committed suicide?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t have enough information to decide. Her family refuses to talk. She was a minor, so the papers didn’t release any details. And the camp doesn’t want bad publicity, so they’ve kept everything hushed up.”

Realization dawned. “You want me to look into her death.”

“I’d like to see the autopsy report and photos so I know for sure.”

“Why?”

Her gaze slid away. “She was a friend. I feel I owe her that much.”

Another lie. Or at least not quite the truth. “Forget it.”

Her gaze shot back to his. “What?”

“I said no deal.”

“You’re turning me down? But why?”

“Because you’re lying.”

“I’m not—”

“The hell you aren’t. You’ve been lying to me from the start. You said you didn’t know my brother. You claimed you didn’t know about his death. You even lied about answering that phone. I doubt anything you’ve told me is true.”

Her eyes went dark. A flush returned to her cheeks. “You can’t expect me to tell you everything. I don’t even know you.”

“Baloney. If you didn’t think you could trust me, you wouldn’t have proposed this deal. Now you’re sitting here telling half-truths while I’ve played straight with you from the start.”

“I’m not lying about this girl.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want. But I’m telling you the truth, as much as I can right now.”

Neither of them moved. Her angry gaze stayed locked on his. Tension crackled between them, like the atmosphere before a lightning storm.

And despite all evidence to the contrary, despite knowing that she’d lied, he realized she’d played him to perfection, piquing his interest about the case. Because if there was any chance she was right...

He shook his head, hoping the motion would dispel this lunacy and knock some sense back into his muddled brain. “It doesn’t matter. There’s still no deal.”

“But—”

“It’s not my case. It’s not even in my jurisdiction.” Questioning a potential suspect was one thing. But meddling in someone else’s investigation... “I’d be putting my job on the line—and for what? To satisfy your curiosity? To pass some sort of litmus test you’ve devised?”

“You want me to take a risk and tell you about Tommy’s death.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re right. It’s not the same thing at all. You might lose your job. Big deal. I’ve got more to lose than that.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing.” She shrugged into her coat and stood. “Forget it. I should have known I was wasting my time talking to a cop.” She swung her backpack onto her shoulder and stalked across the room, then shoved open the door to the street.

Parker scrambled to his feet, his temper mounting as he strode after her outside. What right did she have to test him? She was the suspect. He was the one who couldn’t trust her.

He caught up with her on the sidewalk and grabbed her arm. She wheeled around and glared back. “Get your hands off me.”

“Or what? You’ll elbow me in the head again?”

“I should.”

“Try it, and I’ll haul you in right now.”

“Fine. Go ahead and arrest me,” she countered, shaking her slender arm loose. “But you’ll never find out the truth that way.”

“You don’t think I can find out what happened to Tommy without your help?”

“I know you can’t.”

Parker opened his mouth to argue, but damned if she wasn’t right. She knew what had happened to Tommy. She’d been the last one to see him alive. For all he knew, she’d pulled the trigger and run away.

But what if she hadn’t? What if she’d witnessed his death instead—and knew who the killer was? What if innocent lives really were at risk? Could he give up the chance to find out?

And what if—God forbid—that kid at the camp had been murdered as Brynn thought? He’d sworn to obtain justice for victims, no matter how inconvenient the case. He was duty-bound to pursue the truth.

But he couldn’t do what she’d asked. Hoffman would fire him in a heartbeat—unless his supervisor canned him first. Delgado would leap at the chance.

“Look.” He tried to sound reasonable. “It’s not that I don’t want to help you—”

“Then do it.” Her eyes challenged his. “You’ve heard my conditions. I’ve told you what I want.”

He glowered back, his anger rising again. She didn’t understand what she was asking. Bad enough that he’d gone behind Delgado’s back, contacted the possible suspect in his brother’s death and then failed to bring her in. That alone could get him suspended. He could try to spin his involvement and claim he was verifying Brynn’s identity before handing the case to his boss. No one with half a brain would buy the excuse, and for all his faults, Delgado wasn’t a fool. But it might be enough to let Parker escape with a reprimand instead of losing his badge.

But he had no business snooping in Erin Walker’s file. It wasn’t his case. It wasn’t in his jurisdiction. This wasn’t even remotely connected to him.

Even worse, the kid had committed suicide at Colonel Hoffman’s camp. If the C.I.D. chief learned Parker was meddling in his affairs—and sharing sensitive information with an unauthorized civilian—there wasn’t an excuse on earth that could save his ass.

But he’d already failed his brother once. He couldn’t renege on his promise to find his killer, too.

And he’d searched for this woman for fifteen years. He’d be damned if he’d turn her over to Delgado, then be forced to beg his supervisor for details about his brother’s case.

Or worse, have him refuse to reopen the investigation and forfeit forever his chance to learn the truth.

Quelling his protesting conscience, he sighed. “All right. Give me your phone number. I’ll look into it and get back to you.”

She shook her head. “We’re doing this together.”

“Forget it. You’ll just have to trust me.”

“I’m not that big a fool.”

“And yet, you expect me to trust you.”

Her mouth turned flat. She folded her arms, her eyes still trained on his. And his grudging respect for her rose. She certainly wasn’t a pushover.

“You can’t come with me,” he said. “Her records won’t be stored here. They’ll be in Washington County—the district where she died. I’ll have to make some calls, see if they’ll fax a copy to me.” Assuming he could fabricate a plausible excuse—without his boss finding out. “But I’ll meet with you as soon as I’m done. That’s my final offer.”

Still looking reluctant, she managed a nod. “Fine. Then we have a deal?”

She offered him her hand. Against his better judgment, he enfolded it in his, the soft, feminine feel of her skin sending a spasm of heat through his blood. Grimacing at his reaction, he dropped her hand and stepped back.

He’d definitely lost his mind. This woman was a danger on too many levels to count. And he’d better keep his wits about him if he hoped to survive.

Chapter 4

Parker wasn’t naive. He understood the need to bend the rules at times if it contributed to the greater good. The problem was, once a man crossed into that gray zone, once he’d blurred the distinction between right and wrong, it became harder to redraw the line.

His father had proven that.

But now here he was, following in his doomed father’s footsteps. Because he couldn’t sugarcoat his actions. He was breaking the rules, pure and simple—the one thing he’d sworn he would never do.

For Tommy’s sake, he reminded himself fiercely. He was fulfilling his promise to his brother and trying to find his killer the only way he could.

But that still didn’t make his actions right.

Cursing the predicament Brynn had put him in, he neared the homicide office—with its fax machine—and glanced around. So far so good. No one had paid any attention to him. Now he just had to slip inside, grab the faxed file off the machine and leave before anyone noticed him here.

Then he’d be done with this subterfuge for good.

He shot another glance back, then stepped inside the room, the din of ringing phones and voices quieting a notch. Getting the file faxed over hadn’t been easy. The overworked people out in western Maryland hadn’t wanted to fill his request. He’d had to use the Colonel’s name, claiming that Hoffman wanted to check the file because of the potential scandal involving the camp. Three uncooperative people later, Parker finally found someone willing to take the time to send him the file without verifying it with Hoffman first.

Picking up his pace now, he walked past the massive copier, dodged the boxes of paper stacked beside a work table and headed to the fax machine. But a rail-thin, silver-haired woman blocked his path, and his hopes instantly tanked. Terry “The Terror” Lewis. The woman who’d investigated his father. She stood beside the machine, holding a sheath of papers—the file he’d requested, no doubt.

His luck had just run out.

She turned at his approach. “Detective McCall,” she rasped in her smoker’s voice. She held up the papers, disapproval on her narrow face. “What are you doing with this?”

So she’d noticed his name on the cover sheet. He couldn’t feign ignorance now. “Just checking the records for a case.”

She frowned, her ice-blue eyes nearly level with his. “Which case is that?”

Parker hesitated. Technically, he didn’t have to answer. Even though she outranked him, Lieutenant Lewis worked in the Criminal Intelligence Section and wasn’t in his chain of command. But she was smart. She’d sniff out any deception fast. Better to sprinkle in enough truth to allay suspicions—and lend his answer legitimacy in case she checked.

“Susie Smith.”

“The kid they found in the Inner Harbor?”

“Right. She was from Emmitsburg. I’m checking the deaths in that general area during the past few years to see if they’re related.”

She arched a brow. She wasn’t buying it—and he didn’t blame her. The connection was ludicrous at best. And this woman was nobody’s fool. Even Hoffman knew better than to take her on.

But he had no choice but to brazen it out. He held out his hand for the file. “Do you mind?” he asked.

She hesitated, obviously reluctant to give it up, then she slapped it into his hand. Parker tucked it under his arm, giving her what he hoped was a civil nod.

He didn’t dislike Terry Lewis, exactly. He probably would have admired her if she hadn’t tried to bring him down. She’d simply been doing her job, conducting an investigation into a towing scam in the traffic unit when she’d stumbled on an even more serious plot. Defying warnings from her fellow officers, she’d persevered, bucking the hallowed Blue Code of Silence to uncover the truth, that his father had extorted payments from prostitutes and drug dealers—a revelation that had rocked the force.

But then she’d turned her suspicions toward him.

And, suddenly, the irony struck him hard. After all those years obeying the rules, after all those years trying to show that he wasn’t the criminal she believed, he was finally proving her right.

Without a word, he exited the room. Then he strode down the corridor to the stairwell, feeling her eyes boring into his back. Perfect. He’d managed to get a copy of the dead girl’s file. But he’d tipped off Terry “The Terror” Lewis.

He hoped it was worth the cost.

* * *

“This had better be worth it,” he muttered an hour later as he slid into the seat across from Brynn. He’d arranged to meet her at a fast-food restaurant far enough from police headquarters to avoid running into anyone he knew.

“Problem?” She tilted her head to meet his eyes.

“No.” Not yet.

“Then you got the file?”

“I got it.” But at what price? Trying not to dwell on the potential fallout, he set the folder on the table and opened it to the top page.

She leaned across the booth to see. Her hair swung loose, strands a deep, rich shade of chestnut mingling with the brighter red. And despite his vow to keep his distance, her beauty swamped his senses; the subtle, feminine scent of her seeping into his blood. His gaze dropped to her sensual lips, the elegant line of her slender throat, then back to her glorious hair. He curled his hands, the urge to plunge them through that thick mass hard to resist.

She turned her head, and her gaze collided with his. Her eyes turned wide and dark. Her breath made an audible hitch, propelling his pulse into a sprint. So she wasn’t immune. So she felt the chemistry zinging between them—no matter how inappropriate it was.

He jerked his gaze back to the file and frowned. It didn’t matter what she felt. Having an affair with her would be nuts. He’d already jeopardized his career by accessing the deceased girl’s file. He wasn’t about to compound his mistakes by getting involved with a potential suspect, too.

No matter how intriguing she was.

“Here’s the initial incident report,” he said, his voice brusque. “She was reported missing at 7:00 a.m. They searched the grounds, and a staff member discovered her body by the old Forest Service lookout tower at ten. The paramedics arrived at 10:35.”

“That seems slow.” She kept her eyes averted, but pink patches flagged her cheeks.

“The camp’s in the mountains, in an isolated area.” He checked the report. “The ambulance came from Emmitsburg. That’s the nearest place. But it wouldn’t have made a difference either way. She was already dead.”

He waited while Brynn finished reading, still struggling to keep his gaze from her. Then he continued paging through the report—the interviews with the other children, statements from the counselors, the psychologist’s assessment of her mental state.

A picture gradually emerged. Erin Walker had gone to bed at 9:00 p.m., the official lights-out time. She’d been in her cabin an hour later, presumably asleep, when the counselor had conducted her nightly rounds. No one had guessed her plans. No one had seen her leave her bed. No one had even missed her until reveille the following day. She’d been quiet in the days preceding her disappearance, but her behavior hadn’t raised any flags. In fact, she’d been making progress—staying off drugs, participating in the camp activities, cooperating with the other kids.

Parker turned to the photos next. The first shot showed the historic lookout tower in a clearing amid the trees. Next came a close-up of the dead child’s body—her skull bashed, her neck at an unnatural angle, the ground around her saturated with blood.

His stomach pitching badly, he spared a glance at Brynn. Every trace of color had fled her face. “Are you all right?”

She swallowed visibly, her eyes huge in her bloodless face. “It’s not easy to look at.”

“Death never is.” The wooden tower was ninety feet high, and the girl’s small body bore the results of her fall. “It’s worse when you know the person. The photos I saw of my brother...” He shook his head, not wanting to revisit the horror of Tommy’s death. But those crime scene photos still plagued his nightmares, even after all this time. Not to mention the gruesome memories of his father’s death.

Brynn’s gaze connected with his. And the compassion in her eyes caused a sliver of warmth to unfurl in his chest. She’d cared about his brother—which begged the question: What role did she have in his death?

But they would discuss Tommy soon enough. He had to fulfill his part of the bargain first.

Steering his mind back to Erin Walker, he flipped to the next photo. Even though he’d braced himself, the close-up view made his stomach clench. How much worse would this be for Brynn?

“You said you met this girl on the streets?” he asked, hoping to distract her from the gore.

“That’s right.”

“Any idea why she ran away?”

Her face still chalky, she managed a shrug. “The same reason they all do, I guess. They’re desperate. Some are neglected or abused. Or their parents have started a second family and don’t want them around. Or sometimes they’ve made a mistake—committed a crime or gotten pregnant—and they’re afraid their parents will go berserk. In Erin’s case, she used drugs.”

“Like Tommy.”

“Yes, like Tommy.” Sympathy softened her eyes. “They’re confused, angry, ashamed. They can’t control their feelings and don’t know how to repair the damage they’ve done. And they don’t think anyone will help.”

Guilt fisted in Parker’s throat. He shifted his gaze to the plate-glass window and stared unseeing at the afternoon rush-hour traffic whizzing past. He and Tommy hadn’t been close. The five-year gap in their ages had kept them apart. When he’d gone off to college, his brother had still been in junior high. But to think that Tommy preferred the violence of street life to asking him for help...

“I tried to help him,” Parker said, his voice low. “I took him to counselors, enrolled him in programs. But nothing worked.” Their battles had only grown more heated until his brother had split for good.

“It’s hard to reach an addict. The chemicals change how they think. I tried to help Erin, too. But in the end I only made things worse.”

“How do you figure that?”

Her eyes turned pained. “I convinced her to go to a shelter, a place I know for teenage girls. She was there for a couple of days, and then her parents picked her up. I thought I’d done the right thing. She told me she wanted to get clean. And her parents had the resources to help her. They got her into that expensive camp.”

“You don’t think you caused her death?”

A bleak look filled her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head. “Maybe not directly. But she’d probably be alive right now if I hadn’t persuaded her to go home.”

He could relate to that. How many times had he second-guessed himself, wishing he’d done something—anything—different with Tommy, something that might have saved his brother’s life?

His gaze stayed on hers. And something shifted inside him, like a long-locked door creaking open to admit the light. And he knew that she understood. She carried the same burden of guilt, the same unending remorse.

Suddenly, his mind flashed back to the image of that scrawny girl standing beside his brother, and he wondered again what had driven her from home.

He tamped down on the question hard. He didn’t need to know Brynn’s life story. He didn’t need to forge a connection with her. And he definitely couldn’t afford to desire her, not when she could be a suspect in his brother’s death.

Although he was beginning to have doubts about that.

Alarmed, he jerked his gaze back to the file. What was he thinking? He was breaking the fundamental rule of police work, letting her get to him. He had to keep his distance, hold on to his objectivity to find out the truth about Tommy’s death.

“Here’s the autopsy,” he said. Still appalled at the direction of his thoughts, he checked the diagnosis at the top. “She died of blunt force trauma, consistent with falling from that tower. The toxicology studies show she’d taken meth.”

Keeping his gaze fastened on the file, he skimmed the various sections of the report—the internal and external exams, the degree of rigor mortis, the evidence taken from the scene.

“Who did the autopsy?” Brynn asked.

“The State Medical Examiner in Baltimore. That’s standard procedure in a case like this.”

“I didn’t see anything about sexual activity.”

“She was twelve.”

“And she’d spent time on the streets.”

True enough. And runaways rarely stayed innocent for long. He flipped back to the internal exam, then checked the diagnosis again. “Here it is. She had scarring consistent with sexual activity. But there was nothing to suggest it was recent—no semen present, no abrasions or inflammation that would indicate a rape.”

He spread his hands. “The cause seems obvious. She was a drug user with meth in her system, and she either jumped or fell from that tower.”

But Brynn didn’t look convinced. “You mind if I look at the file again?”

“Go ahead.” He slid the folder her way. “But there’s no evidence to suggest foul play—no bruising on her neck, no signs of any force. No other footprints around the tower. The surveillance camera was down that night, but even so, the case looks cut-and-dried.”

“She swore she was getting off drugs.”

“So she had a relapse. It wouldn’t be the first time an addict did that.”

“I know. But I still have a feeling...” Pulling the folder closer, she began leafing through the pages again, her delicate brows drawn down.

He understood her reluctance to accept the truth. It was always easier to blame someone else than live with relentless guilt. But unless she had evidence she wasn’t revealing, her suspicions had no basis in actual fact.

Suddenly, she sat upright. He snapped his gaze to hers. “What is it?”

It took her a moment to answer. She thumbed back through the photos again, nibbling her bottom lip. Then she slid a photo toward him. “Did you see this?”

Parker focused on the dead girl’s face. Around her neck she wore a necklace, a silver disk on a matching chain. On it was a design—hearts within a heart. “What about it?”

“It’s not in all the photos for one thing.” She flipped back through several shots. Sure enough, in every other photo, her neck was bare—a detail he couldn’t believe he’d missed.

“Maybe it fell off when they moved her.”

“It isn’t mentioned in the report. It isn’t listed with her personal effects.”

He frowned at that. “You think someone stole it?”

“I don’t know. Why would they? It doesn’t look valuable enough.”

True. It looked like costume jewelry, something a young girl would wear. “Maybe one of her friends kept it as a memento.”

“What friends? She didn’t have any, according to those reports. And that design.” She went back to the necklace again. “See how irregular it is? The lines aren’t even straight. It looks as if she engraved it herself.”

“Maybe she did. Maybe she made it at the camp.”

“Maybe.” Heavy doubt laced her voice. “But I’ve seen something like it before....”

She pulled her laptop from her backpack, placed it on the table and turned it on. Then she opened a folder in her portfolio and started browsing through various shots.

Parker returned to the Walker girl’s file and carefully reread the reports, but Brynn was right. There was no mention of the missing necklace. So where had it gone—and why?

Still not sure it mattered, he switched his attention to Brynn’s computer as she searched her files. Faces paraded past, hundreds of poignant faces of emaciated, runaway kids. Everyone looked tormented. Everyone looked lost. Everyone had that unnerving cynicism in his waiflike eyes.

And once again, Brynn’s amazing talent leaped from the screen, the juxtaposition of innocence and despair wrenching the viewer like a primal scream.

No, it was more than talent, he decided. She had the rare ability to erase the distance between the subject and herself. She knew these kids. She was these kids. Their lives had been her own.

Which revealed more about her than she probably knew.

Brynn paused. “Here. Take a look at this.”

Leaning even closer, he studied the photograph she’d brought up. It showed a young girl standing in a row house doorway, her tight top and skimpy shorts emphasizing the stark angles of her sticklike frame. Heavy black makeup rimmed her drugged-out eyes, giving the impression of a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.

But this wasn’t a game. This girl lived a hellish existence, enduring unspeakable acts of depravity to survive.

And she wore the same type of silver necklace with that same multiple-heart design.

“Her name’s Jamie,” Brynn said, enlarging the shot. “I met her a couple of months ago near Ridgewood Avenue.”

Parker scrutinized the necklace. The engraving on this one looked as amateurish as the first. “What do you think it means?”

“Maybe nothing,” she admitted. “It just strikes me as odd that two runaway girls, both drug addicts, are wearing the same hand-engraved necklace. Now one of them is dead—and her necklace has disappeared.”

“You think they both went to that camp?”

“Maybe.” But her skeptical tone belied her words.

“You think someone killed Erin Walker there?”

“I don’t know.”

But she suspected foul play. At the C.I.D. chief’s camp. An allegation that could create a firestorm and torpedo the Colonel’s career.

Not to mention his.

And unless he missed his guess, her doubts didn’t only spring from the missing necklace. She had another reason she wanted to pursue this case, something she didn’t want to divulge. But exactly what that could be, he didn’t know.

“I just want to find out for sure,” she added.

“How?”

“Ask this girl, Jamie, where she got her necklace to start with.”

Parker sat back and rubbed his jaw, mulling over what to do. He didn’t have to help her. He’d fulfilled his part of the bargain and shown her the Walker girl’s file. There was no reason to drag this out, no reason for him to stay involved.

Except that necklace had disappeared. That kid had died at his boss’s camp. And she had meth in her system, despite having sworn off drugs. None of which proved any wrongdoing. None of which was necessarily suspicious or pointed to any crime.

But Brynn was right. Something about this case felt off. His instincts were clamoring hard. And it was his duty to investigate a murder—even if it cost him his job.

“All right. I’ll go with you,” he decided, hoping he wouldn’t regret it. Brynn was dragging him into this case deeper, leading him down a path he might lament.

But he couldn’t back out yet.

* * *

A short time later, they parked in the alley behind a flophouse near the intersection of Ridgewood Avenue and Garrison Boulevard where the young prostitute plied her trade. His weapon drawn, Parker took the lead through the basement entrance, picking his way over tarps and sheets of plywood to the stairs.

“Police!” he shouted, heading up the musty, unlit staircase to the lower floor. No answer. His heart thudding hard, he called out again. “Police! I’m coming through the door!”

His gut tense, every sense alert for danger, he stepped into the trash-strewn hallway and aimed his gun around. Damn, but he hated dealing with junkies. They’d jump him or stab him with a needle before he could even blink.

A muffled sound came from a nearby room. Bingo. “I know you’re in there. I want to see your hands. Have them up where I can see them. Now I’m coming in.”

He waited a beat, giving the occupants a chance to get their hands up, then kicked open the door and stepped inside. A young girl huddled on the floor atop a threadbare blanket. Her scrawny arms were scabbed, her legs swollen from shooting heroin through her toes. She appeared to be alone.

To be sure, he scanned the room, taking in the spray-painted walls, the bottles and needles littering the floor—evidence that the action picked up as the sun went down. Smells he didn’t care to identify assaulted his nose. “Is anyone else here?”

She gave him a sullen look. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

Still watching for sudden moves, Parker kicked aside her purse. Her mild-mannered appearance didn’t fool him. He’d seen far meeker junkies than this kid suddenly snap. “Keep your hands in your lap,” he warned.

Brynn pushed past him into the room. Ignoring the potential danger, she went to the girl’s side, clutching a grease-soaked fast-food bag. His nerves still edgy, Parker reluctantly lowered his gun.

But as hesitant as he was to pursue this case, he couldn’t help but admire Brynn. She’d charged down the street, ignoring the thugs hanging out in the shadows as she scoured the boarded-up row houses for the teenage girl. And she had the uncanny ability to blend in. In the newspaper she’d looked like a wealthy shopper strolling through the upscale shops. Now she looked younger, scruffier, almost like a street kid herself in her sneakers and faded jeans.

“Hey, Jamie. Remember me?” Brynn asked.

The teenager blinked at Brynn. “Yeah. You’re that photographer.”

“That’s right.” Brynn handed her the bag of food.

Her eyes bloodshot, the teenager propped herself against the wall. She tore open the bag, then pulled out a fistful of French fries and crammed them into her mouth.

Parker turned his head to hide his distaste. Not that her hunger shocked him. During the months he’d searched for Tommy, he’d spent time questioning the prostitutes who worked the streets. He understood the desperation and addictions that drove them, the terror that chained them to their vicious pimps—even when it cost them their lives.

But that didn’t make their suffering any easier to take, especially in a girl this young.

And he wondered how Brynn could stand it, documenting this horror every day. But that was the point, he realized, his respect for her rising even more. She knew that most people went about their lives ignoring anything that disturbed their peace. They didn’t want to see the misery lurking in the shadows, the ugly reality these runaways faced. But her photos ripped them out of that complacency, refusing to let them turn their backs on these abandoned kids.

“I need to ask you something,” Brynn said to Jamie. “It’s about that necklace you had. The one with the hearts.”

Not bothering to look up, the girl continued to scarf down the fries.

“Do you still have it?” Brynn asked.

Jamie touched her neck, then shrugged. “Nope.” She tore the wrapper from the hamburger and took a bite.

“Do you remember where you got it?”

Her gaze flew to Brynn’s. “I didn’t steal it.”

“I know that,” Brynn said, her tone soothing. “It’s just...I wanted to get one like it, but it looked handmade. I thought maybe you’d remember where you got it.”

The teenager continued eating, but the wariness didn’t leave her eyes. “A friend gave it to me.”

“What friend?”

Jamie took another bite. “A girl I know.”

“Any chance she went to a place called High Rock Camp?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you find out?”

“Maybe,” she said around another mouthful of food.

Parker hesitated. He hated giving money to junkies, knowing they’d only spend it on drugs. But he needed to ensure her help. And maybe it would keep her from turning a trick. He pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and held it out. “We’d really like to find out where you got it.”

Jamie shot him a startled glance, as if she’d forgotten he was there. Then she quickly sized him up, her gaze far too worldly for her tender years. Parker curled his lip, revolted at the thought of the depravity this girl endured.

She reached up and snatched the bill. It disappeared into her blouse. “All right.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow afternoon,” Brynn said. “Does that give you enough time to find her and ask?”

Polishing off her burger, Jamie let out a muffled grunt. Then she turned her attention to her milkshake, sucking furiously on the straw.

Catching his eye, Brynn motioned for him to wait. She opened a side pocket on her backpack and pulled out a business card. “Listen, Jamie. A friend of mine runs this shelter for girls in D.C. Always Home. We’d like to take you there.”

“I don’t need help.”

“It’s a safe place. She has beds, food...” When the girl didn’t answer, she sighed. “Keep the card anyway, in case you change your mind. She’ll even send someone to pick you up. And if you don’t need it, you might know someone who does.”

Jamie took the card with a shrug. She slipped it into her pocket, then continued drinking her shake.

Turning, Brynn signaled for them to leave. Realizing the girl would only come back if he tried to evict her, Parker decided to forget it and led the way down the stairs. “Any chance she was telling the truth?” he asked when they’d reached the alley again.

Brynn swung her knapsack onto her shoulder and made a face. “I don’t know. Maybe. You never know with an addict.”

He slanted her a glance as they started walking toward the corner, their feet crunching over broken glass. The sun dipping behind the buildings added shimmers to her fiery hair, enveloping her in a glow. “You seem to know a lot about drug addicts.”

“I wasn’t a user, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve just dealt with them on the streets.”

Which once again brought up the question—why had she fled her home? Before their partnership ended, he was going to learn what made this woman tick.

“Is that how you met my brother?” he asked instead. “On the streets?”

She nodded. “A guy was hassling us. Tommy intervened.”

“Us?”

She squinted into the waning sunshine. A car rumbled past on the nearby street, the deep drum of its subwoofers vibrating his chest.

“Two girls I knew,” she finally said. “We hung out together near the Inner Harbor. Tommy became our protector. He watched out for us when he could.”

“You’re saying he helped you?”

She came to a stop. Tilting back her head, she met his eyes. “Why are you so surprised? He was a good guy, Parker. He had problems, and he made plenty of mistakes, but he was still a good man at heart. You should be proud.”

Proud? Parker shook his head, trying to reconcile this version of his brother with the defiant teenager who’d run away from home. “I don’t know. He’d changed so much toward the end. I hardly knew him anymore.”

“That was the drugs. Addicts become obsessed. If you threaten their addiction, they lash out. But he admired you, Parker. He mentioned you sometimes.”

His heart wobbled hard. He struggled to draw a breath, his chest suddenly too tight. The year after his father died had been pure hell—coping with his father’s treachery, dealing with Tommy’s addiction. All they’d done was fight. He’d figured that Tommy despised him, that he’d lumped him in with his father, considering the accusations he’d hurled his way.

“Helping a runaway isn’t easy.” Her voice was gentler now. “You can only do so much. After that, it’s up to them.”

Still grappling with his emotions, he met her eyes. And despite his vow to keep his distance, her understanding reeled him in. Tempting. Soothing. Making him ache to pull her closer and bask in her healing warmth.

Making him realize exactly how many years he’d felt alone.

His cell phone chimed. Returning to reality, he struggled to clear his head. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he stay objective around Brynn? He was falling under her spell, breaking the most basic rule of law enforcement and letting her get to him.

And he never got involved with a suspect. He never even dated a woman connected to the force. He kept his private life completely separate, what little there’d been of it these past few years.

His phone rang again. Grateful for the distraction, he pulled it from his jacket pocket and checked the screen. Delgado had sent him a text message. His pulse quickened as he pulled it up.

Donut break’s over. Get back here ASAP. The Colonel’s pissed.

He muttered a curse. Lieutenant Lewis must have contacted Colonel Hoffman and revealed that he’d requested a copy of the Walker girl’s file.

“Is something wrong?” Brynn asked.

Wrong? He’d just been caught in a lie. His job could be on the line. “I need to get back to the office.”

“I’ve got things I need to do, too,” she said quickly. “Why don’t we meet again tomorrow afternoon?”

Instantly suspicious, he snapped his gaze to hers. “Why not sooner?”

“I’ve got errands to run. I need a new cell phone, for one thing. And Jamie won’t be awake in the morning. I thought I’d visit that camp in the meantime and try to get an impression of the place.”

Not without him. He was already in this case too deep. And if there was any chance that kid had been murdered, he needed to know. “I’ll go with you. I’ll drive.”

Hesitating, she searched his eyes. “All right, we’ll go together. Ten o’clock?”

He nodded. “At your house?”

“No. I’m not going back there tonight.” She named a place downtown.

“Good.” Knowing that he owed her, he plunged his hand through his hair. “Listen, Brynn. About my brother—”

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow, okay? When we’ve got more time?”

“Tomorrow, then.”

She spun on her heels and walked away. He watched her merge into the shadows, her slender hips swaying, her russet-colored hair a beacon in the encroaching night. And suddenly, he realized he was reluctant to let her go.

And it had nothing to do with his brother’s death.

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