he was a battalion commander. Best commander I ever had.”
Michele never tired of hearing good things about her father. Three years ago, after bringing his battalion of soldiers home from Iraq, her dad had been promoted to full colonel and selected for brigade command. Some said he was a shoo-in for general officer. Not that he allowed praise to impact the way he did his job.
Their family’s only dark moment during that time had been Lance’s death. A helicopter crash shortly after her brother had graduated from flight school and moved to his new military assignment at Fort Knox, Kentucky. A freak accident that never should have happened.
The hardest part was knowing she could have prevented the tragedy. Lance wouldn’t have been flying if Michele had accepted his invitation to visit him that weekend. She had made the wrong decision, a decision that led to her brother’s death.
Unable to work through her grief and her guilt, Michele had eventually buried her pain. Finding Yolanda yesterday had brought everything to the surface.
The florist stretched out his hand. “Name’s Teddy Sutherland.”
Michele returned the handshake, noting his firm grip and thick, stubby fingers. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“I’ve got your order. You said you wanted a container appropriate for your brother’s grave site?”
“That’s right.” She momentarily averted her gaze, blinking back unexpected tears that flooded her eyes. Her emotions hovered close to the surface today.
Teddy flipped through a stack of order forms. “I remember hearing about the helicopter crash. Wasn’t your brother the only one on board who died?”
She nodded, wondering yet again about the inequity of the accident. Not that she had wanted anyone else to lose a loved one in the crash. She just didn’t understand why her brother had to die.
“About this time of year, as I recall?”
The florist’s concern touched her. She nodded, her voice halting when she spoke. “It...it happened two years ago today.”
“Tough on your mom, no doubt, especially after last night.”
“You heard about the murder?”
“News travels fast on post. Wonder if they’ll ever find the guy.” He reached into the large walk-in refrigerator and pulled out a bouquet of red gladiolas and white mums arranged with miniature American flags and wrapped together with a blue ribbon.
Placing the flowers on the counter along with a plastic vase and a small attachment to anchor the arrangement into the ground, the florist glanced up, waiting for her reaction.
“They’re beautiful, Mr. Sutherland.”
“It’s Teddy, please. Tell your mother I’m ordering flowers for the welcome-home ceremony.”
“To give to the wives in the brigade?”
He nodded. “Mrs. Grayson, the executive officer’s wife, asked me to help.” He glanced down, somewhat embarrassed by his gesture. “The way I feel about your dad, it’s the least I could do.”
“I know my mother and the other wives will appreciate your generosity.”
The bell over the door tinkled. Michele turned, expecting to see another customer. Her breath caught in her throat as Jamison entered the store.
She smiled, trying to override the tension that wrapped around her as tightly as the wire holding the floral bow in place. He nodded, then glanced away for a moment in an obvious attempt to cover his own unease.
Turning back to the flowers, Michele fiddled with the ribbon.
Jamison stepped closer and touched the plastic vase lying on the counter. “Two years ago, wasn’t it, Michele?”
She hadn’t expected him to remember. The empathy she heard in his voice caused her eyes to cloud again. Jamison had understood when no one else seemed interested in how a younger sister felt about the death of the brother she idolized. Even her parents hadn’t wanted to talk about their son’s future cut short.
Teddy swiped her credit card and ripped off the tape register receipt. Holding out the thin strip of paper, he handed Michele a pen. “I just need a signature to complete the transaction.”
Relieved to focus on something other than the special agent, Michele hastily signed her name. Grabbing the flowers and vase, she turned to find Jamison standing much too close.
She dropped her gaze, trying to ignore his muscular shoulders and the manly scent of his aftershave. Instead her focus settled on his right hip, where—beneath the smooth line of his sports coat—he carried a SIG Sauer, loaded and ready to fire.
“Sorry.” He stepped aside. His demeanor and voice, now devoid of inflection, reminded her that their involvement had ended months ago. Just as with Lance, she had no reason to think about what might have been.
Ironically, on her brother’s last trip home, Lance had laughingly teased that only a military guy would make her happy. Michele had agreed, but his death had changed her mind. Now she just wanted to guard her future and her heart.
The bell tinkled as she pushed the door open and stepped into the Georgia humidity, grateful no one was standing close enough to see the confusion she couldn’t hide and shouldn’t be feeling. She’d left Jamison months ago. A good decision, or so she’d thought.
Slipping behind the wheel of her car, she glanced back at the florist shop. Would she have felt differently if her brother hadn’t died?
Maybe then she wouldn’t have been afraid of her feelings for the CID agent. But Lance had died and her father had been injured in Afghanistan, and then Dawson had taken a bullet meant for Jamison in a bloody shoot-out that had made her run scared.
Now Yolanda.
If only Michele could run away again, just as she had done ten months ago. She wanted to go back to the secure life she’d made for herself in Atlanta, but she couldn’t leave her mother alone after the tragedy that had happened. The brigade would return sometime next week. Michele would wait until her father came home before she left Fort Rickman and the military.
By then, Jamison would have found the killer.
Her stomach tightened and a gasp escaped her lips as she realized that finding the killer would, once again, put Jamison in the line of fire.
* * *
Why did Michele continue to get under his skin?
Jamison clamped down on his jaw and pulled in a deep breath, needing to distance himself, at least emotionally, from the colonel’s daughter and concentrate on the florist, who continued to stare at him.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked a second time.
Glancing at the clerk’s name tag, Jamison held up his CID identification. “I need information about any floral deliveries you’ve made in the last couple days, Mr. Sutherland.”
The florist nodded. “You’re here because of that murder on
