The Agent's Redemption. Lisa Childs
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muscle twitched in his cheek. And those usually pale brown eyes had darkened with emotion. Then he turned away from her and walked back to the door. He didn’t hesitate this time. He turned the knob and stepped out.
She tensed, bracing herself for the door to slam behind him. It closed with a soft click, but that click echoed throughout the living room with a finality that left her shaking.
Would he come back to ask any questions? Or did he not care that he had a son? Didn’t he want to see Alex? To form a relationship—a bond—with his boy?
Nervous that her legs might give out, she dropped onto the sofa. What the hell had she just done?
He was on his way to identify a body—the body of a woman whose family was probably still holding out hope for her safe return. And then once Jared confirmed the identity, he would have to notify that family of their loss.
She couldn’t have picked a worse moment to tell him the truth. He was in the middle of an investigation. And she knew how investigations consumed him.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. Not only had she not been fair to Jared but she hadn’t been fair to Alex, either.
She should have told them both years ago. She shouldn’t have denied them the relationship they deserved to have. Why had she been so selfish?
Regret and guilt had tears stinging her eyes. But giving in to the tears would be selfish, too, and would accomplish nothing.
She would make it up to Alex. Somehow.
But she wasn’t sure that Jared would ever give her the chance. She wasn’t sure that he would ever forgive her.
The phone rang, shattering the silence of her living room. She grabbed up the cordless from the table next to the couch, so that the ringing wouldn’t awaken Alex. She wouldn’t even be able to look at her son now—not without guilt overwhelming her.
The number was blocked on the caller ID, so she hoped it wasn’t a reporter. Maybe she should have just hit the off button. But she found herself saying, “Hello?”
And hoping it was Jared. Maybe he’d found his words. His questions. She would even welcome his accusations now.
She just wanted him to give her a chance to explain.
But there was only silence.
Maybe he hadn’t found his words yet.
“Hello?” she said again.
A reporter would have talked, would have fired a million questions at her. It had to be him. He was probably just too mad to speak to her.
“Jared?”
“No, Becca,” a male voice finally spoke. It was low and raspy, and she wasn’t certain that she’d ever heard it before. But how did he know the nickname that only Lexi and Jared had ever called her?
“Who is this?” she asked.
The silence fell again, but there was no dial tone. He hadn’t hung up. He was still there.
“Who is this?” she asked again, and goose bumps raised her skin as unease sent a chill running through her. She shouldn’t entertain some crank caller. She began to lift the phone away from her ear to hang up.
Then he spoke again in that raspy, nearly unintelligible whisper. “You need to be careful...”
“Careful?” She didn’t live a life of adventure. She lived a quiet life—focused on her son and her job.
“You need to be careful,” the person spoke again—this time with more urgency.
“Why?” she asked.
“You’re being watched.”
She peered out the window. The sun was beginning to set, setting the window aglow with a yellow glare. She couldn’t see anything but the yellow shimmer in the trees and across the grass. If someone was out there, she couldn’t see them. Were the reporters staked out there somewhere? Waiting to ambush her when she left for work in the morning?
“I know,” she murmured. Those damn reporters.
They’d been relentless during the investigation into Lexi’s case. They had followed her everywhere. And even after the case had gone cold, they’d checked in with her from time to time—wanting to interview her. Wanting to dredge up the tragedy and her pain...
“You don’t know,” the person said. “You don’t know...”
She shivered at the ominous tone. “What don’t I know?”
“That you’re in danger.”
The line clicked with the same finality with which the door had closed behind Jared. Then the dial tone peeled out.
Her hand trembling, she turned off the cordless and put it back down on the table beside the couch.
Why would she be in danger?
The serial killer only went after brides-to-be. She was not engaged. She wasn’t even seeing anyone.
She was safe. Wasn’t she?
The silver car. The blood-soaked lace spilling out of the open trunk. Jared flashed back six years ago to finding Lexi’s car. Unfortunately, Becca had been with him when they’d come across the abandoned silver Chevrolet.
There had been no body but so much blood...
Now there was a body...
No matter how many victims he had seen over the years, horror and dread still clutched at his heart. How could a human do this to another human? How could they act so viciously and subject another person to so much pain and cruelty?
He shuddered. And he wasn’t the only one.
Special Agent Dalton Reyes’s usually tanned complexion had gone ashen, and he shook slightly as he stepped back from the trunk. “That could have been Elizabeth...”
Dalton had recently found a woman in the trunk of a stolen car he’d run off the road. Fortunately, that woman hadn’t been dead—just so injured that she had lost her memory.
“It wasn’t,” Jared said. “She’s alive.” And she had recovered her memory, as well.
Dalton expelled a ragged breath of relief. “She’s alive, and she’s amazing. I can’t believe she agreed to marry me.”
Jared glanced back over his shoulder and groaned. He’d taken a Bureau helicopter from the closest police post to Becca’s house; that was how he’d made such good time—arriving while the sun was still up. How the hell had the media already gotten wind of their finding a crime scene?
News station vans rolled into the middle of the Indiana wheat field, kicking up dust that shimmered in the setting sun. Jared gestured at the local police officers. “Keep them back. I don’t want any pictures of this scene leaking out.”
Before he’d had time to notify the family. He turned back to the trunk. The victim’s face was swollen and bruised but identifiable. It was Amy Wilcox. She stared up at him through open, glazed brown eyes; he only imagined the accusation in her gaze. The blame for not catching this killer before he’d killed again—before he’d killed her.
I’m sorry, Amy...
He’d kept apologizing to Becca, too. But now he knew why she’d been so reluctant to accept his apologies— because she owed him a bigger one.
Alex was his son.
His head began to pound, and he flinched. But he pushed the thoughts back. He couldn’t afford to be distracted now. He’d deal later with the shock and anger that was rolling through him like those vans through the wheat field.
Now