Dear Reader
Bryn Eastman refused to think about the bullet that had pierced her abdomen. She would not fixate on how her attacker’s gloved hands had wrapped around her throat or how she’d let down her guard and almost died a year ago.
Her nerves pulsed anyway as she slid into her FBI windbreaker. Her first case since the shooting.
Slivers of October moonlight snaked between the autumn leaves. Yellow crime scene tape beckoned her toward the grove of towering trees. Blue lights slashed the dark as flashlight beams swiveled across the ground. Camera crew vans lined the parking lot, morbidly eager for a story.
Special Agent in Charge Towerman had brought Bryn up to speed CliffsNotes-style. She hadn’t been back in Memphis long enough for the detailed version. Tonight’s victim made number four. She’d been left in Overton Park for families, children—the world—to view. An ache thumped in Bryn’s gut and spread into her chest.
She stared at the frenzy.
Would the lead homicide detective welcome FBI assistance? Welcome a female’s assistance? Experience told her he wouldn’t, but she hoped so anyway. This was a man’s world she maneuvered through. And while there were many who accepted her as an equal, there were just as many more who didn’t think a woman had any business in law enforcement.
She’d spent almost a decade validating that she was able, strong and brave.
Until Ohio had shaken her to the core.
This string of murders had Memphis, and the mayor, in a panic. Victimology was Bryn’s expertise. So here she was, even though SAC Towerman had been reluctant to send her in.
She needed this chance to confirm that she was still capable. Still brave. Still strong. Bryn yearned to bring justice for the victims whose lives had been tragically taken, and she needed to be in the field to accomplish that.
The question was, could she rise above the jitters and insecurity and give the grieving families her very best? She owed it to them. And she needed to prove herself to SAC Towerman. Then she could stay in the field, not chained to the desk where he’d planted her the minute she stepped foot in the Memphis field office.
She locked her car, squared her shoulders and strode across the parking lot toward the crime scene. Pausing as she neared the tape blocking civilians and the news crew, she swallowed a hard lump in her throat and stifled the eerie sensation of being watched.
This wasn’t Cleveland.
Showing her creds to the uniformed officer, she slipped under the crime scene tape, ignoring the caterwauls of the news crew begging for information. FBI on the scene had their mouths salivating and their heads spinning.
Did they even know this latest victim was the morning talk show host for Wake-Up Memphis? She strode toward the tree line. The crime unit was in place. A man dressed in jeans and a fitted black leather jacket accenting his broad shoulders—his hair as dark as the jacket—stood near a woman examining the body. She hadn’t admired a man in a long time. Shouldn’t be admiring one now, but he was hard not to notice.
A stocky older man with gray hair stepped from the shadows. Pug nose and potbelly. He held up his badge. Deputy chief of investigative services. “Agent Eastman?”
“That’s me.” She smiled and corralled her flimsy windbreaker. “We appreciate you calling us in. Whatever we can do to help, we will.”
He extended his hand, and she shook it. “We’re glad to have you. Your reputation precedes you. I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect you to be so young.”
She was only twenty-eight, but some days Bryn felt ancient. “I’m up to the task.” She had to be. Lives depended on her. No room for failure.
“I believe you, and we’re ready to work in tandem. Let us know what you need.” No indication he was blowing smoke. But it wasn’t the chief she had to work with directly. It was the lead detective who she now suspected might be the man in the leather jacket—the man whose hair and physique caught her eye and quickened her pulse.
The deputy chief motioned for her to follow him. Yep. Guy in the leather.
“Special Agent Eastman, meet Detective Eric Hale. He’s the lead on the case.”
A needle ripped across one of the many records in her memory. She’d packed that name away. Okay, maybe not packed it away, but she’d definitely not played it on the turntable of her mind in a while. Not since they’d been a serious couple nearly a decade ago. The song was too haunting.
He turned around and she could finally see his face. Time had been good to him. His boyish appearance was masked by a couple of days’ worth of dark scruff gracing his chin and cheeks. It suited him. Appealed more than she’d ever admit. Bryn’s heart skittered.
Guess he hadn’t played her record in a while, either. His eyes were wide and swirling with questions. Bryn had prayed they wouldn’t ever meet again; the pain would be unbearable. Even now she felt the punch, knocking the breath from her. Those prayers, like so many before, had fallen on deaf ears. She’d given up on prayer. Given up on faith. On God. He’d taken too much from her.
She thrust her clammy hand out, hoping for an air of confidence and that Eric wouldn’t refuse it and humiliate her in front of her peers. It wasn’t his style, but he’d have every right to.
Her older brother had murdered his sister, Abby, seven years ago.
Eric glanced at her hand and slowly clasped it. Firm but not crushing. Still warm and encompassing. Her throat dried out. She’d missed his touch.
“Fancy meeting you here.” His eyebrows quirked. Humorous as always, but underneath the light tone he’d tried to pull off, Bryn registered confusion. A truckload of shock. When she’d left Memphis—and him—she’d been on the women’s swim team at Rhodes College thanks to a scholarship. No intentions of ever becoming a cop—like Eric.
But then Abby died, and the world changed. Bryn changed.
She cleared her parched throat and assessed the scene, struggling to find her voice. “Not sure fancy is the right word. But here I am.”
“How?” He scratched the back of his head. “I thought... Weren’t you... Didn’t you... I mean, when?” His brow wrinkled.
“We’ll get to all that,” she whispered, wishing things didn’t have to be so complicated and confusing. “For now, you mind filling me in?” Bryn studied the woman lying atop gnarly tree roots that rose from the sparse grass, fully clothed with hair still damp and clumped to her cheeks. She never got used to this. Hoped she would never become hardened like some agents.
Eric pointed to the victim. “Bridgette Danforth, cohost of the Wake-Up Memphis morning talk show. She appears to have been drowned like the other three women before her. All
