and go to sleep.
“Let’s do it,” Grant agreed. He turned to her, looking hopeful. “Delacorte?”
She hadn’t gone with them in six months. Not since she’d started getting the letters, because the stress of it made it impossible to go out and joke around, to pretend everything was okay.
A lump filled her throat, and she tried to push back the memory that always surged forward when September 1 came around. In exactly thirty days, it would be ten years since the day that had changed her life. The day that had led her to the FBI. To SWAT.
And whatever happened on that tenth anniversary, would she regret not having spent as much time with Grant Larkin as she could?
She nodded at him. “Sure. I’m going to run home first. I’ll meet you all there.”
He looked surprised, but then grinned in a way that made her positive she’d made the right choice.
She stared back at him, momentarily rooted in place. Maybe it was time to forget her past. Maybe it was time to forget the rules.
Maybe it was time to see what could happen between her and Grant Larkin.
* * *
MAGGIE FELT HERSELF smiling with anticipation as she unlocked the bolts on her DC row house and entered, flipping on the lights. She stepped over the mail scattered in the entryway, realizing she hadn’t been home in close to twenty-four hours.
As she locked the door behind her and kicked off her boots, it occurred to her that she should be exhausted. She’d worked a full day on her regular FBI civil rights squad, then been out with her brother and best friend when she’d gotten the call to come back for the SWAT arrest. But she was full of energy. When was the last time she’d been this happy?
Six months ago, she realized. Before the first letter had arrived. Grant had been on her team for three months at the time. They’d hit it off from his first day. Besides being a solid addition to the team, he was funny and just so dang happy all the time. Being around him made her happy.
SWAT was an ancillary position—agents did it on top of their regular squad duties. Still, dating a teammate, even in a secondary team like SWAT, was forbidden. So she’d tried to keep her feelings hidden. But just knowing that she was capable of feeling this way, after everything...
Stop dwelling on the past, Maggie scolded herself. She knew Grant had been able to tell these past few months that something was wrong. But unlike a lot of agents at the WFO, who’d heard the rumors over the years, she was pretty sure Grant didn’t know her history. And she wanted to keep it that way.
She liked the way he looked at her, no trace of pity or worry. He’d never shown any sign that he’d heard about her past. The case agents had been good about keeping her connection under wraps over the years; though inevitably agents who’d been in DC for a long time found out. But Grant had only been here nine months. In that time, the only thing she’d ever seen in his eyes was friendship and camaraderie. And lately, something else, something that went beyond the bonds of the team.
Maggie carried her gear up the narrow stairs to her bedroom, flipping lights on along the way, then stared into her closet. She didn’t own date clothes. Not that this was a date.
Everything in her closet belonged to a woman who, somewhere deep inside, was still afraid. Not of being a victim, not anymore. But when was the last time she’d actually wanted a man to look at her with appreciation?
Frowning, Maggie grabbed what she’d always worn to O’Reilley’s—jeans, combat-style boots way too similar to the ones she wore for SWAT and a loose-fitting T-shirt. They’d only stay an hour or so anyway, chat and play darts and let the adrenaline fade. Then, one by one, the exhaustion would inevitably hit, and they’d head home and conk out.
She needed to get over there, or she’d miss everyone. Changing quickly, she looked into the bathroom mirror, taking a minute to lift her shirt up and look at the damage to her back. A bruise was blooming fast, huge and purple, snaking its way along her spine in the general shape of a sub-machine gun.
She poked at it and flinched, then pulled her shirt back down, combing a finger through her bob. It was just long enough to cover the back of her neck, and Maggie’s fingers twitched as they skimmed the puckered skin there.
The tattoo she’d gotten years ago hid the image of a hook, but nothing could fix the damaged skin underneath. The brand that had been left on her.
She threw some water on her face, then dug through the drawer under her sink until she came up with some lipstick and mascara. The guys were probably going to stare at her as though she’d grown an extra head. Or maybe they wouldn’t even notice. Most of them were like brothers.
Only Grant might spot—and appreciate—her pathetic attempt to look a little more feminine, since most of the time she tried to hide it.
She stared at herself in the mirror, resisting the urge to wipe off the makeup, then laughed aloud. She was being ridiculous. Just because she didn’t wear makeup to work didn’t mean everyone at the bar would know why she’d put it on tonight.
Maggie took the stairs down two at a time, still grinning. It wasn’t that she didn’t date, but most of the time, even when she truly had feelings for a guy, it felt obligatory. An attempt to feel normal that never quite worked.
But nothing about Grant Larkin felt obligatory.
And she was ready to take a chance. She had no idea how they’d handle the FBI rules—assuming he was interested. But the heated glances he hadn’t quite been able to hide over the past few weeks told her he was.
At the bottom of the stairs, Maggie picked up the pile of mail and dumped it on the table and reached for her keys. But before she’d finished turning away, dread rushed over her. The plain business envelope. The corner of a neatly printed return label sticking out from the huge pile of mail like a flashing beacon.
She looked back at the mail slowly, dreading what she was going to find. But she hadn’t been dreaming. She didn’t have to open it to know. Another letter.
All the excitement drained out of her, buried under a decade-old fear.
Her movements robotic, she walked into her kitchen and slipped on a pair of latex gloves before returning to the front hall, even though she knew there’d be no prints. There never were.
She shouldn’t even open it. It was evidence in an ongoing case. She should call the agents from the Violent Crimes Major Offenders, VCMO, squad assigned to the case. They’d have to be called anyway, because this letter would have to go in the case file along with the others. She should just let the case agents open it.
But even knowing what would be inside, she couldn’t stop herself from carefully slicing open the top of the envelope. She slid out the plain white paper and unfolded it carefully, only touching the edges. She knew it was useless, but she still tried to numb herself as she started reading.
Anger and resentment—along with the guilt and shame she couldn’t suppress—crept forward, even as she tried to remain clinical and approach it the way she would one of her own cases. It read just like the previous letters, three of them over the past six months. To someone who didn’t know the sender, it would sound like a love letter, fondly recalling their time together.
But
