The Stranger You Know (Forensic Instincts 3)

Afterward, they were quiet, both of them loath to let go of the moment and allow reality to creep back in.

When Ryan spoke, it was in a rough, gravelly tone. “Don’t cry.”

Claire blinked. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying. But her cheeks and lashes were wet, as was Ryan’s shoulder where her face had been.

“I’m sorry.” She ran her palm across his shoulder, then wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “It’s the emotional energy.”

Ryan nodded, his chin pressed against the crown of her head.

Another moment passed, and Claire could feel the ugly ghosts threatening to crowd their way into her mind. Unconsciously, her nails dug into Ryan’s back.

Ryan picked up on her panic.

“It’s after three in the morning,” he said. “We have to be upstairs in a couple of hours. For you to go home now would be ridiculous. Stay here.”

Now that was unprecedented.

What Claire and Ryan had was very complicated. They were polar opposites in so many ways. They debated hard, they bickered constantly and they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Ryan was gorgeous and charismatic, with those smoldering Black Irish looks and the charm to match—all of which meant he attracted women like a magnet.

None of that impressed Claire. She was very much her own person, gentle and ethereal, yet strong and honest, unwilling to back down when she thought Ryan was wrong. They were, without a doubt, each other’s weak spot, and despite their best intentions to the contrary and the fact that the two of them were like day and night, they continued to wind up in bed together.

They’d fast become a habit each of them was finding impossible to break.

After months of being involved, they’d relegated their sexual relationship to its own inexplicable but inescapable niche.

That niche didn’t include spending the night together.

Still, what Ryan was saying now made complete pragmatic sense. It was hardly a romantic step forward. Just a time-saver and a few extra hours of comfort—hours Claire badly needed. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t have the energy to move. And she didn’t have the mental strength to battle her demons.

Ryan didn’t wait for Claire’s reply. He rolled onto his side and reached for the fleece throw

he kept at the foot of the futon. He settled Claire against him and covered them both.

“Go to sleep, Claire-voyant,” he murmured. “Shut down that out-of-control mind of yours. You can pick up where you left off tomorrow.”

Claire would never admit how relieved Ryan’s words made her feel, or how grateful she was not to be alone. She commanded her mind and her body to release the negative energy, and they complied. “I’m so drained,” she heard herself whisper aloud.

“I know.” Ryan lay down beside her, wrapping one arm around her waist, pausing only long enough to set the alarm on his watch.

By the time he put down his head, Claire was fast asleep.

* * *

Upstairs in her apartment, Casey was having no such luck.

She’d taken a hot shower to relax the tension from her body, plumped her pillows about twelve times and now lay on her back, one arm folded beneath her head.

She wished that damned voice on the phone hadn’t been disguised. But the fact that it was—did that mean she knew the person at the other end? He wasn’t threatening Forensic Instincts. Even if this was a personal vendetta against Casey’s entire company, he was zeroing in on her as his target. That in itself was unnerving. But what unnerved her most was how detailed the offender’s planning had been. He’d plugged into her current investigation and where she stood on it. That took time, patience and connections. He obviously had all three. And with regard to tonight’s rape and murder? He’d carefully chosen a victim whose description matched Casey’s.

All those things together added up to a systematic mind and strategic planning—a lethal combination.

Last, but far from least, he’d made sure to call Casey either right before or, even more macabre, sometime during his horrific crime.

That added a perverse twist....

What was his motive? Was it personal? Professional? And if Casey was designated as the final target, what killing rampage did he have planned in the interim?

The questions bombarded Casey, growing more and more numerous as she lay there.