Thirty minutes later the meeting wrapped up.

Ava was silent as she and Mason left the building. The sun had set two hours ago, but the heat radiated up from the blacktop as they walked through the parking lot. They stopped at her car and looked at each other.

“Another romantic evening,” she whispered, one side of her mouth curled up.

He stepped closer and cupped a hand around her jaw. In the dim light of the parking lot he could barely see the light shower of freckles on each of her cheekbones. He rubbed a thumb over them. The freckles were a reflection of her. She was completely professional in her dress and grooming, but she couldn’t cover up the small bit of playfulness that danced across her cheeks. Just so, her personality was calm and rational, but she had that hint of flirtatiousness that she couldn’t keep hidden.

She had spark. And he couldn’t stay away.

“Every evening I spend with you is romantic,” he said. “Doesn’t matter if we’re looking at a corpse or walking on the beach.”

Her eyelids flickered and uncertainty shot across her face.

“Jayne?” he asked.

“I’m worried.” She leaned into him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He held her tight and his own worry increased—but not for her twin.

Would he ever have Ava completely to himself?

19

It felt as if he’d had an hour of sleep.

And that hour had been patched together from brief periods of dozing with the bedroom light on and Ava tossing in bed beside him.

After a dose of a prescription antianxiety medication she had on hand, Ava had finally crashed. He’d had to threaten her to get her to take it. “You don’t have to be anywhere in the morning,” he’d told her. “It doesn’t matter if you sleep in or are groggy most of the day. But I need sleep and I can’t sleep until you do.”

The stress of the shooting had finally caught up with her. Combined with her disturbing phone call from Jayne earlier in the day, it’d made for a night from hell. First Ava had paced around the bedroom, complaining that she wasn’t tired. He’d suggested a glass of wine, and she’d agreed, but then barely drunk it. She’d set down the glass and moved away, forgetting that it existed. She looked stressed, with smudged half circles darkening the skin below her eyes, and she kept losing track of their conversation.

Mason knew the signs of mental and emotional exhaustion. But Ava had kept moving. She’d run two loads of laundry and dug around in the kitchen boxes. Reorganizing, she’d said. Physically she was running on nervous energy, but her brain had shifted to pause, protecting itself. “I can’t think straight,” she’d said. “My thoughts keep skittering about in my head as if everything is covered in ice. I can’t get purchase to focus on one thing—everything keeps pushing the other thoughts out of the way. Important facts from the shootings that I feel like I need to remember and follow up on. Then I start thinking about what Jayne said to me and everything spins away again.”

“There’re plenty of sharp brains working on these murders,” he’d told her. “We’ll cover everything. It’s not on you to solve these cases.”

“I know, but—”

“You’ve forgotten you’re not assigned to work on them. You’re a witness. That’s it,” he’d said sharply.

The look she’d given him could have frozen fire.

At midnight he’d bargained her into bed, promising a foot and back rub.

It’d taken over an hour, but she’d finally fallen asleep. Only to jolt awake later, scrambling out of the bed.

It’d scared the crap out of him.

He’d seen the vein pounding in her neck and her dilated pupils. “The shooter?” he’d asked. She’d nodded, unable to speak and her gaze wide and blank. He’d pulled her back to bed, held her close, and stroked her back until she drifted off to sleep again. After two more identical heart-stopping episodes, she’d taken the medication.

Her appointment with the counselor today couldn’t come fast enough.

This morning Mason had awakened to a six A.M. call. The Troutdale shooter had been identified overnight and they wanted his presence at the shooter’s apartment ASAP. He’d plugged the address into his GPS and hit the Starbucks drive-through after kissing Ava good-bye. She’d been half-asleep in their bed. He’d written her a note and taped it to the bathroom mirror, uncertain if she’d have any memory of his leaving.

The name of the Troutdale shooter was AJ Weiss. Weiss had lived in an apartment basement in his parents’ home in Gresham, a city that bordered Portland to the east. And an easy jaunt to Troutdale.

Mason parked on the street and spotted Ray talking on his phone as he leaned against his car, waiting for Mason. Two patrol units were parked in front of the house and one officer stepped out of his car as Mason walked across the street toward the home. No evidence team yet.

Mason identified himself and showed the officer his badge. He glanced at the other patrol car. “Expecting trouble?”

“They’re going to release the name of the shooter soon, but I think they’re trying to wait until the morning news shows are over to give the family some time to take this in. Who knows what kind of nuts that’s going to draw out of the woods,” the officer replied. “The parents seem like nice people. Hope it doesn’t turn ugly here.”

“Make the media keep their distance,” said Mason. Ray wrapped up his phone call and joined him.