Maggie to rise to her feet. One gift from her ex wasn’t going to intimidate her into sitting on her hands and allowing another woman to be hurt. She had a unique skill that no one else in this room could bring to the table. She breathed in deeply and made her decision. Men like her ex-husband and the Rose Red Rapist didn’t get to terrorize the women of Kansas City. Not when she could do something to help stop them.
“Do it,” she whispered to herself, closing her laptop and hurrying after Chief Taylor. She caught up to him in the hallway just outside his executive assistant’s office. “Chief, could I talk to you a minute?”
He pulled back his sleeve and checked his watch before offering her half a smile. “I was hoping I’d pique your interest.” He nodded to the woman at the desk in his outer office as he ushered Maggie through to his office. “Brooke, hold my calls.”
“Right, Mitch.” Brooke Kincaid, probably Maggie’s best friend here at Fourth Precinct headquarters, mouthed a question to Maggie. Are you okay?
Maggie nodded, trading a thumbs-up sign with her friend, even though she was certain she looked pale as a ghost. She had to do this. She needed to be a part of this team.
Chief Taylor closed his office door and gestured to a seat on the near side of his massive walnut desk. “I know you don’t have investigative experience yet, Maggie. But I also know how much you want to make detective. I hate to lose the efficiency you bring to running the front desk, but I think you could be an asset to the team. You’d be invaluable talking to the victims.” His leather chair creaked as it took his weight. “I don’t want to force you because I know it’s a personal subject for you, but—”
“You don’t have to give me a sales speech, sir,” Maggie assured him. “You know my history with Danny. And I know that’s why you asked me to join that meeting.”
A much younger Mitch Taylor had been the arresting officer when her ex had finally answered for his violence against her. “I didn’t want to give you too much time to think about it. I figured you might talk yourself out of helping.”
“If you want someone who understands the victimology of the women the Rose Red Rapist preys on, I’m … qualified.”
“You’re sure? This could bring up some painful memories.” He braced his elbows on the desk and leaned toward her. “And I won’t lie to you—Danny has been out of prison a couple of months now, hasn’t he? This has to be a particularly trying time for you. Nothing about this investigation will be easy.”
She should have known a cop as experienced and on-the-ball as Mitch Taylor would be aware of her ex-husband’s release from prison. Maybe he even considered her ex a person of interest because Danny Wheeler’s time locked up in Jefferson City roughly matched the gap in the Rose Red Rapist attacks. She didn’t know whether Danny would target any other woman except her, but then she hadn’t known the extent of the violence he was capable of when she’d married him either.
“I want to do this, Mitch.” This was her chance to prove to Chief Taylor that she was not only ready, but that she also deserved to make detective. It was also her chance to prove to herself that she truly had moved beyond the past that had once shadowed every aspect of her life. She was a fighter. A mother. A cop. A college graduate. She was nobody’s victim anymore. “Some things, no matter how difficult they are, are worth doing. I want to fight for these women—be their advocate if I can. I want to join your task force.”
Chapter Two
This was getting old.
John Murdock’s thick arms and thighs flexed easily as he lifted two more boxes of books from the back of his pickup and shut the tailgate. But his right knee ached, and shards of phantom pain radiated down into his ankle and foot. He’d been at this all day—long enough for the sun to go down outside—packing, carrying, unpacking, hauling some more. Even though he’d made the trip several times already without incident, habit had him checking the cars on either side of him, and behind each crumbling brick-encased support pillar as he limped across the cracked concrete of the parking garage below his building.
He wondered how long the pain that wasn’t really there would stay with him—possibly the rest of his life according to many of the doctors and therapists who’d worked on him. He wondered how long it would take before it stopped feeling like he was just going through the motions expected of him by civilized society, and he truly felt like he was home. He was getting used to the quizzical looks from strangers, setting him apart because they viewed him as some kind of hero or they felt sorry for him. Either option set his teeth on edge and made it hard to interact without second-guessing every word or gesture directed his way.
He wondered when he’d feel like celebrating surviving his last tour of duty in Afghanistan, when he’d feel like unpacking his Purple Heart, Silver Star and other medals and deployment ribbons. He wondered when he’d be ready for a beer with old friends or facing the job—and the woman he loved but could never have—that he’d left behind. It didn’t matter that he’d lived his whole life in Kansas City before reupping with the Corps. He felt like a stranger in his own town, with his own things, inside his own skin.
He’d left a part of himself behind on that roadside in Afghanistan. In more ways than one.
Returning to the Corps was supposed to have been a fresh start for him—coming home after his stint was up, the beginning of a brand-new chapter in his life. Yet he felt stuck, like nothing had changed. He’d loved the wrong woman, raised a sister who no longer needed him, given his spleen and a good part of his right leg, a couple of friends and half of his soul to the enemy he’d gone to fight.
Inside, he was still a long way from coming home.
Adding boxes of books and kitchen supplies, along with a few civilian clothes, to the boring beige of his furnished apartment didn’t do much to make this feel like a homecoming. But it got him out of the spare bedroom at his sister’s place so she could sell it and get on with marrying her fiancé. And, it was mindless exercise that tired him out and didn’t require much thought. Right now it was enough to feel less like a burden and to look forward to a decent night’s sleep.
John slowed when he heard footsteps ahead of him. Two sets of footfalls on the far side of that last pillar. He was a big enough man that it’d take a pretty bold mugger to come after him. But size alone wasn’t a deterrent if the perps were hyped up on some kind of drug or they took a closer look at his disability and mistook him for an easy mark—if there was a mugger at all.
Running into normal, everyday people who expected normal, everyday conversation out of him was almost more daunting than facing someone who wanted to hurt him. He’d been in survival mode for over a year now, and adjusting to normal was taking just as long as the psychologist who’d debriefed him when he’d mustered out had said it would.
The curve of a butt in navy blue slacks disappearing between the open doors of the garage’s elevator almost made him stop in his tracks as he rounded the last pillar and passed the wall of junction boxes and access panels and fire emergency equipment. So the challenge would be normal, everyday civility if he got on that elevator. Would the woman who owned those curves notice the empty pant leg? Or the carbon-fiber composite rod sticking out of his boot? Would there be a slew of curious questions or politely stilted silence as she avoided eye contact with him? Maybe she’d just stare at the scars on his neck, arm and hand. A vein ticked along the column of his throat as the relative tranquility of being alone warred with his common sense.
Who knew how long he’d have to stand there holding the heavy boxes before his
