Desperate Girls (Wolfe Security #1)(71)

“No.”

Brynn glanced in the side mirror, where she saw yet another vehicle was following them, this one containing the two new agents Liam had staffed for the job.

I need my best people on this, he’d told Brynn at the end of the meeting. Jeremy, Erik, Keith. I’m also adding three additional agents, including myself.

Brynn was still absorbing it all. They were at nine agents, even more than Liam had recommended in the beginning.

Of course, much had changed since then. Mick McGowan was dead. Ross was seriously injured. And Corby had proven his talent for evading the police.

Brynn had been wrong about everything.

She turned to look out the window, feeling frustrated, scared, and confused—three of her least favorite emotions.

“Since we’re in the area,” she said, “you mind if we swing by my house? It’s only fifteen minutes away, and I need to pick up some files.”

“No problem.”

Erik made a phone call relaying their plan to the other agents and rattling off Brynn’s address—which, of course, he knew. He knew everything, and she knew precious little about him.

That was going to change.

They took the highway headed south, and Brynn watched in the side mirror as the black Suburban followed.

“Want to talk about it?”

She glanced at Erik. With his mirrored sunglasses, she couldn’t read his expression. But the concern in his voice tugged at her.

“I’m just . . . thrown by this whole thing.”

“Mark’s theory?”

“All of it. If he’s right, then Lauren Tull’s killer is still out there raping women. And he’s crossed the line to murder at least once.” She shook her head. Who was to say he wouldn’t do it again?

“What do you make of his theory?” Erik asked.

She appreciated that he called it a theory instead of treating it as fact.

“I don’t know if I buy it,” she said. “I mean, Mick McGowan had a hand in everything—the evidence collection, the interviews, the back-and-forth with the victims’ families. The man had a stellar reputation. I can’t believe he would plant evidence.”

“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe one of his detectives did.”

“Or maybe it didn’t happen.” She looked at him. “Yes, smothering is different from strangling. But it’s not like Corby’s a preprogrammed machine. He’s a human being, subject to impulses. Who knows what he might do in the heat of an attack? Or he could have been experimenting with different MOs, refining his craft.”

“Craft?”

“I’ve read interviews, and that’s how some of them think of it. Serial predators. They talk like it’s a profession.”

The queasy feeling was back in her stomach. She glanced at Erik beside her.

He was in bodyguard mode again. No acknowledgment of the fact that they’d spent the night tangled up naked together. She looked at his hand on the wheel and felt a pang of yearning.

Brynn turned away, annoyed by her reaction. It wasn’t like her to pine after a man.

To distract herself, she checked her phone. Ross’s sister had left a message during the meeting, and her voice sounded tired but hopeful.

“Ross is awake,” Brynn told Erik as she listened to the message. “Marshals just interviewed him, and then he took a round of meds. He might be up for visitors in the morning. I need to go see him.”

“I’ll take you.”

“Thanks.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way to Pine Rock. As they passed the familiar streets and neared her house, Brynn’s anxiety started to lift.

They turned into her neighborhood. The 1940s tract houses had been built well before Pine Rock was a suburb of Houston, back when it was its own separate town, with an economy based on logging and oil. As the sprawling city came closer, more people moved in, and many of the little houses on Brynn’s block were being torn down and replaced by hulking new construction. Brynn understood the appeal, but she had other ideas.

They reached a white clapboard house with black shutters. It was dwarfed by the two-story monstrosity going up beside it. Erik pulled into the driveway, followed by the black Suburban with black-tinted windows. The vehicle looked like it belonged in a presidential motorcade.

“Not exactly a low profile,” Brynn observed as they climbed out.

“Not supposed to be,” Erik said.

She crossed the lawn and led him up the steps to her front door, which was flanked by clay pots of shriveled petunias. Brynn unlocked the door and pushed it open, sweeping aside a week’s worth of mail that had been dropped through the mail slot onto her refurbished wood floor. Erik followed her inside, peeling off his sunglasses. The other agents seemed content to wait in their SUV.

The house was warm and still, and the smell of sawdust lingered from her most recent project. Brynn scooped up the pile of mail and dumped it on the side table.

“I usually get a neighbor girl to come by when I’m traveling,” she said. “But I didn’t want a child or anyone else here in case someone came looking for me.”

“Good call.”

She passed through her living room, comforted by the sight of her beautiful suede sectional piled with plush accent pillows. Her favorite chenille throw was draped over the back, and Brynn ran her fingertips over the cool softness on her way into the kitchen.