Page 29

“ I still think it’s a mistake not to tell Gibbons about the initials used on the geolocator contract.”

Hayes sat before his laptop at the table.

Reese had rounded up a heap of Julia’s old planners, and the stack sat beside her on the couch.

But she hadn’t been able to concentrate on the task.

Or on lunch. Or dinner. The same endless loop kept replaying in her head.

“It doesn’t make sense. Thorne was in prison two months before Julia’s death. He didn’t place that locator.”

“Not himself, no.” To Haye’s credit, his tone still reflected patience despite having held the same conversation earlier.

“But we say nothing until Mendes gets back to me. He’s our liaison on the task force.

I’m not going to pee in his pond. I rely on him for regular updates about their progress in order to do my job, so he gets to make the decision about whether I share what I know about the initials on the contract. It may just be coincidence.”

She strode to the windows, the city view outside it shielded by the blinds. Back to the couch. Reese looked in Hayes’s direction again. “But you examined Thorne’s cell logs, you said. And the credit card information led nowhere.”

He stopped what he was doing to give her his full attention.

“Samuel Thompson was another victim of identity theft, from what I’ve discovered.

Like all the rest of the aliases Thorne used as the TK.

All the personal data for opening the credit card accounts had probably been hacked online.

We assume the TK utilized prepaid disposable phones.

We found one on him. There weren’t many calls, but Thorne made and received a couple from the same virtual private network number.

We could only get the VPN server’s ISP address, not the user’s actual location. ”

She turned. Made a return trip to the windows and back. “Maybe that identity remained available online. On the dark web or something. Multiple bad actors might be using it.”

He inclined his head toward his laptop. “I’m looking into it.”

Reese went to peer over his shoulder. He had several tabs open, and the one he’d been reading looked like credit reports for Thompson.

She skimmed them. “Doesn’t seem like suspicious activity.

” Establishing the card in Thompson’s name to pay the geolocator contract might have been its first illegal use.

She needed one tangible answer. Just a single fact that would give them a direction to follow.

But as usual, the questions kept piling up, with relevant details in short supply.

“It was a good thought, though. And I’ll keep searching.”

He clicked on a different tab, revealing an organizational map with boxes filled with text, connected by different-colored arrows. It was linear, denoting clear connections where they existed and question marks where no obvious link could be found.

“If you wanted another pad of Post-its you should have mentioned it.”

He grinned. “I prefer a graphic organizer that I can actually follow. Your wall of sticky notes is too abstract for this sequential thinker.”

She read for a couple of minutes until she saw the box with Samuel Thompson’s name.

An arrow to Thorne, zagging in another direction to a line of question marks and dated eighteen months earlier.

One arrow to Julia, dated when the contract for the device began.

Another text box read “Reese.” There were no arrows from that box.

“I don’t think I can live with the not knowing,” she murmured.

There was a shake in her voice, so she straightened, and steadied it before going on.

“Always wondering if I contributed to Julia’s death.

If Thorne is somehow linked to the Samuel Thompson name…

after all my aunt did for me, being the cause of her demise…

” She bit her lip to prevent herself from going on.

But it was difficult not to remember Autry, who’d only been in Thorne’s path because of her.

She was the hub from which spokes of suffering linked others who happened to get too close to her.

Reese was so entrenched in her anguish that she didn’t realize Hayes had come to stand too near her. “I understand why you’re here, but who’s going to protect you from me ?” She tried for a smile. Couldn’t manage it. “It’s starting to look like proximity to me is dangerous.”

He tipped her chin up. “I know what you’re thinking.

Don’t. You’re not the cause of this. Not any of it.

Assign the blame where it belongs. You didn’t kill Autry.

Thorne did. You didn’t drive the van that killed your aunt.

All three of you were victims of horrific crimes.

Survivor guilt can be crippling, and you don’t deserve that burden. You’ve suffered enough.”

Reese made the mistake of looking at him then.

He was much too close. Near enough to observe that his gray eyes were pure smoke, without a hint of hazel.

Sparks ignited beneath his fingers, the warmth spreading to each fraction of skin he touched.

A distant alarm bell shrilled in the recesses of her mind.

Here lay danger of a different kind. Because Hayes had managed to divert her, but only by planting another, almost forgotten emotion.

Desire.

She saw the awareness in his eyes. Expected him to step away.

But his touch shifted as he cupped her face in his hand.

Achingly slowly, his head lowered to hers.

Reese told herself to move away, but her limbs wouldn’t obey.

His lips brushed hers, whisper-light, with only a ghost of pressure.

And instead of retreating, she stepped closer and leaned into his kiss.

Her breath caught, the instant suspended by a gossamer thread, stretching taut between them.

Hayes’s mouth firmed against hers and his fingers left her jawline to sink into her hair.

Her lips molded against his, answering with an increasing demand that felt foreign.

A moment out of time. The world faded to watercolor, and for the space of an instant, all that mattered was their mingled breath, the tangle of tongues, and the leap of chemistry, surprising in its intensity.

Hayes lifted his mouth from hers, an infinitesimal fraction, and smoothed her hair back gently. “We should?—”

A sound split the apartment, and they sprang apart like illicit lovers. He recovered first, pushing her lightly toward the couch. “Get down. Behind it.”

The noise came again. The doorbell. It had to be nearly ten. Reese didn’t get many visitors. “Do you think it’s Raiker again?”

“It’s not Adam.” Hayes crossed to her bedroom and returned with his weapon. “Either get behind the couch or in your room. Now!”

He went to the door and looked out the peephole as she hurried toward her bedroom door. Stepped just inside and stopped to listen. Her heart jackhammered in her chest, the sudden swing from longing to tension like a crazed pendulum.

Reese heard the locks disengage. Then his voice. “Good evening, Officers.”

“Evening, sir. Is Reese Decody here?”

Police officers? Reese ventured out of the room. At Hayes’s stern look, she retreated a few steps. “I need to verify your identities first. Badges.”

He drew his cell out and snapped pictures of something before saying, “Give me a moment.” Leaving them in the hallway, he went back to his computer, plugged in his cell, and then worked in silence for a minute, during which time the doorbell pealed again.

He went back to his room and returned minus the weapon, holding something she couldn’t identify in his hand. He reopened the door.

“Come in.”

Reese emerged from the bedroom as two uniformed SDPD officers entered the apartment.

A woman, with a mass of dark hair pulled away from a face that spoke of decades on the job, with a younger, taller Black male companion. “I’m Reese Decody.”

They both sent her a quick appraising look. “Officers Hastings and Fenton.” The woman focused on Hayes again. “What’s your name?”

“Hayes Moreland.” He waved them in so he could shut the door behind them.

“Can we see some ID?”

The man was closer, so Hayes handed him the credentials he was holding. Fenton flipped the slim leather case open to study it. Then handed it to his partner, who looked it over and frowned. “What’s an employee from Raiker Forensics doing here?”

“Visiting.”

Hastings looked like she wanted to follow up on his terse answer, but shifted her gaze to Reese.

“Ms. Decody. We apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but we need to ask you a few questions.” She took a notebook from her back pocket, flipped it open, and drew out the attached pen.

“Can you tell us where you were between eight thirty and nine this morning?”

Her brows furrowed. “I was at the SDPD Central Division around eight, and then stopped at Ingersoll Partners Wealth Management. I probably left there shortly before nine. Why?”

“Did you talk to Tyler Greenley today?”

Reese exchanged a look with Hayes. “Yes, for a few minutes. He was having breakfast at the outside eating area of the building’s sixth floor. I spoke with him for a couple of minutes, then left. What’s this about?”

Fenton answered, his eyes hard. “Greenley was found dead in his office at six twenty-seven this evening. It looks like he died after drinking from the bottle of Scotch you sent him this afternoon.”

One hand flew to her throat. “Greenley’s dead?”

“Reese didn’t send him anything,” Hayes put in. “Your information is wrong.”

The officers ignored him. “Did you or did you not have a bottle of Bowman 25 Year Scotch sent to his office this afternoon?” Hastings asked.

Feeling in need of support, she braced a hand against the table just inside the front door. “No. Why would I do that?”