workbench, higher than Maggie’s waist.
“I honestly thought there’d be more to this.”
“You sound disappointed, Marshal.”
“I guess I was expecting, I don’t know—”
“Blood-stained furniture, knives hanging from the ceiling, eyeballs and other souvenir body parts in jars on the shelves?” She teased him with a grin.
Brandon laughed. “Maybe not so much horror movie, but more like something that indicates a meticulous killer.”
“Trust me, this does. Most serial killers have above-average intelligence, are well educated, and other than the occasional murder, are upstanding citizens. They are orderly professionals, which makes their crimes more difficult to uncover, unlike a petty criminal’s.” Maggie gestured around her. “This is textbook.” She watched Brandon’s disillusioned gaze take in his surroundings.
“What a drag.”
Maggie couldn’t help but smile. Cynicism was rampant among law enforcement officers. It helped combat the horrors they witnessed every day when they dealt with the violent members of society. Although everyone had the same goals — bad guys in prison and a safe public — the crimes and brutality of others couldn’t help but fascinate. Maggie had to admit the unpleasantness of the most violent offenders also intrigued her. It was one of the main reasons she stayed with the profiling unit after Burrows’s arrest.
“Don’t worry, Marshal—”
“Brandon,” he eased in.
Maggie forced out a small breath. If he was ready to be a bit more familiar, she might as well go with it. “Brandon. Wait until you see the lower level.”
“Show me.”
Maggie reached down and pulled back a small hemp floor rug to reveal a trap door.
“A secret door. Now, this is getting interesting.” He rubbed his hands together.
“You’re sick.” Maggie suppressed a laugh.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to start a profile on me.”
Maggie gripped the metal rung attached to the wooden door and tugged until the door sprung loose. She flashed him a teasing grin. “I hope I won’t have to.”
“Good,” he said a little too abruptly.
Curious at his hasty reaction, Maggie’s gaze lingered on his face, but all she could perceive was the chiseled features of a well-guarded man. She turned her attention back to the darkness beneath the trap door.
“What is that smell?”
Maggie inhaled deeply. “Smells like a mix of formaldehyde and blood.”
“It’s still strong?”
“There’s virtually no airflow down here, so it stays stale.” Maggie pulled out a flashlight from its holder on her waist and descended the hanging steps. She shined the light around until she spotted a hanging cord connected to a small bulb near the ceiling. She pulled on the string.
Darkness.
“Oh, great.”
“What?” Brandon’s voice held a weight of concern.
“The light is out.”
Brandon chuckled. “Even better.”
Maggie looked up. Brandon had stooped and peered into the shadows around her. “You’re starting to scare me, Marshal.”
He focused his gaze on hers and held it. “Agent Weston, what do I have to do to get you to say my name?”
Maggie lost her footing at the edge of the steps and slid down a foot. “Oh!” Beneath her, the steps jerked roughly as Brandon hurried down. Two warm hands on both her arms pulled her to her feet. Her fingers went instinctively to his chest. His sculpted chest.
“You okay?”
She had dropped her flashlight, so the darkness obscured his eyes, but she could feel the accelerated beat of his heart beneath her palm. She quickly removed her hands and fought the urge to drag them down the length of his fitted shirt.
“Yes.” Maggie hated that her voice wavered. He was the cause of her losing her concentration, and her footing.
“So, the light doesn’t work.” He released her and turned on his own flashlight.
Maggie moved to the far wall to pick up her flashlight. When she stood, her eyes caught the illuminated sight of a familiar piece
“I honestly thought there’d be more to this.”
“You sound disappointed, Marshal.”
“I guess I was expecting, I don’t know—”
“Blood-stained furniture, knives hanging from the ceiling, eyeballs and other souvenir body parts in jars on the shelves?” She teased him with a grin.
Brandon laughed. “Maybe not so much horror movie, but more like something that indicates a meticulous killer.”
“Trust me, this does. Most serial killers have above-average intelligence, are well educated, and other than the occasional murder, are upstanding citizens. They are orderly professionals, which makes their crimes more difficult to uncover, unlike a petty criminal’s.” Maggie gestured around her. “This is textbook.” She watched Brandon’s disillusioned gaze take in his surroundings.
“What a drag.”
Maggie couldn’t help but smile. Cynicism was rampant among law enforcement officers. It helped combat the horrors they witnessed every day when they dealt with the violent members of society. Although everyone had the same goals — bad guys in prison and a safe public — the crimes and brutality of others couldn’t help but fascinate. Maggie had to admit the unpleasantness of the most violent offenders also intrigued her. It was one of the main reasons she stayed with the profiling unit after Burrows’s arrest.
“Don’t worry, Marshal—”
“Brandon,” he eased in.
Maggie forced out a small breath. If he was ready to be a bit more familiar, she might as well go with it. “Brandon. Wait until you see the lower level.”
“Show me.”
Maggie reached down and pulled back a small hemp floor rug to reveal a trap door.
“A secret door. Now, this is getting interesting.” He rubbed his hands together.
“You’re sick.” Maggie suppressed a laugh.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to start a profile on me.”
Maggie gripped the metal rung attached to the wooden door and tugged until the door sprung loose. She flashed him a teasing grin. “I hope I won’t have to.”
“Good,” he said a little too abruptly.
Curious at his hasty reaction, Maggie’s gaze lingered on his face, but all she could perceive was the chiseled features of a well-guarded man. She turned her attention back to the darkness beneath the trap door.
“What is that smell?”
Maggie inhaled deeply. “Smells like a mix of formaldehyde and blood.”
“It’s still strong?”
“There’s virtually no airflow down here, so it stays stale.” Maggie pulled out a flashlight from its holder on her waist and descended the hanging steps. She shined the light around until she spotted a hanging cord connected to a small bulb near the ceiling. She pulled on the string.
Darkness.
“Oh, great.”
“What?” Brandon’s voice held a weight of concern.
“The light is out.”
Brandon chuckled. “Even better.”
Maggie looked up. Brandon had stooped and peered into the shadows around her. “You’re starting to scare me, Marshal.”
He focused his gaze on hers and held it. “Agent Weston, what do I have to do to get you to say my name?”
Maggie lost her footing at the edge of the steps and slid down a foot. “Oh!” Beneath her, the steps jerked roughly as Brandon hurried down. Two warm hands on both her arms pulled her to her feet. Her fingers went instinctively to his chest. His sculpted chest.
“You okay?”
She had dropped her flashlight, so the darkness obscured his eyes, but she could feel the accelerated beat of his heart beneath her palm. She quickly removed her hands and fought the urge to drag them down the length of his fitted shirt.
“Yes.” Maggie hated that her voice wavered. He was the cause of her losing her concentration, and her footing.
“So, the light doesn’t work.” He released her and turned on his own flashlight.
Maggie moved to the far wall to pick up her flashlight. When she stood, her eyes caught the illuminated sight of a familiar piece
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