office, she still felt a bit disconcerted by the knowledge that her things were being scrutinized by strangers.
You’re next.
Goose bumps broke out across her skin as the bloody image popped into her head again. Why? Who would want to target her? What had she done?
Her musings were interrupted by the arrival of a new face. A tall man stepped into the room, stopped to murmur something to the police officer who had looked up at his entrance, and then turned and walked over to the couch. He sat down, close but not crowding her, and gave her a small smile.
“Dr. Fleming, I presume?” His voice was deep and smooth, calming. She nodded.
“I’m Agent Thomas Kincannon, FBI.” He removed a badge from his jacket and held it out. She took it, inspecting the gold shield and picture ID. He looked so young in the picture, a fresh-faced boy probably just out of the academy. She glanced at his face as she returned his identification. The long nose was the same, but his cheeks were a bit leaner, and faint lines bracketed his mouth and feathered from the corners of his bright blue eyes. It would seem Agent Kincannon had grown up a bit since this picture was taken.
“Claire.” She relaxed her arms, stuck out a hand. Standing five foot eight, she’d never felt particularly small before, but when his large hand enfolded hers, she felt positively tiny. His skin was warm, and the brush of his fingertips against her wrist had tingles shooting up her arm.
What was she supposed to say to him? Nice to meet you was a lie, given the circumstances, but manners dictated she say something. He turned to glance at the officer by the door, and the light from the window caught Agent Kincannon’s hair, highlighting the mix of red, gold, amber and copper strands in the tuft that fell across his forehead.
“Your hair—it’s beautiful,” she blurted out. He turned to face her, eyebrows lifted and mouth twitching, and she wished desperately for the couch to open up and swallow her whole.
Where the hell did that come from?
“I always wanted red hair,” she muttered, knowing she sounded like a crazy person.
“Trust me, you don’t. I burn within five minutes of stepping outside. It’s like I’m a vampire or something.”
“I stay inside most of the time anyway, so it wouldn’t affect me.” Stop talking!
He merely stared at her with a faint smile, as if trying to determine if she was just socially awkward or if she’d skipped a dose of medication. Desperate to fill the silence, she rushed ahead. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I talk when I’m nervous, and I don’t really know what’s going on here. Ivan is dead, and I have no idea who killed him or why they would want to.” She paused to swallow, hating the tightness of her throat. It felt like a fist was squeezing her neck, making it hard to breathe or speak. Needing a distraction, she dropped her eyes to Agent Kincannon’s hands. His wrists were lightly dusted with red-gold hair, and a large silver watch peeked out from under his jacket sleeve. She focused on the blue watch face, tracking the second hand as it ticked around.
“And apparently someone is after me, too, but I don’t know why. It’s not logical. Why would anyone want to hurt me? I haven’t done anything!” She shook her head, still trying to make sense of the morning’s events. A small part of her hoped this was all a bad dream, that she’d wake up in her bed and start the day over again. Things would go back to normal. But as she raised her eyes back up to Agent Kincannon’s face, his expression of pity made it clear her life would never be the same again.
“I know you’ve had quite a shock this morning,” he said, his voice kind and soothing. “But right now I want you to let us worry about finding out the who and why of this situation.”
She nodded, knowing she wasn’t much help in that department. “Have you already talked to the other detectives? They may have found something on my computer—I think they were trying to trace the email.”
He shifted a bit, giving her the impression he was uncomfortable with her question. “No,” he said after a few seconds. “I haven’t spoken with them. I’m actually here for you.”
What? That doesn’t make sense. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “Why would the FBI send an agent for me? Shouldn’t you guys be looking for Ivan’s killer?”
“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” he said. “We can’t interfere in the Russian investigation, which ties our hands a bit. Really, all we can do is wait and see if Ivan’s killer comes after you.”
Her stomach somersaulted as his words sank in. “So you’re saying I’m bait?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he assured her. “We’re not actually trying to lure the killer in. We just want to make sure you’re safe, on the off chance the threat to you does materialize.”
He made it sound as if she wasn’t in any danger, but his words did nothing to ease the leaden weight in her stomach. “I see.”
He stood, looming over her briefly before taking a step back. “There’s not really anything you can do here, so I can take you home or I can take you to my office. Your choice.”
Apparently, whatever she chose, she was now going to have a shadow. It might be safer for her at his office, but the thought of home was too tempting to pass up. She could brew a cup of tea, sink into her favorite chair and try to forget the image of her murdered friend. She may even be able to ignore Agent Kincannon and crawl back into bed, where she could cry for Ivan in peace.
“I’d like to go home,” she replied. Alone, preferably, but since that was not an option, she’d settle for his company.
Agent Kincannon nodded, holding out a hand to help her off the couch. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The drive to her apartment was quiet, with Claire speaking only to give him directions. It was just as well, because he didn’t know what to say to her. Sorry your friend is dead seemed a bit insensitive, even to him. Fortunately, she didn’t appear to be up for conversation, so he wasn’t forced to make small talk.
She held herself carefully, as though she was in pain or would break if jostled. Her brows were drawn together, lips pressed into a thin white line, and her eyes shone with that thousand-yard stare of shock he’d seen all too often on the faces of people who had suffered a life-changing blow. It was the same expression she’d worn when he’d entered the break room and found her sitting on the couch, lost in her own thoughts. He hated seeing that look on a woman’s face, hated the feeling of helplessness that rose up in him at the sight of her suffering. He was struck by the urge to act, to do something, but no amount of soothing words would fix what a killer had done to her.
Besides, it wasn’t his job to comfort her. He was supposed to protect her, keep her safe from harm. Well, physical harm, anyway. He couldn’t do anything about her emotional pain, and she likely wouldn’t welcome any of his clumsy attempts to make her feel better. She didn’t know him, he didn’t know her, and it was easier for both of them if it stayed that way. He had his hands full helping Jenny, Emily and his mother deal with their grief. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to help Dr. Fleming process hers, too.
She directed him to an apartment building on Wisconsin Avenue, along a residential stretch of the busy thoroughfare. A wide sidewalk ran alongside the street, punctuated every few yards with small trees, the city’s
