Cavanaugh Pride. Marie Ferrarella
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bother anyone again. Events had arranged themselves so that she could make that claim to Mary—when she found her—with certainty.
She hadn’t gone over to her uncle’s house to kill him even though she’d wished the man dead more than once. But when he’d come at her the way she knew in her heart that he had come at Mary time and again, she’d had no choice but to defend herself any way she could.
Julianne wasn’t even sure just how the knife had come into her hand. She only knew that when she’d told him she’d use it if he didn’t back off, her uncle had laughed at her. He’d mocked her, saying that she was just as cowardly as her father had been.
And then he’d told her what he’d do to her for daring to point the knife at him. She remembered her blood running cold. Remembered feeling almost paralyzing guilt for not having taken Mary with her before her cousin had been forced to run away.
Her uncle had lunged at her, knocking the knife from her hand and screaming obscenities at her. There’d been a struggle for possession of the weapon. They’d wrestled and though to this day she wasn’t certain how it happened, somehow the blade had wound up in his chest—up to the hilt.
Her first inclination had been to run. But she knew she could never outrun her own conscience, so she’d gone in to the captain without bothering to change her torn clothing. Numb, in shock, she’d told him the whole story.
People who lived in the vicinity knew the kind of man her uncle had been. In short order, Harry White Bear’s death was ruled self-defense, and she was free to go on with her life.
Her search for Mary began that day.
She wanted to bring her cousin home with her, the way she should have done right from the beginning instead of fleeing herself and leaving Mary behind. She’d left because her uncle had made advances, but she’d never, in her wildest dreams, thought that he would force himself on his own daughter.
That was when she still believed that there was some good in everyone.
She didn’t believe that anymore.
Julianne wanted to find Mary to let her know that she didn’t have to look over her shoulder anymore, that her father wasn’t going to hurt her again, that she could become something other than a woman who lived on the streets.
“I’m going to make it up to you, Mary. Somehow, someway, I’m going to make it up to you,” she murmured to the photograph she’d placed face up on the passenger seat. “But first, I’ve got to find you.”
Julianne knew she had a long night ahead of her. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding Mary.
The next morning, after only about four hours of sleep, Julianne was at her desk by seven-thirty. She wanted to go over the last of the files she hadn’t gotten to the previous day.
When she heard someone entering the squad room shortly after she arrived, Julianne was surprised. From what she’d been told, the detectives came in at eight-thirty. She’d assumed that she’d have some time to herself before the room filled up with noise.
Her surprise doubled when she looked up and found Frank standing over her desk. Something instantly tightened inside of her. Every nerve ending had inexplicably gone on high alert and she wasn’t completely sure why.
“Can I help you?” she asked, successfully stripping her voice of all emotion and the tension.
He studied her for a moment before asking, “Whose picture were you showing around on McFadden last night, White Bear?”
The question caught her utterly off guard. Stunned, Julianne couldn’t answer him immediately. How had he known where she was last night? Was he following her? That had to be it, but why?
A sudden thrust of anger surged through her. This wasn’t going to work. She wanted out. Her eyes narrowed. “You were spying on me?”
He heard the accusation in her voice, but managed not to rise to the bait. While she was part of his task force, he was accountable for her. He needed to know exactly what he was getting himself into. “I was driving down McFadden when I saw you.”
Julianne pressed her lips together, trying to choose her words carefully. She had a temper, but most of the time managed to bury it. Now it was closer to the surface than usual. She wasn’t sure she believed him, and yet, what sense did it make for him to be spying on her?
For now, she gave him the benefit of the doubt—as long as he could answer her question to her satisfaction. “What were you doing there?”
How had this gotten turned around to be about him? Still, he’d learned that in order to get something, you had to give something. So rather than pull rank, which he was obviously entitled to do, he answered her question.
“I was retracing what I thought might have been the last victim’s steps. What were you doing there?”
He waited to see what kind of an answer she’d give him. It didn’t seem plausible that she would be out, her first night on the case—her first night in Aurora—showing around one of the victim’s photographs to the ladies of the evening on that particular corner of the world.
She hated being accountable to anyone. It had taken her a while before she could trust Captain Randolph and follow instructions. This was not going to be easy. But she owed it to Randolph to try. The man had put his reputation on the line and taken her side during the investigation into her uncle’s death.
“Asking questions,” she replied tersely.
His eyes never left hers. It impressed him that she didn’t flinch or look away. “Isn’t that a little in the overachiever range?”
She shrugged carelessly. “The sooner this case gets solved, the sooner I can go back to Mission Ridge—and get out of your hair.”
“Very noble of you,” he commented. She wasn’t sure she detected a note of sarcasm in his voice. And then he pressed, “So that’s all you were doing? Showing one of the victim’s photographs around?”
She raised her chin, silently daring him to disprove her. “Yes.”
His eyes pinned her. “Which one?”
Julianne blinked, her mind scrambling for a name. She stalled for time. “Excuse me?”
“Which victim?” he asked. “Which victim’s picture were you showing around? Seems like a simple enough question.” The longer she didn’t give him an answer, the less he believed her.
Damn him. She didn’t like being cornered. It took Julianne only half a beat to make a selection. He wouldn’t know the difference. Not unless he’d gotten out of the car and questioned the hookers she’d talked to after she was gone. And even then, he wouldn’t get an answer. Some of them seemed pretty out of it.
“That one.” Julianne pointed to the photograph of a somewhat bedraggled woman whose picture was heading up the third column.
He turned to look, then approached the bulletin board. “That’s Andrea Katz. She was a computer programmer for Dulles and Edwards.” He looked back at Julianne. “Why would you be asking around about her there? Andrea Katz wasn’t found anywhere near that part of town.”
Why was he pushing this? “Okay, so it was the one next to her.”
Again, he turned just to verify what he already knew. He’d gone over and over this board time and again, searching for the one connection he needed. The women’s likenesses were all embossed in his brain.
“Ramona Hernandez. Hooker. Found in a Dumpster behind a diner in the older part of the city,” he recited. “Want to try again?” he asked cheerfully.
It was getting harder and harder to hang on to her temper. “What do you want from me, McIntyre?”
“The truth, White Bear. I’d like the truth. Is that too much to ask?”
He was