ROURKE MENTALLY KICKED HIMSELF. What the hell had he been thinking, going to Laura about this?
Had he thought she might want to help him by living vicariously while he solved this one? He’d been more than insensitive, but then again, Laura had also changed. He’d never seen her in tears before—even the night she was shot.
Her wounds had been nearly fatal, but she’d recovered—all except for her left leg. Like him, though, she wasn’t built for a desk job, so he was glad she had gotten into the profiling field. He thought she’d be damned good at it. Which was another reason he’d asked her to dinner.
He’d foolishly assumed, though, that the old Laura, the one who felt like an equal, would show up. This Laura... Well, she was more fragile. He should have realized that would be the case.
They ate their meals, him changing the subject to the weather. It didn’t always rain in Seattle, but still, there wasn’t that much to say.
“Is your food okay?” he asked, noticing that she’d barely touched hers. That wasn’t like her either. One of the things he’d always loved about her when they were partners was that she liked to eat as much as he did. Seattle offered every kind of fare there was, and the two of them had consumed their share.
“I had to quit eating like I used to,” she said, spearing a French fry and taking a small bite.
How had he not noticed that, along with the change in hairstyle, she’d also dropped the weight she’d gained after the shooting? Laura was an attractive woman, not classically beautiful, but striking. At five-eight, she looked strong, as if she’d been working out in spite of her leg. She’d been a blonde for as long as he’d known her, and yet her coloring seemed wrong for the pale shade, making him wonder what her natural color was. Something else he hadn’t noticed until now.
“You look great,” he said, again reminded of how little he really knew about his former partner, when she seemed to know him so well.
She smiled as if she knew he hadn’t really looked at her until that moment.
“So, you’re doing okay?” he asked, worried about her.
Laura was his age: thirty-six. It surprised him that she’d never married again. She’d apparently been married for a short time before he’d met her to a man named Mike Fuller. She never talked about it. Nor did she date much, seeming more interested in her career.
He wondered if there was a man in her life, now that, thanks to the shooting, she didn’t have such a demanding career. In the old days, he might have asked. But a lot had changed since those days, and he didn’t feel close enough to question her about her love life.
“I was glad when I heard you were finishing up your studies to be a profiler,” he finally ventured. “Laura, I know you’ll be a great one.”
She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I started doing some studying on my own while I was laid up and realized it might be something I was good at.” She met his gaze. “I can help you with this case, if you’ll let me.” She raised a hand before he could say he’d changed his mind and wasn’t sure it was a good idea. “If I could talk you out of this, I would. But since we both know I can’t...”
This was what he’d hoped she would say. If he hoped to solve these murder cases, he could use her help since all of the resources of the U.S. Marshals’ office were off-limits during his suspension. While he thought profiling could be useful, he knew it was good old-fashioned investigative work that usually solved crimes. But he wanted Laura on his team.
The truth was that he needed her for more than profiling. Lately, he’d been second-guessing himself, no longer sure he should trust his own judgment. He needed Laura’s analytical mind. “I—” But he didn’t get a chance to finish whatever he was going to say.
His cell phone rang, and when he checked it, he said, “Sorry, I have to take this. It’s the P.I. I hired.” He stepped away, relieved for the call as he hurried outside. Laura seemed so fragile right now. Even though he needed her help, did he dare involve her in this?
Outside the café, it had begun to drizzle, the sky a dull gray wash as everything quickly became slick with rain. Seattle had a fairly high suicide rate. He’d never felt that internal darkness as much as he did now, standing under the awning of the restaurant.
“I found something,” Edwin Sharp said without preamble. “I think it could be who you’re looking for. A landlady identified the woman in the photo as Callie Westfield. She worked as a waitress at a café in the neighborhood. The owner of the café required her driver’s license when she started work, so I was able to get a copy. Her full name is Caligrace Westfield. I ran her through the system. I couldn’t find a residential address, but I do have an address where she is currently employed.”
Rourke pulled out his notebook and pen.
“She’s working as a waitress at the Branding Iron Café in Beartooth, Montana.”
* * *
LAURA FELT SICK to her stomach as she left the restaurant. She’d been too upset to eat, but she’d forced herself to consume as much of her meal as she could. Rourke had felt bad enough, without her making him feel worse.
As astute as the man was when it came to solving crimes, he seldom saw what was right in front of his face. Rourke didn’t have a clue when it came to her. He’d really believed that missing her old job in law enforcement was the reason she was upset. How could he not know that she’d been in love with him almost from the start?
“It’s you, Rourke!” she had wanted to scream. “I miss you! I miss the damned force, but it’s because I miss talking to you every day!” Even if it had been about only their latest cases. “I miss being with you.” Days off used to be hell. She couldn’t wait to get back to work. Back to Rourke.
Like him, she’d been on the fast track, moving quickly from a Seattle P.D. officer to Homicide. The sky had been the limit for both of them. They had been called the Dream Team. She could laugh about it now, but back then, she was sure everyone thought she and Rourke were sleeping together. They were that compatible. They could finish each other’s sentences. They were that close. So no wonder they had worked so well together.
And they were good. Between the two of them, they solved cases. Their futures were so bright, they felt like rock stars, she thought bitterly.
Then that night in the alley... She’d gone in alone even though Rourke had told her to wait. He’d had one of the felons on the ground, restraining the man with cuffs. But she didn’t want to wait. She’d felt a singing in her blood. A feeling that she was invincible. She’d gone down the alley not realizing the man was trapped at the end, hunkered down, shot full of drugs, a loaded gun in his hand and his finger on the trigger.
Reaching her car now, she climbed in, her leg aching from either the short walk to her parking spot—or the memory of that night and the impact of the bullet as it struck the bone.
Everyone told her that she was lucky to be alive. Lucky. Sick to her stomach now, heart aching and her mind racing, she didn’t feel lucky at all. She felt scared.
Rourke thought he was chasing a serial killer and was now headed for some town in Montana called Beartooth. He had been quiet after his phone call, and she’d had to drag what little she could out of him. Clearly, he’d changed his mind about involving her, but she wasn’t having any of that. She’d prove to him that he needed her help. She’d put her personal feelings aside and be the cop he needed her to be.
“So, what’s her name?” she’d asked, hating that he’d wanted to close her out.
“This whole thing could blow up in my face. I shouldn’t have involved you.”
She’d given him a sideways look. “But you did involve me, and now you’re stuck with me. I can tell that you have more than just her location. What’s her name?”
He’d