What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(8)

“Women like me? You mean journalists?”

“Women who’ve been featured in the scandal rags their whole life,” he corrected. “You just can’t stand for the spotlight to go away.”

Her whole life?

Carmen forgot to breathe as her gut twisted with horror.

The deputy wasn’t just referring to her book. He clearly knew about her parents. And the shocking details of their deaths that had rocked and dominated the headlines for months.

Her fingers curled tightly around the phone. Briefly she had an image of whacking the man across the face. He wouldn’t look so smug with a bloody nose.

Then sanity made a timely return and she shoved the phone back into her purse.

Spending Christmas in a jail cell wasn’t on her agenda. Not if she wanted to actually do something to try to discover the creep responsible for sending her the pictures.

“Can I assume that your only response to the photos is to call me a liar?” she bluntly asked.

The deputy suddenly appeared vaguely uncomfortable. As if he hadn’t expected her to demand he come out and bluntly spell out what he preferred to imply.

“I’m saying the timing of these unknown pictures suddenly appearing when you’re about to pimp another book is more than a little coincidental,” he hedged.

“Fine.” Carmen reached to pluck the envelope from his chubby fingers as she surged to her feet.

“Hey.” He blinked, making a belated grab for the envelope. “Where are you going with those?”

Carmen was already headed toward the nearby door. “You don’t believe me. I’ll find someone who will.”

She half expected him to rush and block her path. What respectable law officer wouldn’t be anxious to ensure there wasn’t a new killer out there?

But the deputy merely muttered a curse, his chair creaking as he settled himself into a more comfortable position.

“Merry Christmas, Ms. Jacobs,” he called out.

“Jerk,” she muttered, marching across the outer reception area and back into the frigid cold.

She shivered, slipping and sliding across the small parking lot to climb into her Jeep. Then, starting the engine, she flipped on the heater and stared out the frosty window.

She wasn’t looking at the nearby slopes that were packed with brightly attired skiers clustered in small groups. Or even the dramatic, snow-covered mountains that loomed just beyond the ski lodge.

Instead, she tossed the envelope into the passenger seat and dug through her purse to pull out her phone. It was obvious she couldn’t depend on law enforcement to help her. She’d burned too many bridges when she’d written her book. Not only by implying the police should have been more concerned about the missing women, but she’d been more than a little aggressive in demanding details that they hadn’t wanted to share with the public.

Plus, as the deputy had so painfully exposed, there would always be those people who assumed she was somehow deranged because of her past.

She had to have proof. Absolute, inarguable proof.

So who could help her?

She scrolled quickly through the names. Most of them were from the publishing world. Or the media. But she did have a few connections who worked on the fringes of law enforcement.

She froze, her thumb hovering over the one name that could offer genuine assistance.

If only he didn’t consider her a life form barely above a mold spore.





Chapter Three


December 21, California



The cottage was far enough from the beach to avoid the hordes of tourists who flocked to California every year, and hidden from the neighbors behind tall fences to offer a sense of privacy. The actual home had once been a traditional farmhouse with a screened-in porch and massive stone fireplaces. It also had a second floor where Griffin Archer had converted the cramped rooms into a spacious master suite when he’d moved in three years ago.

At the moment, Griff was seated at the shaded patio table that was perched near the drought-tolerant garden he’d chosen instead of the predictable pool. The landscaper he’d hired to design the yard had regarded him with a horror that Griff thought was excessive when he’d refused to contemplate even a shallow koi pond.

Rich people were supposed to be addicted to excess.

Griff liked things simple.

Polishing off his usual breakfast of a warm bagel with cream cheese and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, he studied his companion.

Rylan Cooper was a lean man with angular features and golden brown eyes. His hair had been bleached light blond by the California sun and his skin was richly tanned despite the fact the younger man had recently returned to Missouri to live with his new wife, Jaci.

Since the day the two men had moved to the West Coast to set up their tech firm, which specialized in cutting-edge software for law enforcement, Rylan had looked perfectly at home.

Rylan had bought the elegant condo on the beach. He wore designer clothes that were perfectly tailored. And dated scantily clad models.

The clichéd California dude. At least until he’d returned home to marry the girl next door.

Griff, on the other hand, had never truly fit in. His brown hair was always a few weeks past needing a trim. This morning it was worse than usual, flopping onto his wide brow and curling over his ears. His skin was pale despite the fact he never missed his early morning run on the beach. He assumed it had something to do with being born in Chicago. Chi-Town skin was made for icy winters and dreary summer days, not sun-drenched beaches.