prayed for the girls of Westfield Manor and for the feel of solid ground again as the plane lifted off and turned southeast.
“LAURA?” ROURKE DIDN’T look all that happy to see her as he opened the door of the cabin and found her on his doorstep. Behind him, Laura could see a bag of groceries on the counter inside and his suitcase open on the bed in the small bedroom.
“Nice to see you, too, Rourke,” she said as she pushed past him, angry with herself for coming here. Why hadn’t she just dropped the photos and the preliminary profile in the mail?
“Sorry, it’s just that you were the last person I expected to see at my door,” he said as he shut the door and followed her into the three-room cabin. “How did you find me?”
Laura rolled her eyes and said, “Seriously? I was shot in the leg, not in the head.” She glanced around the cabin at the rustic Western furnishings. They looked authentic. “Interesting digs. It must take you back to growing up in Wyoming. You look as if you never left,” she said, motioning to the stubble at his jaw and the way he was dressed.
He glanced around, before returning his gaze to her. “The cabin suits me since I’m not going to be here long. Laura...”
She could tell that showing up like this had him off balance. It surprised her. In all the time she’d known Rourke, he never seemed to get flustered. It made her all the more tense and anxious about coming here.
“I’d offer you a drink,” he said, “but I just picked up bare necessities so far. I haven’t even unpacked,” he said, motioning to his open suitcase in the bedroom.
“But you’ve met her.” Laura swore he almost blushed. She bit back a curse. “So, what’s she like?” she asked, hating how deep her jealousy cut.
“Not what I expected,” he said, moving to the woodstove.
Laura watched him throw more wood on the fire, his back to her. The Montana night was colder than she’d expected. Seattle weather had spoiled her.
She stared at Rourke’s broad back, despising the rush of emotions that had her annoyed with him. She’d known why he’d come here. To get close to the woman and catch a serial killer. So why was she acting like the jealous girlfriend?
Reaching into her large shoulder bag, she pulled out the manila envelope she’d brought. “You like her.” She shouldn’t have been surprised. Look how far and how much he was risking coming here.
“I find her interesting,” he said, turning to face her. “Just as I do most possible serial killers.” His gaze went to the envelope in her hand. “You did a profile?”
She shook her head. “It’s just preliminary.” Now that she was here, she didn’t want to share the photos. She hated to admit that she’d withheld them from the file. Rourke would be angry. She wished now that she’d called him, that she hadn’t surprised him. That she hadn’t come in with a chip on her shoulder. But it was too late to change any of that.
All she could hope for were a few stolen minutes with him and that neither of them was angry. “I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”
For a moment, she thought he might say she was. He seemed uncomfortable with her here. He’d been so anxious to talk about the case in Seattle—until her breakdown. She regretted it since there seemed to be a wall between them now. He was treating her as if he had to walk on eggshells around her. She wanted to scream. Or cry. Neither would accomplish what she’d come here for, though.
“I’m not going to blow your cover, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She moved to the table set against one wall. Dropping the manila envelope on it, she removed her coat, hung it over the back of the chair and sat down.
“So, have you found her co-killer?” she asked. Might as well talk about Caligrace Westfield, since she was already in the room and clearly on Rourke’s mind.
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