The Gathering Dusk (Killer Instinct .5)

A tear leaked down Missy’s cheek as she stared at the bandages on her arms. “I’m hardly perfect now.”

Farris had liked to destroy the perfect beauty of his victims. As if he were punishing them.

When she’d created the profile for Farris, an unknown perp at the time, she’d theorized that he chose his victims for two main reasons.

One...their delicate builds made them easier to overpower. That was one of the reasons she’d known that she was looking for a killer with a slight build himself.

Two...he was striking out at someone in particular. Someone who had been personally involved in his life—someone who had been blonde and beautiful and who he had wanted to slice apart.

Samantha found herself heading back to the bed. She waited until Missy’s gaze rose to meet hers, and then she said, “You survived a serial killer’s attack. You were with him for over twenty-four hours. You have lived through a hell that few people can understand. Will you have some scars? Yes...but scars fade. The fact that you are a survivor will never change. Your spirit doesn’t change. You are perfect. And soon enough, you’ll see that for yourself.”

Missy’s trembling lips lifted into a smile. “You almost make me believe it.”

“We all have scars, Missy.” Samantha certainly carried plenty of her own. “They don’t matter.” She nodded to Missy—and to Missy’s father—then Samantha headed for the door. She skimmed past the curtain, curled her fingers around the door handle and pulled it open.

The guard was still outside.

But he wasn’t alone.

Blake was there, his brows raised, and his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

Samantha stilled. “Eavesdropping, Agent Gamble?”

“Maybe. A bit.”

Shaking her head, she marched past him. Her gaze was on the bank of elevators.

“Does Bass know you’re here?” Blake asked her.

She jabbed the button for the elevator. “I was just checking on her. Nothing official about my visit.”

“Hmm.”

Samantha crossed her arms over her chest as she waited for the elevator to arrive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t think you’re very good at staying away from a case, Bass’s orders or not.”

Fine. So she was a little guilty. “I want to find his trigger.”

The elevator dinged.

“What?” Blake asked.

Samantha stepped into the elevator. “The woman who started it all. The woman who stirred all that hate inside of George Farris. The mystery blonde.”

Blake didn’t follow her. “Samantha...”

“I’m sure there’s a clue to her identity in Farris’s house. Sooner or later, I’ll be cleared on this shooting.” She threw up her hand, stopping the elevator doors before they could close. “And then I’m going to find her.”

He stepped closer. “How do you know Farris hasn’t already killed her? Maybe she was his first victim. Hell, when we start digging in that house, we might very well find her—buried in the basement or in the backyard or—”

“We could,” Samantha agreed, cutting through his words. “And then I’ll know who she is.”

His head cocked as he studied her. “Knowing is important?”

“Knowing gives me his motivation. It helps me to understand him. He didn’t have to be a killer. Something changed him.” I think it was the blonde. Samantha let her hand drop. “Better move back, Agent Gamble. You don’t want to get hurt.”

“Trust me, I don’t exactly ‘hurt’ easily.” One dark brow shot up. “Why am I suddenly ‘Agent Gamble’ to you?”

The doors closed before Samantha had to answer. Because I’m trying to put some distance between us. You’re getting too close to me. I’m letting you past my guard.

I can’t do that. It isn’t smart. It isn’t safe.

Not for either of us.

* * *

THE ELEVATOR DOORS dinged when they opened in the parking garage. Samantha hurried out, her gaze automatically sweeping the area. It was early, so the visitors’ parking section only contained a handful of cars. The air was crisp and her steps seemed to echo against the concrete as she marched toward her vehicle.

She was almost at her car when she glimpsed the other woman. Standing against a heavy stone column, positioned under the security camera, the woman with the red hair and long black coat seemed to just be...waiting.

Samantha stilled. Her head turned as she moved to face the threat. “Are you all right?” she asked the woman. “Is there something I can help you with?” But her words were guarded because alarm bells were going off in her mind, triggering her instincts.

The way she’s positioned, as if lying in wait... This isn’t some woman who is having car trouble or—

“You’re an FBI agent, aren’t you?” the woman asked, and what seemed like excitement flashed in her eyes.

Samantha’s shoulders straightened. “Who needs to know?”

“You came to visit the victim.” A quick smile spread on the woman’s face. A pretty woman, classic features, porcelain skin and blue eyes. “Is she doing all right? Will she survive?”

Samantha took a step back and assessed the woman once more. The lady wore designer clothes—high-end, definitely pricey. Her red high heels gave her an extra three inches, but Samantha figured the woman was about five foot three. The way the redhead held herself, the confidence in her stare, the directness of her speech... “Are you a reporter?” Samantha asked. The obvious assumption but...

“You were at the scene last night,” the woman said, nodding. “I recognized you. But you left before answering any questions. Did you leave because of your injury or because you were the one who pulled the trigger and killed George Farris?”

Samantha’s gaze swept over the woman, memorizing her. She didn’t know all of the reporters in the DC area, but she’d make a point of learning everything she could about this lady. “I have no comment for the press.”

The redhead’s lips thinned.

“What’s your name?” Samantha asked her.

“Hannah Broderick, with Channel Seven.” Her smile was broad. “You sure you don’t want to tell your side of the story? In cases like this, the last thing you want is for the public to think that they’re dealing with some trigger-happy agent.”

“We’re done with this conversation,” Samantha said flatly. She turned on her heel and headed for her car. She didn’t hear the sound of footsteps behind her. As she approached her little coupe, Samantha saw her own reflection in the driver’s-side window. Her fingers reached for the door handle and she found herself hesitating. Samantha glanced back—

The woman was gone.

The elevator doors dinged as they closed. Her gaze jerked toward the elevator bank and she saw the light gleam above them as the elevator rose. Her jaw locked and Samantha dug out her phone. She pressed the contact button for Blake and when he answered, she said, “Watch yourself, partner. A reporter named Hannah Broderick is coming your way.”

CHAPTER FIVE

BLAKE CROSSED HIS arms over his chest and stared at the elevator bank. The doors dinged and, when they opened, he found himself gazing at a redhead with vivid blue eyes. She blinked when she saw him, surprise flashing on her face.

“Hannah Broderick?” She fit the description Samantha had given to him.

She nodded.

“Took you a little longer than I expected to arrive.” He glanced at his watch. “What happened? Did you have to search a few floors while you were looking for the victim?”

Her breath rushed from between her lips as she slipped out of the elevator. She came right toward him and touched his shoulder. “You spoke to the other agent.” Her voice was low and smooth. Probably supposed to be sexy, but he just found it annoying.

Mostly because a reporter was trying to sneak her way into an injured woman’s hospital room? Annoying as hell.

The elevator doors had closed behind h

er. He reached around the lady and hit the button to get those doors open once more. “You’re heading back down.”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “Was your partner the one who pulled the trigger or was it you?”

“Get on the elevator,” Blake ordered. “This is not the time or the place for a reporter.”

The fury in her stare probably should have burned him. “Don’t you think people deserve to know what happened?”

He advanced toward her. She backed up, seemingly an automatic reflex, and he walked her into the elevator. Then he pushed the button for the parking garage. “A killer was stopped, ma’am. That’s what happened. When the victim has recovered, if she feels like talking...then I’m sure your station will be contacted.” He backed out of the elevator. “Now you have yourself a good day.”

The doors slid closed.

* * *

“FUCKING ASSHOLE.”

The elevator was playing some lame classical music that just grated in her ears. She hadn’t found the identity of the shooter but...

I got close.

Going to the hospital had been pure genius. The news had just served up the name of the hospital for her in their last report, and she’d thought, If the victim is there, maybe the FBI will be there, too. She’d been right. The female agent had just walked right up to her.

She’d recognized the other woman. And since the big, dark-haired agent had been lying in wait for her in front of the elevator bank on the third floor...

The lady from the parking garage must have called him and tipped him off. Maybe he’s her partner.

A partner who would have been with the other woman when she stormed George’s house.

So she had two agents in her sights—one male and one female.

Which one had pulled the trigger?

Which one deserved payback?

She didn’t know, so maybe she’d just punish them both.

* * *