Page 72 of The Devoted Game

She glanced at him again with that look that suggested he might want to rephrase.

“We,” she said before settling her attention back on the pages in the file, “have three completely unrelated victims, two female, one male. Two adults, one child. Two rich, one poor. Three historic landmarks as crime scenes. And you.” Those big dark eyes rested on him once more. “And that’s it. No evidence, no prints, no witnesses other than Mr. Jackson, who didn’t see enough to be useful.”

That about summed it up. “How is Davis coming along with that fan list?”

“He has it narrowed down to less than two hundred, and he’s making phone calls. When he eliminates those who have moved away or died or whatever, he and Arnold are going door to door.”

“Nothing from Schaffer?”

Grace shrugged. “Nothing significant She did find your notes on that final report. So Goodman’s associate told the truth about that part anyway.”

“Speaking of Goodman,” Ryan ventured, recalling the pushy lady from this morning outside the church, “what’s the deal with her? Just another assertive newshound?”

Grace closed her file and clasped her hands atop it. “She’s been around for a while. Came to Birmingham about five years ago from Pittsburgh. Most people consider her the voice of what’s happening in this city. Divorced. No children. Totally dedicated to the job. Basically, a bitch as far as anyone in law enforcement is concerned.”

Ryan considered his temporary partner. “Sounds like you don’t care for the lady.”

“She hurts people to get what she wants. I have a problem with that. The Byrnes were ready to take out a restraining order to keep her away from their house after their daughter was rescued. I’m sure Katherine Jones has suffered the same treatment, only she doesn’t have a lawyer on retainer to make her life more comfortable. Hospital security will probably keep her off Trenton’s back.” Grace gave her head a little shake. “Look what she did to Mr. Braden and Agent Quinn. And you,” she added, a flicker of some undefined emotion in her eyes.

Could she possibly give one shit about his feelings? “That exposé of Goodman’s didn’t hurt me, Grace. The man she targeted is gone. This one”—he patted his chest—“isn’t that guy. He’s just a bum who does what he has to and nothing more.” When she would have argued, he went on, “What she wrote hurt Derrick Braden and Andrew Quinn ... the two people left from that nightmare who still had something to lose.”

That was the truth if he’d ever spoken it.

A knock on the door drew their attention there.

“Grace?” Pratt called through the door rather than coming on in.

Maybe he was afraid of what he would see. He hadn’t asked any questions about the episode at the airport, but the guy had to have noticed the tension between Ryan and Grace.

Grace slid off the counter and strode to the door. Ryan took the opportunity to admire those gorgeous legs. He’d gladly sell what was left of his soul to have them wrapped around him one more time.

She opened the door, the back of the hand holding the file propped on her hip. Her colleague peeked past her to see what Ryan was up to. “What?” she demanded.

“Worth wants the two of you upstairs.” He looked from Grace to Ryan and back. “There’s some guy from Quantico here.”

Ryan had wondered when the Q would get around to sending somebody down for a look-see. Took them longer than he had expected.

Grace followed Pratt up the stairs, and Ryan followed her. He definitely got the better end of the deal. If he loitered a few steps behind he could see up her skirt just far enough to get a glimpse of smooth thighs.

Didn’t take her long to figure that out. She stopped. Waited for him to catch up, then gave him the evil eye.

Like he said before, he was only human.

Worth waited in his office. The agent from Quantico sat in one of the chairs facing Worth’s desk, his back to the door.

“Agents Grace and McBride,” Worth said, “have a seat.”

The visitor stood and turned to greet them, and Ryan stopped.

Collin Pierce.

“Agent Grace.” Pierce extended his hand. “It’s good to see you.”

She accepted his hand, her action delayed just enough for Ryan to notice.

“Agent Pierce,” she acknowledged, drawing out the syllables as if surprised or reluctant.

During that instant, that fraction of a second, when Pierce held on to her hand before she pulled away, Ryan observed something. Some infinitesimal impression that said these two shared a connection, past or present, which still simmered.