At Close Range. Jessica Andersen

      SETH MADE IT ALL THE WAY to his hotel before he turned back. He told himself not to bother, that they could talk it out in the morning when one—or both of them—was in a better frame of mind. But something compelled him to spin the truck around and head back to her yellow house on the outskirts of town.

      When he got there, he saw that the other half of the side-by-side two-family was lit. A shadow skimmed past a curtained window as he watched. The neighbors were still up. In contrast, all of the lights on Cassie’s side of the house were off—not just the outside light that had been burning when he’d left, but the room lights, as well. It was as though she’d never come home.

      She’s asleep, he told himself, though it wasn’t much past eight o’clock. She skipped dinner and headed straight to bed.

      Then he saw the barest hint of motion at the corner of the house, near Cassie’s side window. It could’ve been a small animal in search of scraps.

      It could’ve been an intruder.

      Seth slapped the truck into Park, radioed an alert to the Bear Claw dispatcher, grabbed his flashlight and service revolver and hastened across the muddy lawn. He didn’t even think about chasing the shadow. He needed to get to Cassie first, needed to know she was okay.

      And if that meant he was ruled by his past, then so be it.

      He crossed the porch in three echoing strides and pounded on the door. “Cassie? Cassie, open up or I’m coming through.”

      He paused, counted to five, and when there wasn’t a hint of sound or motion from inside, he stepped back two paces and turned his shoulder toward the door.

      But before he could launch himself, the porch light snapped on, the neighboring door opened and a long shotgun barrel poked through. “Hold it right there,” a man’s voice said. “Drop the weapon and don’t move. I’m calling the police.”

      Seth froze in his tracks and hissed a curse between his teeth. “I’ve already called them. I’m an FBI agent and I believe Officer Dumont is in trouble.”

      “Sorry, but I’m not letting you bust into Cassie’s place without a look at your badge, mister.” The door opened fully, revealing that the shotgun owner was young, probably early twenties and baby-faced with it. But he held his pump action with the ease of familiarity, and an infant’s fretful cry emerged from inside, followed by a woman’s soothing tones.

      Seth could have the guy down in two seconds flat, but a new father with a gun? He didn’t want to go there. So he said, “I’m going to go for my ID, real easy, okay? I don’t want any trouble.”

      It took him under a minute to pull his ID and convince Cassie’s neighbor he was legit, but those seconds beat beneath Seth’s skin like the echo of a faltering heartbeat.

      Finally, the guy lowered his shotgun. “Sorry. I just needed to be sure, what with Cassie being a cop and all.” He rubbed his temples as though he had a headache, but focused his slightly bleary eyes on Seth. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to her? Do you want me to go in with you?”

      Untrained backup could be worse than no backup, so Seth shook his head. “No. Get inside with your family and lock up.”

      Then Seth took two running steps and slammed into the door. Pain sang through his body, but the heavy wood held. He cursed and tried again, wishing this crap was as easy as it looked on TV.

      The door gave on his third try, splintering around a sturdy dead bolt. He kicked it the rest of the way in, convinced now that there was something wrong. There was no way Cassie could have missed hearing that racket.

      He took a step inside her place. And smelled gas.

      Her half of the house was full of it.

      “Out! Get out!” Adrenaline sizzled through Seth’s body. He raced back onto the porch and hammered on the neighbors’ door. “There’s a gas leak! Get your family out and warn the neighbors.”

      Then he ran back inside Cassie’s home and swept the main room with his flashlight, barely noting the accents she’d added since his last visit, unexpectedly feminine touches of chintz and softness. “Cassie?”

      No answer.

      Knowing the gas leak was no accident, he turned for the kitchen, hoping it would be that simple. No such luck. The stove and oven were both electric.

      Damn it. The gas was coming from the basement. The bastard must have rigged a furnace line to fill her side but not the adjoining half of the house.

      Seth took a guess and yanked open a door off the kitchen, hoping she had basement access. He was rewarded with a flight of stairs stretching downward beyond the flashlight beam. He eased down, moving fast but testing each step for a tripwire or pressure pad.

      The smell was less intense in the cellar, suggesting that the gas line had been looped into one of the forced hot air vents.

      When Seth reached the bottom, he shined his light over the dusty space, picking out a neat stack of cardboard boxes, a discarded bicycle, a hot water heater, and finally the furnace.

      He froze and cursed at the sight of a wire-laden device duct taped to the tank. As he watched, the red numbers of the digital display ticked from twenty-one to twenty.

      Then nineteen.

      He spun and ran for the stairs. No time. There was no time to disarm the device, even if he had the knowledge. Once that thing blew, the spark would follow the gas trail up into the house. He had to get Cassie out of there, fast.

      Seventeen. Sixteen.

      He pounded up the stairs to the kitchen while the numbers counted down in his head. His flashlight beam carved through the darkness ahead of him as he bolted up to the second floor and shined the light into a short hallway, a bathroom, a bedroom.

      No Cassie.

      Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen.

      Damn it. Where was she?

      He reversed direction and charged down the stairs, heart pounding in time with the seconds left on the digital timer.