Chapter 4

      Another hour passed. Sam was just about to start stamping her feet and demanding answers when the nurse who’d run the initial triage came down the hall.

      “Is everyone feeling all right?”

      There was a chorus of affirmations.

      “You’ve been cleared to leave. Please come back immediately if you have any unusual symptoms. Use your masks until you get home.”

      Sam couldn’t wait to get out of there. If she’d been stuck much longer, fretting and worrying, she might not be able to control her anxiety. And losing it in a group of strangers wasn’t exactly her cup of tea.

      They broke off into packs and left the hospital through the emergency room doors. A corridor had been created for their exit, and they were able to leave unmolested. Sam tried to look for the kids but didn’t see them. Hopefully, they’d been released much earlier.

      The scene had calmed considerably since her preliminary foray outside. The bright summer sun beat down on the asphalt, making waves of heat shimmer in the foreground. News trucks had replaced the first responders, though there were still a few HAZMAT trucks parked at the curb.

      Sam turned her phone on the second she was clear of the doors. She had two messages—both from Fletcher.

      She played them in order.

      “Saw you called, I assume you’re wondering about what’s going down. Call me back when you get this.”

      The second was more abrupt. “Where the hell are you, Owens?”

      Ah, that was sweet. He was actually worried about her. Fletcher was a good man. A good man, but not her type. They were destined for friendship only.

      Sam hiked up to 23rd Street, found a bench and called Fletcher back. He answered on the first ring, obviously annoyed.

      “Where have you been?”

      “At the hospital, Mom. One of my students got extremely ill and I took her to GW, then got caught in the decontamination fuss. I’ve been sitting in a hallway for two hours. They made me turn off my phone.”

      “Are you okay?”

      “I’m fine. What’s going on? I talked to Amado and he told me—” she glanced around then covered her mouth with her hand “—it’s a biological attack.”

      “We don’t know yet. Total clusterfuck. People sick from all corners of town, we can’t trace it down, and the entire city is on alert. Homeland Security raised the threat level. They are in a dither.”

      “That’s to be expected. What can I do to help?”

      “Nothing.” Fletcher sounded horrified at the idea, which hurt Sam’s feelings a little.

      “I can’t just sit here, Fletch.”

      “You most certainly can. Better yet, get home and stay there. I have to go, but I’ll call you later. Don’t interfere, Sam. Just let us do our jobs. It’s our town, we know how to handle things.”

      He hung up, and she felt stung all over again. Dismissed like a civilian. It was her town now, too.

      She stowed the phone in her pocket and started the walk home. It would only take fifteen minutes or so on a normal day, but the sidewalks were crowded with people, and the traffic was a snarled nightmare.

      As pissed and upset as she was, she reminded herself again that she was no longer involved in the day-to-day operations of law enforcement. And that had been her choice. A choice that until this very moment she thought she was content with. Instead, here she was, a victim again. Caught in an attack, unable to do anything to alter her course. She started itching for some hot water, satisfied the urge with a dollop of antibacterial gel.

      At Washington Circle she turned left on Pennsylvania Avenue and followed the throngs of people trying to get out of the city on foot. She’d worn sandals today, thank goodness. Hiking all the way home in heels would have been brutal. It was bright and sunny, warm, but without the summer humidity that usually choked D.C.’s air from May until September. All around her people were talking, worrying, panicking, preening, many on cell phones relaying their close call with...something. They didn’t know for sure what. A fever of excitement and nervousness permeated the crowds, overlaid with an overwhelming sense of fear.

      Fear of the unknown. Of what could be happening. Of getting home and finding out that someone you know, someone you love, was involved. Was hurt. Or worse.

      Sam remembered that awful feeling from 9/11, the hours of uncertainty, the unanswered phone calls, the nightmarish quality of the news reports, almost as if Hollywood had decided to drop a CGI green screen against the Manhattan and D.C. backdrops and shoot a heart-wrenching action sequence. She’d lost several friends that day: two who were in the towers when they fell, one on the plane that crashed into the Pentagon.

      Even one casualty was too much.

      When she arrived at her house on N Street, it was just after 2:00 p.m. Four hours had passed since Brooke’s swan dive in class. Four interminably long hours. She was exhausted. She just wanted to take a long, hot shower, and wait for Xander to get back within cell range.

      Sam took the steps to her front door, inserted her key. The door was unlocked.

      She thought back, trying to remember if she’d locked it this morning when she left for class. Of course she had. She always locked her doors.

      She heard her best friend’s voice mentally admonish, “Back out, and call the police.”

      Sam shook homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson out of her head. There was a perfectly legitimate reason for her front door to be open. The only problem was the timing. She turned the knob and pushed the door open with her foot.

      “Xander?” she called out.

      “Sam!” Xander came barreling out of the kitchen. She was struck by how handsome he was, even with worry lines creasing his forehead. His dark eyes locked on hers. He reached her in two long strides and pulled her to his chest.

      “Jesus, I’ve been worried sick. You weren’t answering your phone.”

      She let him hold her, just reveling in the normalcy of it, how warm his skin was beneath his T-shirt, how she could just reach all the way across his tightly muscled back, his scent, woodsy and clean. He’d showered recently; the edges of his dark hair were still damp.

      She pulled back.

      “What are you doing here?”

      He didn’t answer, instead kissed her, long and soft, so sweetly that she nearly forgot everything that had happened this morning. Nearly everything.

      When he released her, she smiled up at him. He topped her by several inches. He made her feel downright dainty.

      “Trying again. Why are you here, Xander? Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, but I thought you were fishing.”

      He draped an arm across her shoulders, walked her into the kitchen.

      “There’s