“That’s right,” she said softly. “I love him like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. He’s part of me. I suspect you know the feeling I’m talking about.”

“I do.” He gazed at the table.

“Can you live with this relationship?”

“I have no choice.”

“Do you want off our case? Would that make it easier?”

He looked back up at her, holding her gaze for a long time. “No and no. I don’t want to lose what we have.”

“Me neither.”

His doorbell jangled.

“That’s Mercy Kilpatrick.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Christ. How many other people are coming?”

“Just her. We were both worried about you. You’re lucky I didn’t send over a squad of patrol cars first. I probably should have.”

He pushed back his chair. “Send her home. I’m going to bed.” He eyed the freshly opened bottle of vodka. “I’m done with that. Take it with you, would you? And I’ll be at work in the morning. Good as new.”

“Thank you for telling me about Faith and Fiona, Zander.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Can you handle Mercy? I don’t want to see anyone else tonight.” He headed for his stairs.

The slump of his shoulders worried her, and she decided to shock him out of it. “Isn’t Mercy single?” she nudged.

He stopped and turned to stare at her, his jaw dropping. Then he spotted her small grin and swore under his breath. “Screw you, McLane.” He continued his unsteady trek toward his stairs.

She watched him go, satisfied she’d gotten a reaction out of him but ready to rush forward if he couldn’t manage the staircase. He carefully stepped his way to the top, and she went to answer the door. At least she’d seen him smile when he realized she was joking about the other agent.

But she’d never forget the soul-deep pain in his eyes when he’d said his daughter’s name.

26

He scrolled down through the local news station’s website, looking for new information on the murders of the cops. The other night had been a close one; he’d fucked up. He hadn’t expected Lucien Fujioka to fight back.

He’d incapacitated each man before he’d known what was happening.

Luckily he’d been armed. He’d been armed for the other encounters, but he’d never had to actually fire the gun. Fujioka had nearly gotten the upper hand.

He’d placed the mask on the kitchen floor when Fujioka was out of the room. Confused, Fujioka had picked up the mask when he returned. The floor creaked as he stepped into his swing with the bat. Fujioka heard it and turned. The bat didn’t fully connect and Fujioka lunged at him. They’d fought. He’d knocked the slightly dazed cop down and fired.

The sound had been deafening.

He’d fled, leaving the mask still in Fujioka’s hand.

An ad blasted from the news station’s website and he turned off the volume. He wouldn’t screw up like that again.

His list had one more name.

The last person who’d torn out her heart.

As he scrolled, a familiar name jumped off the screen. Micah Zuch. He caught his breath and rapidly read the article. And then read it again.

Why is that punk a person of interest in the case?

He knew Micah. He knew Micah very well.

Over and over he’d seen echoes of himself in the boy. Their lives had too many similarities and parallels. He’d tried to ease the boy’s way, make up for what he was lacking. Protect him from what he knew was coming.

He read the article a third time, looking for subtext. It stated the police didn’t consider Micah a suspect—which they shouldn’t—but that the information he’d brought to the police had made them focus their efforts in a different direction.

What direction?

How could Micah know anything about those deaths?

He pulled out his phone and called a friend. “Hey, Steve. I just read about the young guy they’re holding for the cop murders. You guys must be relieved they caught someone.”

The cop predictably set him straight that they didn’t believe Micah Zuch was the killer.

“I must have misunderstood. Then why are they holding him?” he prodded.

The cop’s next few sentences chilled him to the bone.

“Well, I hope he’s a good lead and you guys nail the bastard.” He ended the call and sat still, staring at his computer screen.

Why did Micah confess to the murders? How could he have known exactly what the victims were wearing?

His train of thought shot in a million directions. “Maybe he knows someone who had access to the crime scene documentation,” he muttered out loud. But different law enforcement departments had handled the evidence collection in each case. He could understand Micah having a friend in one department, but not in four of them.

That left one option.

Micah had followed him.

He slammed his laptop shut and pushed out of his chair, stalking about his dining room. He’d thought he’d been so careful. Fury raked through him.

“That little sneaky asshole! This is what I get for trying to help him?” He turned and slammed his fist into the wall, leaving an impression in the drywall. “Fuck!” He hit with his other fist and the drywall broke. He yanked his hand out of the wall, staring at the blood that immediately welled in the scratches on the back of his hand. The pain cleared his head.