considered it a calling. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”
His gaze cut toward me. “But I do. I don’t want anything happening to you.”
Certainly, I was simply imagining the affection and concern I heard in his voice. To protect my heart, I latched on to that idea. Yes, I’d imagined it, and I kept scrubbing. Of course, setting my mind toward cleaning up blood and guts didn’t quite have the same appeal as letting my mind run wild at the thought of Riley and me having a future together.
We scrubbed in silence for a few more minutes until finally I stood, pulled up my mask, snapped off my gloves, and wiped my forehead. The hazmat suit I wore could make an Eskimo going ice fishing sweat.
Riley followed my lead and also took a breather. We wandered away from the scene and into the next room—the kitchen.
“Terrible thing that happened here,” Riley muttered before chugging down some water.
I leaned against the counter and grabbed my own water bottle. Condensation from the plastic trickled down my fingers. “I know. These are the hardest crime scenes to clean up after. Apparently, this was a home invasion gone wrong. The homeowner was supposed to be out of town, but he decided to stay home at the last minute. The robbers probably weren’t expecting anyone to be here. And now someone’s dead.”
I knew I shouldn’t do it, but I abandoned my water bottle, wiped the extra liquid off of my fingers and onto my suit, and then thumbed my finger down the stack of books and papers on the kitchen counter. The man who died had worked for a solar energy company, or so I gathered. Sometimes I had to go searching for information like this, but, in this case, the man’s mother had poured out her pain to me before I was hired. I wanted to reach through the phone and hug the woman. I couldn’t even imagine her grief.
Absently, I tugged at a piece of paper from the stack. A word in the corner caught my eye. Why did the format of the paper look familiar?
“What are you doing?” Riley stepped closer.
I froze up a moment at Riley’s closeness. “What I do best. Snooping.”
His hand covered mine a moment—not in affection, but to stop me from doing something I might regret. It didn’t work. “Is that a good idea?”
“The police have already been here and collected all the evidence. The crime scene has been cleared.” I yanked out the paper. My eyes widened when I saw the words at the top of the page.
Building Bombs and How to Use Them.
The same papers that Sierra had in her apartment.
Was there a connection between this crime and the others?
I lifted my gaze to the ceiling. Lord, what has my friend gotten herself into? Protect her. Please.
Chapter Eight
“Tell me one more time where you found this,” Parker demanded. He stood in the kitchen at my crime scene, again looking like he owned the place. He was good at that false ownership thing.
I pointed to the same stack of papers and books that I’d already pointed at twice. “Right there, wedged between the pages of that notebook.”
He scowled. “And how did you discover it?”
“My natural nosiness was at work again. Of course. I don’t know what else you want me to tell you.” I threw my hands in the air in frustration. Riley stood behind me, a hand on my shoulder—again, not out of affection, but as a way of keeping me grounded.
Special Agent Wilkerson approached Parker. “I just got off the phone with the mother. She said she pulled that stack of papers and books from the shelf in the victim’s room. Someone at his company asked if he could take a look at them for a special work project.”
Parker raised a brow. “Convenient. Did she remember who that person was?”
“Someone named Daniels. Mark Daniels, I think.”
I tapped my foot, appearing not to pay attention but secretly storing away all of the information. Someone had to be an advocate for Sierra. I’d chosen myself to be that person, and I’d do whatever I
His gaze cut toward me. “But I do. I don’t want anything happening to you.”
Certainly, I was simply imagining the affection and concern I heard in his voice. To protect my heart, I latched on to that idea. Yes, I’d imagined it, and I kept scrubbing. Of course, setting my mind toward cleaning up blood and guts didn’t quite have the same appeal as letting my mind run wild at the thought of Riley and me having a future together.
We scrubbed in silence for a few more minutes until finally I stood, pulled up my mask, snapped off my gloves, and wiped my forehead. The hazmat suit I wore could make an Eskimo going ice fishing sweat.
Riley followed my lead and also took a breather. We wandered away from the scene and into the next room—the kitchen.
“Terrible thing that happened here,” Riley muttered before chugging down some water.
I leaned against the counter and grabbed my own water bottle. Condensation from the plastic trickled down my fingers. “I know. These are the hardest crime scenes to clean up after. Apparently, this was a home invasion gone wrong. The homeowner was supposed to be out of town, but he decided to stay home at the last minute. The robbers probably weren’t expecting anyone to be here. And now someone’s dead.”
I knew I shouldn’t do it, but I abandoned my water bottle, wiped the extra liquid off of my fingers and onto my suit, and then thumbed my finger down the stack of books and papers on the kitchen counter. The man who died had worked for a solar energy company, or so I gathered. Sometimes I had to go searching for information like this, but, in this case, the man’s mother had poured out her pain to me before I was hired. I wanted to reach through the phone and hug the woman. I couldn’t even imagine her grief.
Absently, I tugged at a piece of paper from the stack. A word in the corner caught my eye. Why did the format of the paper look familiar?
“What are you doing?” Riley stepped closer.
I froze up a moment at Riley’s closeness. “What I do best. Snooping.”
His hand covered mine a moment—not in affection, but to stop me from doing something I might regret. It didn’t work. “Is that a good idea?”
“The police have already been here and collected all the evidence. The crime scene has been cleared.” I yanked out the paper. My eyes widened when I saw the words at the top of the page.
Building Bombs and How to Use Them.
The same papers that Sierra had in her apartment.
Was there a connection between this crime and the others?
I lifted my gaze to the ceiling. Lord, what has my friend gotten herself into? Protect her. Please.
Chapter Eight
“Tell me one more time where you found this,” Parker demanded. He stood in the kitchen at my crime scene, again looking like he owned the place. He was good at that false ownership thing.
I pointed to the same stack of papers and books that I’d already pointed at twice. “Right there, wedged between the pages of that notebook.”
He scowled. “And how did you discover it?”
“My natural nosiness was at work again. Of course. I don’t know what else you want me to tell you.” I threw my hands in the air in frustration. Riley stood behind me, a hand on my shoulder—again, not out of affection, but as a way of keeping me grounded.
Special Agent Wilkerson approached Parker. “I just got off the phone with the mother. She said she pulled that stack of papers and books from the shelf in the victim’s room. Someone at his company asked if he could take a look at them for a special work project.”
Parker raised a brow. “Convenient. Did she remember who that person was?”
“Someone named Daniels. Mark Daniels, I think.”
I tapped my foot, appearing not to pay attention but secretly storing away all of the information. Someone had to be an advocate for Sierra. I’d chosen myself to be that person, and I’d do whatever I
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