Buried (Bone Secrets, #3)(24)

“Just a little shock, princess. You’ll feel better in a few minutes.”

“Why do you keep calling me princess? And make them go away.” Her teeth still chattered as she glared at the circle of uniforms staring down at her. Wasn’t she conspicuous enough? What were her neighbors thinking?

“Back off,” Michael directed. The cops obeyed. “Princess popped in my head the first time I saw you. Actually, I thought you looked like a queen. Something about the way you carry yourself. You’ve got a regal bearing. Not snooty or stuck-up. Just…calm, kind, and self-confident.”

Regal? “I’d call it my principal posture. Makes the kids listen to me.” Her damned body wouldn’t stop shivering. “I can’t get warm.”

Michael leaned closer, green eyes concerned.

Jamie blew out a long breath, closed her eyes, and concentrated on making her muscles relax. The shivering dropped to short spurts, down from continuous attacks.

“That’s better,” he said softly. “Do you think you can talk now?”

She opened her eyes. The concern in his gaze touched her deep in her chest. She nodded. “Sit me up.”

He shook his head. “Not yet.” He gestured for Byers to come back.

“How much description of the guy did she give you already?”

Byers consulted his flip notebook. “Caucasian male, probably six foot one or six foot two, medium build, late forties or early fifties, sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, navy light running pants, long-sleeved white T-shirt, tattoos on backs of both wrists.”

Jamie nodded in agreement. “I think the tattoos went up his sleeves. Like they covered his arms. I could see faint patterns through the material of his shirt.”

“Probably why he was wearing long sleeves in the middle of July,” Michael commented. “Wonder if the long pants were for the same reason?”

“More tats?” Byers asked.

Michael shrugged. “Possibly.”

Jamie’d had enough of being on her back and having people speak down to her. “Sit me up.”

Michael gently pulled her into a sitting position and steadied her with a hand on her back. And left it there. Its heat soaking into her skin felt heavenly.

“I don’t recall getting a glimpse of his legs or even ankles.” Jamie mentally reviewed her struggles with the assailant. “But he looked weird.”

“Define weird.” Michael’s lips curved up on the right.

She paused. “His eyes weren’t right. The color seemed fake.”

“Lenses?” Byers asked.

She nodded slowly. “Maybe. It was the same with the hair. The color seemed forced. Like a home dye job.”

“Christ. Vain,” Michael said wryly. “Can’t handle a little gray hair?”

“Maybe his hair was actually really dark, almost black. And he lightened it to throw her off. Same with the eyes. Maybe they’re brown or hazel,” Byers theorized. “You feel positive about the colors being changed? I mean, I had no idea my wife’s been coloring her hair for the last five years until her sister mentioned it. How can you tell?”

Uncertainty crept into Jamie’s brain. Maybe she was wrong. “Women look at hair. Most men don’t. It’s just a gut instinct with this guy.” She fumbled about for a way to explain. “You asked for his hair color. I pictured it and stated what I remembered, but something bugged me about my answer. I think it didn’t feel accurate because I’d imperceptibly picked up that it was colored. And that didn’t register till a minute ago.”

Both men stared at her. Byers’s pencil hung motionless above his notebook.

“Women can tell these things,” she asserted.

Byers recited as he wrote in his notebook: “Female instinct says hair colored and colored contacts.”



Gerald crammed his latex gloves in his pants pocket. That hadn’t gone well.

Rephrase that. It’d been a f*cking disaster.

Sitting in his car in the McDonald’s parking lot, he sucked on a Coke and took inventory of his injuries. His legs were going to be bruised for a week, and he had a finger sprain that’d swollen to twice its size. Damn thing had better not be broken.

Christ, she’d fought hard.

He’d never had a woman fight so hard. Surprisingly, in the past it’d been the women who put up the biggest fights. For some reason the men hadn’t. Maybe he’d simply picked men who didn’t mind being victims. The women had all minded. For prostitutes, they’d pissed off easily when they realized things weren’t going as planned.

Jacobs had surprised the crap out of him when she returned early from her run. From his observations, this woman never varied her routine. He should have left. Attacking her hadn’t been the smartest move, but he’d been frustrated with his empty search of the house. And his “interrogation” hadn’t accomplished anything either.

Except that the Jacobs woman had seen his face.

It didn’t matter.

He bit at the inside of his cheek. It didn’t matter. He kept his hair colored and his real eye color covered up. Maybe it was time for a change? Darken the hair a bit? Eyes too? He had every contact lens color available. He usually stuck to nondescript blues and greens. The people he worked with never noticed that his eye color slightly varied some days. Lots of people’s eyes normally do that.