Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)

And when life had changed forever.

Whoever originated the phrase “time heals all wounds” was wrong. There were some wounds that nothing could heal. They remained open sores that festered as the years crept by.

He made his way across the cemetery’s manicured lawns, passing headstone after headstone. Each one of them had its own story. But none of them was his.

He reached her graveside and stood reverently before it. The familiar gripping pain constricted his chest. It never got easier. It never would.

He knelt, running his fingers over the etched letters and numbers on the stone, tasting his own tears as they glided down his cheeks.

So young. So innocent. A whole life stretching before her.

Extinguished in one heinous, senseless moment.

It should have been him. If someone had to die, it should have been him.

But it wasn’t.

He took the bouquet of daisies and placed it on her grave. It was always daisies. They were her favorite flower. She’d picked them from the garden on the estate from the time she was two. She’d present them to him like they were a sacred gift, rather than a crumpled tangle of stems.

To him, they were sacred. And so was she.

He bowed his head, let the grief and the guilt consume him. He didn’t pray. He couldn’t. He no longer believed.

Sloane panted as her sneakers pounded rhythmically on the road, the hounds racing along at her side.

The morning was gray. And so was her mood. Something was bothering the hell out of her.

Long after Derek had fallen asleep beside her last night, she’d sat up with the reading lamp on, poring over the portion of Xiao Long’s file that Derek had given her access to.

Detailed accountings of the recent string of burglaries Xiao had orchestrated. The part that his nephew, Eric Hu, and his computer services company had played, electronically equipping every apartment that the Red Dragon kids had hit. All except for the Burbanks’ apartment. The burglary at her parents’ place didn’t fit the pattern—for obvious reasons.

The facts were in order. The conclusions seemed logical.

So what was bugging her?

She’d thrashed around in bed until she couldn’t stand it anymore. Then, she’d leashed up the hounds and gone out for her run, hoping it would clear her head and provide her with an answer.

It did.

Halfway through her jog, the incongruity struck home.

Rosalyn Burbank opened the front door with her good arm when her daughter arrived. She looked peaked but determined, her gaze still dulled by medication, but her power suit saying she was fighting bed rest tooth and nail. She also looked distinctly baffled, and not particularly pleased.

“Sloane.” She gave her daughter a quick hug, then stepped back and glanced at her watch. “I postponed the breakfast meeting with my author for an early lunch. He wasn’t too happy about it, since he’s in New York only another day before he takes off for his European tour. Why did you insist on meeting here, now? What on earth is going on?”

“Hi to you, too, Mom.” Sloane was used to her mother’s type A directness. After all, that’s who she’d inherited it from.

She walked in, hung her jacket on the coatrack, and turned to face Rosalyn as she shut the front door. “Breakfast meeting? You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I rested enough after the concussion. I’m not missing an important client meeting because of a broken arm. But don’t worry. I’m pumped full of painkillers. And I won’t be at the wheel. Special Agent Carter is driving me.” She gestured at the breakfast nook, where Alan Carter was sitting, drinking a cup of coffee. He gave Sloane a brief wave of his hand that looked more like the wave of a white flag of defeat.

Sloane stifled a smile. Babysitting her mother was probably as taxing as working Violent Crimes. “May I have a few minutes alone with my mother?” she asked.

“Of course.” He nearly leaped up. “I’ll go out and stretch my legs, then make sure the car’s brought around.”

“Thank you.” Sloane waited until he was gone. “Are you torturing the poor man?” she asked her mother.

“No, I’m just living my life—which includes meeting my client.” Rosalyn shifted impatiently. “So let’s get to the point of this visit.”