The Stranger You Know (Forensic Instincts 3)

“Not always.”

“True,” Casey conceded. “Not when we’re in bed.”

The intense look was back on Hutch’s face. “No,” he agreed. “Not when we’re in bed. Maybe that should tell us something.”

He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his, passion laced with tenderness.

That poignant tenderness dominated their lovemaking—each kiss, each caress, each movement, of their joined bodies speaking volumes and overshadowing all else.

When it was over, they lay quietly together, their fingers intertwined. There was a very new, very raw emotion that permeated the room, speaking volumes about what just happened between them, what was still happening in the aftermath.

Hutch found his voice first.

“Don’t you think it’s time we acknowledged what we have?” He spoke roughly into Casey’s hair. “We dance around it. We exert boundless energy and maximum effort to avoid giving it a name—even though we both know it’s there.”

“I’m not afraid of saying it.” Casey put her hands on Hutch’s shoulders and pushed him slightly away so she could gaze straight into his eyes. “I’m afraid of what happens once it’s been said. What do we do with it? Where do we go from there? Our lives are so complicated. Our worlds are so different and so far apart. How do we reconcile that?”

“The same way we reconcile it when we avoid saying the words—day by day, need by need.”

Casey swallowed. “Okay. Here it is. I’m insanely in love with you. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

Hutch’s knuckles caressed her cheek, an incredibly intimate expression crossing his face. “I’ve been in love with you since I first laid eyes on you. You’re as impossible as our situation. But I wouldn’t change you or the way I feel about you. This will be hard work. But we’re both die-hard perfectionists. We’ll make it right.?

??

“I’m too stubborn to accept anything less. And so are you.” Casey’s lashes were damp. “This killer doesn’t stand a chance, does he?”

“Nope. Not with us closing in on him. He’s as good as done.”

* * *

Hutch visited both crime scenes the next day—the dorm room where Deirdre was killed and the alleyway where her body was left. Patrick—who was a trained pro at this after three decades of FBI investigative work—joined him.

The dorm room yielded nothing. From there, the two men searched every inch of the alley, hoping one of them would find the tiniest something that might have escaped the crime scene unit.

No such luck.

“This murder was more violent than the others,” Patrick commented, hunkering down beside the trail of blood that ran across the cracked concrete. “Based on what I got from the police, he really brutalized her.”

“Sexually, as well,” Hutch said. “The details were pretty gruesome. I kept them from Casey. She’s got enough to deal with. The killer is getting angrier and more violent. Something is provoking him. The question is what?”

“Casey’s visit with Fisher?” Patrick suggested. “Couldn’t that have set him off?”

“It definitely set Fisher off,” Hutch responded. “But there’s a disconnect here. If it was Fisher who’d committed this crime, your theory would make a world of sense. But it wasn’t. It was our unsub.” Hitch resorted to FBI-speak, using the common term for Unknown Subject. “And even if that unsub is taking orders directly from Fisher, this is the kind of rage that’s personal. It’s not a third party delivering a message.”

Patrick’s expression was grim. “So this lunatic is either furious at Casey or furious at law enforcement.”

“That would be my guess.”

“Hey.” A male voice from the sidewalk summoned them. “Are you the police?”

Both Hutch and Patrick turned to see a well-dressed guy in his mid-to-late twenties hovering just outside the alley. His hand was wrapped around a leash with a Boston terrier at the end of it. The dog sat patiently while his owner talked.

“Why?” Hutch asked, taking the lead on this one. “Do you need the police?”

The guy shrugged. “I don’t know. I just read that a dead body was found in this alley. I figured if you were the cops, I’d talk to you. I might have some information.”

Hutch pulled out his ID. “Supervisory Special Agent Hutchinson, FBI,” he said. “What can you tell us?”