no matter how improbable it seemed now.
She just hoped they caught a break sooner rather than later.
A quick search of the FBI’s national database revealed no other similar cases, either in active investigation or resolved. That meant the killer was just starting out, or his previous victims hadn’t been discovered yet. It was possible the man had been working quietly for years, perfecting his approach. The fact that he hadn’t left behind any visible clues suggested a seasoned professional, but it was also possible he was just a smart guy who had watched a lot of CSI. A search of the database for missing persons turned up a disturbing number of young women with red hair, but there didn’t appear to be any clusters that might indicate the Yoga Killer had been practicing elsewhere before moving to the Big Bend area. Still, she downloaded the report and emailed it to one of the interns at the Bureau with instructions to search through the files and categorize any cases that might be connected. Serial killers didn’t just sprout from the ether; this guy had a history. All she had to do was find it.
She picked at her dinner, the noodles now cold and congealing into an unappetizing glob. Her thoughts drifted toward the park ranger she’d interrogated today. Quinn Gallagher. The man had been forthright and seemingly honest in his responses to her questions, and her instincts told her he wasn’t a killer. But she couldn’t shake the feeling he’d held something back during their conversation, as if there were things he’d wanted to say but hadn’t. His subtle reticence didn’t make him a bad guy, but it did make her want to know more. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why, but she knew in her bones that Quinn was the key to this investigation. The question was, did he know that as well? Was he truly innocent as he claimed, or was he keeping information from her out of a sense of fear or guilt?
Only one way to find out.
“You and me, buddy,” she muttered. Quinn might not know it now, but he’d just acquired a new sidekick. Rebecca was going to stick to him like glue during the course of this investigation, and sooner or later, she’d find out what he was hiding.
Bulldog Becca, on the case. Brandon’s voice drifted through her mind, making her smile even as she felt the old familiar pang in her heart. She and Brandon had both worked for the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and over time their relationship had blossomed from being coworkers to friends to lovers. The day he’d proposed had been one of the happiest of her life, and she’d poured her free time into planning their wedding and honeymoon, daydreaming about their life together and the future they would build.
For a short time, her life had been perfect. She had a job she loved, a man she was crazy about and a future of endless possibilities to enjoy. But it all came crashing down one spring afternoon two years ago.
Brandon had been working in a Virginia prison, and he was interviewing a man on death row who had been convicted of the murders of several children. A few cold cases matched his pattern, but he had never confessed. Brandon was trying to coax more information out of the prisoner in the hopes of bringing closure to the families of the missing kids. It was draining, thankless work, but Brandon was good at his job and seemed to have a knack for getting people to talk to him.
They were about halfway through the interview when a riot broke out in one of the common areas of the prison. The complex was locked down, and the guard who normally stayed in the room during interviews moved to the door, turning his back on Brandon and the convict.
The killer saw his chance and took it. In a matter of seconds, he’d overpowered the guard and grabbed the baton. Then he turned on Brandon, who had been helpless to defend himself against the brutal beating.
Rebecca’s throat tightened as the facts of the murder ran through her head. She hadn’t been able to look at the photos from the scene, and Brandon’s body had been cremated, so she hadn’t had to see the evidence of his violent death. But that didn’t stop her imagination from trying to fill in the details.
Losing Brandon had shattered her heart, and she’d nearly quit her job. Coming to work every day, passing by his office on the way to her own—it had been too much for her battered psyche to bear. Frank had seen how close to the brink she was, and insisted she take a break.
“We’re not going anywhere,” he’d said. “But you need time to heal.”
Rebecca had initially resisted. Rattling around alone in the apartment she and Brandon had shared did nothing to help her grief. So she’d packed a bag and headed to Austin to visit her parents. They’d welcomed her with open arms and instructions to stay as long as she wanted.
The first few days, Rebecca did little more than sleep. In her dreams, Brandon was still alive, still with her. The horror of his death couldn’t find her while she slept, and unconsciousness became her refuge. Her rational, clinical mind recognized she was sinking deeper into depression, but she felt powerless to stop the descent. The disease sank its teeth into her soul, gripping her tightly in a destructive embrace as it pulled her farther away from her family, her friends. Her life.
If not for the actions of her mother, Rebecca didn’t know if she would be where she was today. Cherice recognized what was happening to her daughter and pushed her to see a therapist. Rebecca initially refused, but her mom kept insisting, applying a potent combination of begging, cajoling and tough love until Rebecca agreed to an initial session.
“This isn’t something you can simply will away,” Dr. Varton said during their first visit. “And with your education and experience, you know that better than anyone.”
Slowly, Rebecca began to confide in the man. She told him about Brandon, about her overwhelming grief. And how the depression was making her question her capabilities as a psychologist. If she couldn’t trust her own mind, was she really qualified to work for the FBI?
It had taken time, but with the help of Dr. Varton and medication, she’d grown to accept that the depression was not her fault and it didn’t invalidate her professional abilities or make her less of a person. Four months after Brandon’s death, she returned to the FBI, ready to get back to work. She had a few rough days in the beginning, but as the months had passed, she found she was able to think about Brandon without feeling like she was standing at the edge of a fathomless black hole, playing chicken with the monster that lived in the depths.
Now, a year and a half later, the memory of his voice brought more comfort than sorrow. There would always be a part of her heart that wouldn’t heal, a raw spot where Brandon had lived. But she was getting better about walling it off, protecting it from the slings and arrows of daily life. Still, it was times like now when she wished she could talk to him again, to pick his brain and discuss the case with him. He’d been the perfect sounding board, always helping her to see the pattern or challenging her to look at things from a different angle.
With a sigh, she closed the laptop and tossed the remains of her dinner in the trash. It was getting late and she needed to sleep—she’d already called Quinn’s superiors and confirmed he was expected at work at seven thirty in the morning. She wasn’t quite sure what a park ranger’s job entailed, but tomorrow she was going to find out.
* * *
Quinn arrived at park headquarters the next morning, feeling far older than his thirty years. He hadn’t slept well the night before. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the two women he’d found in the park, and the memories haunted him. Finding the first had been bad enough. When he’d found the second a week later, he’d needed time off to cope. His boss had insisted he talk to a counselor, but it hadn’t helped much. The shrink had suggested some meditation techniques and visualization exercises, but it seemed no matter what Quinn tried to think about, his brain always circled back to the women and, eventually,
