The Prey by Allison Brennan

Michael a curious, assessing scan, then frowned. “He’s your bodyguard.”
    She nodded, though Michael noted she flinched. She still wasn’t comfortable with his role. “I want you to be particularly careful,” she said. “Don’t talk to anyone about me. If someone seems official, ask to see identification. You know the difference between what’s fake and what’s real.”
    “I can tell the difference,” he nodded vigorously.
    “Good. Tell me if you see or hear anything strange, something that doesn’t seem right. Call me anytime.”
    “I’ll watch out for you. I promise.”
    “I know you will.” She squeezed his hand and stood up. “I’m going to go now. Remember what I said.”
    “I will.” He jumped up and walked them to the door.
    From his small front porch, Adam watched Rowan and her bodyguard Mr. Flynn walk down the driveway. When he could no longer see them, he went in and ate his favorite soup—chicken and stars. He ate the whole pot of soup because it was there, then he washed and cleaned up. Rowan had told him it was important to clean up after yourself because no one would do it for you.
    When he finished, he sat down with another mystery. And then he forgot almost everything Rowan had told him.
     
     
    Rowan stared out the passenger window of Michael’s SUV, worried, frustrated, and ticked off. They were headed back to Malibu after a long day. Between the studio, talking to Adam, and the fiasco at the FBI field office in downtown Los Angeles, Rowan couldn’t wait to get to the beach house. Though she hated its sterile décor, she longed for the peace, the sound of the waves crashing against the beach, and most important, privacy.
    The L.A. field director had turned over her old case files to Special Agent Quincy Peterson. He was probably waiting right that moment for her at her house. She’d told Roger not to send anyone from Washington, but he trusted Quinn. She shouldn’t have been surprised Roger would want someone they both knew on the case.
    She certainly didn’t want to see him again. Out of all the agents Roger could have tagged to help, why Quinn?
    “The FBI is taking this seriously,” Michael commented.
    She turned from the window and closed her eyes. She wasn’t about to get into her complicated friendship with Quinn Peterson with a virtual stranger.
    “They’re reviewing my cases back in D.C. and checking on the status of prisoners and their families, but I asked Roger to let me go through my old cases.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if it’ll help, but I need to do something or I’ll go crazy.”
    “Roger Collins?”
    She nodded, glancing at him. He didn’t sound surprised. Then again, she wouldn’t be shocked to learn he’d run a quick background check on her. “My old boss. He’s an assistant director.” There were several assistant directors, but it was nonetheless a high-ranking position.
    “I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier, but the police found the florist.” He paused. “She’s dead.”
    Rowan had expected this, but it didn’t feel any better knowing she was right. The sick dread that had started when she learned of Doreen Rodriguez spread deeper. Her meager hope that all this wasn’t personal now vanished.
    It
was
personal. And now the urge to go over her cases one by one to see if she’d missed
anything
was stronger than ever.
    “How?” Was that weak squeak her voice? She didn’t recognize it.
    “Christine Jamison’s throat was slit.”
    “With a knife from her kitchen,” Rowan said, picturing the crime in her mind. Remembering her book. It was straight from her book.
    “How did you—? Oh. Yeah.”
    “When?”
    “Yesterday. About the same time the flowers were delivered to you.”
    The bastard had planned it all. Right down to baiting her, sending her the flowers while killing the florist. He probably got a sick thrill out of it, knowing that the police would be able to put together the timeline.
    “One of your