A solid rap on the front door derailed her train of thought. She stalled, the cold of the hardwood floor seeping through her damp socks. Why would anyone drop by at this hour? Couldn’t be about a case because she was on leave by order of the chief. Wouldn’t be her partner since he was no doubt home by now, getting some rest before the big day tomorrow.
Another round of bangs, this time hard enough to shake loose the peeling paint on her shabby door and have it drift down around her visitor’s feet like dingy gray snowflakes. Could be the cops outside, but why not call if they wanted to talk to her? She checked the screen of the cell phone strapped to her upper arm. No missed calls.
Bobbie bypassed the door, her steps silent, and eased to the living room picture window a few feet away. When she’d first moved in, she’d cut out a tiny section of one plastic slat in the cheap blind as a way to see a visitor without becoming an easy target bellied up to the door. The overhead porch light, dimmed by the hundred or so bugs that had found their way inside and died there, stayed on 24/7. The faint glow allowed her to confirm the visitor was male. Her pulse rate bumped up a few beats. Dark hair, too long to be a cop, unless he was undercover. Tall, six feet or so. Thin. Broad shouldered.
He suddenly turned his head and stared directly at her as if he’d felt her scrutiny.
She drew back. What the hell? Giving herself a mental shake, she moved toward the door. The living room was dark; he couldn’t possibly have seen her. At the door she decided to leave her backup piece in the holster strapped around her ankle for now. Considering there were two uniforms parked in front of her house, she didn’t expect she would need to use it. She leaned toward the door.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” No point beating around the bush.
“Nick Shade. We need to talk.”
Surprised and more than a little intrigued, she peered through the peephole she’d installed. So this was the guy Newt had told her about. He was younger than she’d expected. “Let’s see some ID.”
He withdrew his wallet and stuck his driver’s license in front of the hole. Nicholas Shade. Atlanta, Georgia. She harrumphed. Thirty-five. He wasn’t much older than her. Did she open the door or not? Newt’s Quantico contact hadn’t given him anything concrete on Shade other than a generic assessment that he was one of the good guys. Shade might be after nothing more than the inside scoop on the Storyteller in hopes something she knew would be useful to him. He wouldn’t be the first to show up at her door. She’d had reporters, publishers and private investigators come knocking. Just because Shade supposedly tracked down serial killers didn’t mean he wasn’t in it for the money. A man who couldn’t be hired had to be making a living somehow.
Even so, why would he appear now? As of the ten o’clock news Evans’s connection to her hadn’t been made, but that would change soon enough, and then her street would be littered with reporters once more. Any member of the media familiar with the Storyteller would give just about anything for an exclusive from his only surviving victim. If that was the reason Shade was here, he needed to get in line somewhere besides her front door. This was her hunt.
“Call your partner if you have any questions,” Shade suggested, taking her delay for uncertainty. “We’ve met.”
“Did my partner send you here?” His showing up only a couple of hours after Newt mentioned him was a little convenient.
“No one sends me anywhere.” Shade stared at the peephole as if he sensed her watching him.
Who the hell was this guy? She released the dead bolts and opened the door. “What do we have to talk about?”
Dark eyes assessed her. “May I come in?”
Not a chance. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it right where you stand.” She bracketed her hands at her waist and blocked the doorway.
He glanced over his shoulder at the cruiser on the street. “I think you’re going to want to hear what I have to say in private.”
The tension that had started in her neck rushed through her chest, spreading quickly through her limbs. “Are you carrying?”
“No.” He held his arms up and turned all the way around for her to see.
The shirt and jeans hugged his body. He wasn’t carrying unless, like her, a small backup piece was strapped to his ankle. “Let’s see what kind of socks you wear, Mr. Shade.”
He lifted one foot and tugged up the pants leg, and then did the same with the other. Black socks and matching hiking boots, both of which fit too snugly to conceal a weapon. “Satisfied?”
“Fine, but make it fast. I take issue with having my time wasted.” She stepped back and allowed him inside before closing the door. “What is it you have to say?”
The weight of his gaze settled on her. When he continued to stare without speaking she fought the impulse to fidget. His eyes were more black than brown and impossible to read. He wasn’t thin as she’d first believed, more lean. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off muscled forearms. The broad shoulders she’d already noted filled out his cotton button-down shirt with no room to spare. His jeans were well-worn, as were his boots. Her attention drifted back up to his face, where those dark eyes watched her steadily. Rather than be put off by her sizing him up, he seemed to expect it. As undeniably handsome as he was, with that square jaw and classic straight nose, there was something distant about him...something untouchable and more than a little unsettling.
She rubbed at her neck. Enough with the silent treatment. Had he intruded on her evening to stare at her or to talk? Maybe he only wanted an up-close look at the anomaly who’d escaped the Storyteller while losing everything else in this world that mattered. Her irritation flared. “I don’t know what you want—”
“I need the full details of what happened inside Carl Evans’s home.”
Bobbie made a halfhearted sound that failed the definition of a laugh by any stretch of the imagination. “If you’re looking to verify the manner of death, I’ll be happy to set the record straight. He stuck the muzzle of a .38 into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Any other questions, Mr. Shade?”
Something flickered in his eyes, too quickly for her to read. “I’m well aware of how he died, Detective. I’m interested in what he said to you while you were alone together.”
Now she understood. Shade was on a digging expedition. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the press release the same as the rest of the world. Now, if that’s all you wanted...” She gestured to the door.
Rather than leave, he moved a step closer. “You asked me not to waste your time—maybe you can refrain from wasting mine. What did Evans say to you before he pulled the trigger?”
“I’m certain you’re aware I can’t comment on an ongoing case.”
He watched her closely, analyzing her answer, her expression, as well as her body language. “Did the exchange between the two of you have anything to do with his recent interaction with Gaylon Perry?”
Bobbie froze at the mention of his name. How could he know what Carl Evans had been doing? “Why would Evans be involved with the Storyteller?”
Shade’s penetrating gaze narrowed. “I’ve been briefed regarding the findings on his computer, Detective.”
Impossible. “This conversation is over, Mr. Shade. If you have more questions, you can direct them to the department’s community