The Agent's Secret Past. Debby Giusti
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glanced at his watch. “I’ll pick you up at the Lodge, say at eleven o’clock. We can stop by your old BOQ first and still arrive at Arnold’s place ahead of the local police.”
Glancing at her watch, she nodded. “That works for me.”
Becca needed to buy a few items she’d lost in the fire, including a pair of flats to wear with the civilian clothes worn by the CID, instead of a military uniform.
Maybe Colby was right. She was pushing too hard, but it was the only way she knew how to operate. Move forward. Don’t look back. Don’t think of what could have been. Don’t allow anyone to get too close.
Then she glanced at Colby, seeing again that questioning lift of his brow. She would have to be extra careful to guard her past when he was around. For some reason, he seemed to sense the disquiet she carried in her heart.
After saying a quick goodbye, she turned toward the crowd, hoping her abruptness signaled her desire to be alone.
Coming back may have been a mistake.
Supposedly Jacob was dead and buried.
But Colby Voss was very much alive, and although the two men were polar opposites, they both posed a danger.
Jacob did because of the memories that tangled her dreams and impacted her life. Colby Voss was a danger in a completely different way, but she needed to guard against his charisma and his show of concern for her, just the same.
As she made her way through the crowd, her focus shifted back to Jacob.
He was dead.
She hoped.
* * *
Colby pulled to a stop at the red light, thinking of the warning signs that had flashed through his mind since he’d met Becca. If only she would lower her guard around him just a bit. Case in point, last night when she’d refused his offer to follow her to the Lodge.
Stubborn pride is what he called it, although not to her face. In truth, it was possibly her dislike of appearing weak or fear of revealing too much about herself. Now that Wilson had tasked them to investigate the explosion’s tie-in with her past, Colby hoped to find a way to work with her and not against her.
Frustrated though he had been last night, he had hung back until she left the BOQ parking lot and had followed her to the Lodge. He’d made sure she arrived at the transient billets safe and sound and watched as she scurried inside. Lights came on in an upstairs room, and he’d seen her at the window before she closed the drapes.
Relieved to know she was safe, he’d driven home. Sleep had eluded him, and he’d spent a great portion of the night focused on Becca Miller and her determination to take care of herself.
Strong women were a challenge, to say the least.
He’d made that mistake once before and still carried the scars. Not physical, but painful nonetheless.
Foolish of him to have thought Ellen would change when they were both deployed in Afghanistan. Her independence and desire to go it alone had forced him to transfer to another forward operating base.
A mistake that haunted him still.
No matter how hard he worked to move on, the reality of what had happened was never far below the surface.
Meeting Becca had brought those memories to light again. Unresolved issues, his sister called them, but then she knew him too well. As much as he treasured their close sibling relationship, he didn’t appreciate her uncanny ability to recognize his struggle.
Surely Becca Miller couldn’t sense the undercurrent of his life. He prided himself on his outward control and on being a law enforcement officer who got the job done.
Turning into the lodge parking area this morning, he saw Becca standing in front of the building. She glanced impatiently at her watch.
He checked the dashboard clock. One minute past eleven. Did she think he was late?
Pulling to a stop, he reached across the passenger seat and opened the far door from the inside. Equal footing was what she wanted, which he would give her. Becca was a fellow army investigator. End of story.
So then why did he breathe in the flowery scent of her shampoo and take a second deep breath as if to ensure what he smelled was real and not his imagination?
He reached forward to help her click the seat belt in place. Their hands touched, sending a ripple of electricity up his arm. Nothing about Becca was his imagination. She was tall and slender, lean in a fit way but not too skinny, with a graceful neck and shoulder-length brown hair streaked with auburn.
She turned and greeted him, but his focus honed in on her green eyes, tired but bright.
“Did you get something to eat?” he asked.
“A couple power bars.”
“You want some coffee. Maybe a burger at the drive-through?”
“Only if you do.”
“I ate earlier at the race.” Not that he couldn’t eat again, but they were on a tight schedule, and he didn’t want the Freemont police to arrive at the project manager’s trailer ahead of them.
“Dental records should come in later today to officially ID Ralph Arnold’s body,” he told her as he pulled onto the main road and headed to her former BOQ.
“Have they contacted the next of kin?”
“A wife who lives in Marietta, just north of Atlanta. She talked to her husband yesterday evening. He was working late and had hoped to finish sometime before midnight and then drive home for the weekend.”
“Now he’s dead.” Becca tsked. “I feel for the wife. Did they have kids?”
“Two boys.”
“Growing up without a father will be tough.”
Colby had to agree. “The question we need to answer is what was he doing in the vacant apartment?”
The fire marshal and two MPs were searching Becca’s BOQ when they pulled into the quad parking lot.
“Find anything?” Colby asked after he and Becca had introduced themselves and flashed their identification.
“Nothing yet, but watch your step.” The marshal pointed to the burned rubble covering the floor. “No way of telling if Mr. Arnold caused the problem or tried to fix what was amiss when he arrived.”
“Wouldn’t he have called in a gas leak and notified the fire department?” Colby asked.
“More than likely,” the fire marshal said. “And if he’d used his cell when he was inside, a spark from his phone could have caused the explosion.”
The marshal was a slender guy with bushy eyebrows. He glanced at Becca over the top of his glasses.
“After you smelled gas, Special Agent Miller, you told the MP last night that you exited through the rear of the building.” He pursed his lips for a long moment. “Why didn’t you use the front door?”
“My first thought was to get out. The back door was closer.”
“Then you called CID Headquarters instead of 911?” the marshal pressed.
She nodded. “The number was programmed on my phone. I knew the person on duty could and would notify both the fire department and the military police immediately. Emergency operators ask questions that can delay the process.”
The marshal raised his bushy brows. “We have an excellent emergency response system at Fort Rickman.”
“That’s good to know. I’ll use it next time.”
As if satisfied with her response, the marshal walked through the gaping hole between the two apartments and headed into the adjoining kitchen. Becca and Colby followed him into the living area of the unoccupied