“I’m well aware Chloe’s gone, Cole.” She chose her words with care. “I see them lowering her casket into the ground every night before I go to sleep.” When she did sleep. She flipped chunks of spinach free from the cooling eggs, clenching her fist around the fork when her hand shook. “The fact her killer is still out there drives me every moment of every day. Cases like hers shouldn’t be cold. They shouldn’t be forgotten. As far as your precious law enforcement is concerned, her case and dozens of others are as dead as the victims. And yes, it’s a gamble whether I learn anything new, but sometimes, like last night, sometimes I hit the jackpot.”
“You winning the jackpot shouldn’t include me having to identify your body in the morgue.”
“Wow.” She swallowed hard and dipped her chin to hide her cringe. “Melodramatic much?”
“Only when it comes to you. Now eat.” He tapped his fork against her plate.
“It’s cold.”
“Then you should have stopped running your mouth. These people, these killers, they aren’t worth your life, Eden.”
“Maybe not.” Or maybe they were. “But it’s not your decision, is it?” She forced herself to stare into the handsome face that had been a presence in her life for longer than she could remember. “It’s my choice. This is my life, and as far as I’m concerned, catching this guy is worth any price I have to pay. The sooner you accept that, the better. I’m going to take this upstairs with me. I need a shower.” And about ten hours of sleep to kick the sluggish feeling still swamping her head. “And then tomorrow I’m getting back to work.”
She didn’t wait for him to respond. Anything he said would only continue the circular argument they’d been having for the better part of a decade. The one that had started when she’d announced her plans to double major in journalism and criminal psychology months before she’d even graduated from high school. About the time Cole had entered the police academy. How long ago that all seemed now.
Eden headed upstairs to her bedroom, dashing the final steps into the bathroom before she slammed and locked the door. She rested her forehead against the wood, reaching to set the plate on the sink, but she missed. As she turned, she watched—as if in slow motion—the plate drop and shatter, splattering eggs and bits of spinach on the black-and-white-checkered tile.
She clenched her fists and pounded them against her thighs, the little she’d eaten swirling in her stomach like a sickening cyclone.
She stumbled to the shower and wrenched open the faucet, setting the water to hot as the first sob erupted from her lips.
She ripped the clothes from her body and shoved them into the trash, boots, underwear and all, before she stood underneath the water. Eden slid down the wall to the tiled floor as her body revolted, endless hours of pent-up fear and rage bubbling to the surface. The harder she fought, the more painfully her muscles contracted. Curling her knees into her chest, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on the sound and heat of the water coursing over her. Instead all she felt was that jab of the needle followed by the darkness.
Even in the steam of the shower, she could feel the dry, icy air of the meat locker coating her skin, the stinging pain rocketing through her extremities. The image of dead eyes staring at her, lifeless gazes, parchment-thin discolored faces and mouths contorted in a silent shriek only she could hear.
She jumped at the sharp knock on the door.
“Eden?” Cole called. “Are you all right? I heard a crash.”
Eden squeezed her eyes shut as tears leaked from the corners. She cleared her throat and swallowed. “I’m fine.” The two words scratched her throat raw. “Just dropped the plate. I’ll be out in a bit.” Her body drained with the effort it took to call to him.
“Okay.” A moment of silence. “I’ll be downstairs.”
Doubt clung to his voice. He didn’t believe her. She didn’t believe herself. Cole was right. Simone and Allie were right. She’d been reckless, stupid even, drawing attention to herself by taunting a killer. She’d been pushing boundaries for months—years. With one killer after another. How could she be surprised she’d eventually have to answer for it?
Reality had shifted in the last twenty-four hours. This killer was different. The Iceman wasn’t someone who had murdered out of passion or revenge or even for money or power. He didn’t have any motive except whatever cause sat in his psyche. This one was...smart. He knew where she lived, knew her routine, one she’d become lazy in varying. He’d been to her house. Her stomach dropped. He’d touched her things, her purse, her phone, her car...stood in her yard.
She scooted forward on the shower floor, placed her head under the steaming spray and forced herself to keep calm. “Control,” she repeated. Control was all that mattered; it was what kept her sane. She’d had it, she’d maintained it, hanging in the locker, trapped in that hospital bed and even for those terrifying few seconds it had taken to make herself walk through her front door less than an hour ago.
She’d done it all until...
Eden shoved her fingers into her wet hair. Until Cole had kissed her. No. She couldn’t deal with this now. Didn’t need to or want to and yet...
“Stop it! Just stop it!” She struggled to her feet, turned down the hot water and braced her hands on the wall of the shower. She’d deal with this—the consequences of her actions—as well as she could. If that meant checking every lock in the house a hundred times, if it meant installing a security system or even digging her brother Logan’s old service pistol out of its lockbox from the guest room closet, so be it.
Serial killers, criminals, the darkness of the human mind? Those she could deal with.
But Cole Delaney kissing her?
That was something else entirely.
* * *
“I’ll be done in a minute.” Eden’s fingers had gone numb from clutching the pen so hard.
When whoever opened the door to the interview room at the police station didn’t respond, Eden glanced up and found a tall, older, distinguished man watching her.
She caught a slight hint of irritation on the man’s face. His solid jaw was clenched, his posture forcibly relaxed as he leaned against the door frame and slipped a hand into the pocket of his well-tailored navy suit pants. “Let me guess.” She ducked her chin, noting the power-red tie. “Agent Simmons? I’m just finishing my statement now. Would have taken me half the time if they’d let me type it.” Cole and his addiction to procedure. One day if he didn’t bend, he’d snap. “Not to mention it would have saved me from carpal tunnel. Cole said you wanted to question me?”
“Feeling better, Ms. St. Claire?”
Ah, passive-aggressive. Check. “As well as one can after having her blood drained before waking up hanging in a meat locker.” She scribbled her signature, dated the bottom of the yellow lined paper and clicked the pen shut. “Cole said the FBI was taking an interest in the case. Now.” She pushed to her feet. As much as she appreciated Cole’s desire to give her some privacy as she relived her ordeal, being on this side of the two-way mirror didn’t exactly calm her nerves. “Coffee?”
She didn’t wait for an answer before she walked out of the interview room. “Here you go, Bowie.” Eden handed over the yellow tablet to the uniformed officer at the desk next to Cole’s. The young man had been assigned to the major case division a few months back. He still had that whiff of youth and eagerness, his nickname a tribute to the British rock star his father idolized. But even with that blue-eyed baby face of his, she picked up on his determination to make a difference. Much like most of the officers Cole worked with. She’d never admit it out loud, but she felt at home here, in the bustle of law enforcement. It reminded her of the hours she spent working at the Tribune, where the energetic buzz of discovery and revelation was contagious. “Is Cole around?”