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Ranger Defender
Angi Morgan


She needed a miracle…Vivian Watts’s mission to prove her brother’s innocence has left her destitute and desperate. So when Slate Thompson arrives with his knock-me-out blue eyes and belief in her case, she dares to hope again…







She needed a miracle. She got a Texas Ranger.

Vivian Watts’s mission to prove her brother’s innocence has left her destitute and desperate. So when Texas Ranger Slate Thompson arrives with his knock-me-out blue eyes and belief in her case, she dares to hope again...until her apartment is burned to the ground. Slate offers refuge at his ranch, but when evidence suggests police corruption is at play, can he face down his own to protect her?

Texas Brothers of Company B

From USA TODAY bestselling author Angi Morgan!


ANGI MORGAN writes about Texans in Texas. A USA TODAY and Publishers Weekly bestselling author, her books have been finalists for several awards, including the Booksellers’ Best Award, RT Book Reviews Best Intrigue Series and the Daphne du Maurier. Angi and her husband live in North Texas. They foster Labradors, love to travel, snap pics and fix up their house. Hang out with her on Facebook at Angi Morgan Books. She loves to hear from fans at www.angimorganauthor.com (http://www.angimorganauthor.com).


Also available by Angi Morgan

Ranger Protector

Bulletproof Badge

Shotgun Justice

Gunslinger

Hard Core Law

The Sheriff

The Cattleman

The Ranger

Visit millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more information


Ranger Defender

Angi Morgan






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07857-3

RANGER DEFENDER

© 2018 Angela Platt

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Shizue, Tamami, Kazuomi and Tosh.

Friends whom we miss and love dearly.

Thanks for the characters and

your years of support!


Contents

Cover (#u61e7060d-4d5b-5915-8fb1-b280896981ba)

Back Cover Text (#uf8ecabf7-5e7b-513e-86f8-d05c23b8d085)

Author Bio (#u28df4bae-ad0b-58d8-afaa-5cd0dcd792f9)

Booklist (#ue81b03bc-9ad3-5235-918f-aed3752c0b3d)

Title Page (#u95bda17b-0359-5847-88d0-0faaa89d52a6)

Copyright (#u3dc30b4d-2774-581c-8c6f-af178d42375a)

Dedication (#u704a9d49-2840-5d74-b084-43df73a2f007)

Prologue (#u9d4263fd-ec6f-5cf0-9e16-77e07b930102)

Chapter One (#u3c2717fe-3cdf-5386-a823-38bfd6107e00)

Chapter Two (#ue5253aa5-965e-5e09-9805-78739b728b10)

Chapter Three (#u35cac111-a45c-580f-af6c-ce0a0a0ff7fc)

Chapter Four (#u3d844701-07ba-5be1-987f-6ac79fd66d45)

Chapter Five (#u0eb8f6fb-b25a-5e1a-9d78-fd5db90315d3)

Chapter Six (#ud6c56e99-30ed-5cdf-b01c-30a78c242e9c)

Chapter Seven (#u2393f5d8-a9de-5a01-90be-a02924efda0e)

Chapter Eight (#u460db212-78a8-5726-bad2-f1ca85bb7f35)

Chapter Nine (#uca377b61-bb39-5664-b02c-262079748010)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#u0b26392c-075e-525d-87f8-ba0b993c75ee)

From the journal of Dr. Kym Roberts

Case 63047 Evidence Tag 63047-2

Subject Nineteen has been fascinated with death since the patient was thirteen. The subject has not killed squirrels or other small animals. Far from it. The curiosity has led the subject to research what happens at the time of death.

As with many of the subjects in this study, Nineteen is a near perfectionist, becoming more debilitated at every juncture. The patient is so obsessed with the “perfect death,” they can’t move forward. In some ways this will keep them from the implementation of this fantasy.

The subject is fascinated and refers to “the perfect death” as if something supernatural will occur when it’s found. Subject Nineteen stated that begging from the murder victim for their life would not be a necessary part of the “perfect death.” Subject Nineteen stated the actual killing would need to be swift and not detract from the scientific approach. The Subject also stated that the death would need to be respectful so dignity is always involved. The planning, the hunt, the capture are all unnecessary details to the perfect kill in their opinion.

Subject Nineteen has described the moment of death to be like a symphony. Each phase building upon itself until there is a crescendo...a wonderful moment of songful bliss. But for the most part, Subject Nineteen can’t get past the rehearsal stage. Taking this metaphor one more step, they would not only need the orchestra to perform perfectly, the surroundings would also need to be perfected at the same time.

Only the limits of their perfectionism hold them in check. Wavering from the idea of flawless keeps them from attempting murder. So in Subject Nineteen’s case, we hope the obsessive compulsion disorder and need for perfection will prevent the attempt.

Leaving no room for error, the obsessive compulsive need that Subject Nineteen maintains will lead to disappointment and a further downward spiral. This very well may be the source of the night terrors.

Treating one disorder will not resolve the other and possibly will make each worse. And although Subject Nineteen hides it well, the attachment disorder is deeply seated and may be the basis of all the other disorders.

Time is not on our side since eventually, the patient will determine the flaws and overcome. Therefore, Subject Nineteen is a danger to society and should be committed to a facility for a strict psychiatric evaluation and treatment.

EVIDENCE NOTATION

Other entries in this handwritten journal end with a summary of each subject’s treatment—if any—along with instructions for other staff members. The treatment summary portion of Subject Nineteen’s entry is missing. As in not written or torn from the journal.

Blood spatter pattern indicates the journal was open to Subject Nineteen’s page and the deceased was seated at her desk, even though the body was moved to and posed in the chair normally occupied by patients.

A slash from right to left, indicates a left-handed upward movement, which severed the right jugular. Force is consistent with a person standing behind the victim.


Chapter One (#u0b26392c-075e-525d-87f8-ba0b993c75ee)

“How can a little research and a few interviews get you in trouble?” Wade Hamilton asked. “Besides, I’ve done all the hard work.”

Slate Thompson wasn’t on as thin ice as his fellow Texas Ranger. But the entire team knew that one wrong step would shake up Company B—and not in a good way. Wade’s hunches about cases were putting more than one of them in the hot seat. So Slate had a right to be wary.

“Then do it yourself,” Slate countered.

“You know I’m out of a job if I break ranks again. Come on, you can do this in your sleep, Slate. You’re one of the best investigators I know.”

“That’s beside the point, and if you’re attempting to schmooze someone, stating that they are the best is better. Especially if it’s the truth.”

“You read the journal about Subject Nineteen?”

“You stood over my shoulder while I did.” Slate stretched backward in his wheeled chair, balancing himself with a booted toe under his desk. He tossed a ball of rubber bands over to Wade. “Moron.”

“Just verifying you can read.”

Slate popped forward, clicking off the screen as Major Clements walked through the office. Recently, he managed to stop by and check on Wade’s progress through the “punishment” boxes—files that were either a last check on cases coming up for trial or completely cold.

“How you doing, Wade? Slate, you aren’t busy? Need something to help that along?”

“No, sir. I’m about to head out the door. I...uh...have a lunch date, sir.”

Major Clements clapped Wade on the shoulder, then tapped the multiple file folders at the corner of the desk. “Power through, son. We’re a little shorthanded out there.” Then he continued to his office.

Clements was about fifteen or maybe even twenty years older than either Wade or Slate. But he looked ancient, like a cowboy who had spent one too many years in the saddle. He walked straight, but his belly hung over his belt buckle, a serious silver piece of artwork with the Texas Ranger emblem over the Texas flag. He was one of the few men, in Wade’s humble opinion, who wore the uniform’s white hat exceptionally well. Like it fit.

Slate, on the other hand, always felt better wearing a ball cap.

“You going to look at that case for me?” Wade whispered. “Victor Watts confessed so it looks like a slam dunk. But my gut’s telling me that something’s not right. I’d do it myself but...”

Slate waved for him to pass over the file. “You’re damn lucky I’m not reporting you to the old man.”

“Now, why would you do that, Slate? We get along so well. If I was gone, you’d have to break in another ranger and you know how fun that is.” Wade locked his fingers behind his neck and leaned back in his chair.

The bruising had faded, but he was still squinting through a severely beaten eye. The man had spent days in the hospital and come back to work with a cloud hanging around him so thick, everyone was pretending they couldn’t see him.

Everyone except Wade’s partner, Jack MacKinnon, Heath Murray and himself. They were a team. They’d come into Company B at the same time and had a special bond. Didn’t seem like anything could break it.

Even Wade being assigned the punishment boxes.

Most of the reasons Wade had been desked weren’t public knowledge. Jack knew more than anyone in the Company and he wasn’t talking. But over beers, both Jack and Wade had considered themselves very lucky to have a job.

Jack’s temporary assignment to help the Dallas PD hadn’t gone without speculation. It also coincided with his new roommate—of the feminine persuasion. Heath, Wade and himself included hadn’t spent any serious time with the lady...Megan Harper.

Yet.

Everyone in Company B had seen the results of “the Harper case,” as it was referenced. However Wade and Jack had gotten involved, it was Wade’s fault for playing a hunch. His saving grace was that whatever he’d done had saved Megan Harper’s life and captured a man whose mental health was still waiting to be evaluated.

Saying yes to one of Wade’s hunches was usually easy. Hell, this particular ranger had a long line of successful hunches that had played out with many a bad man behind bars. Slate opened the file. He had to admit that he wanted to help.

“You’d be on your own most of the time, buddy,” Wade said from the next desk. “Of course, if I’m wrong, then there’s nothing to do anyway.”

Slate nodded, contemplating. Breaking the rules really wasn’t his thing. Then again, he’d wanted to be in law enforcement to help people...not knowingly send an innocent man to jail.

Yeah, there was a chance that Wade was wrong. But when the man went with his gut, he just rarely was.

“I’ll do it.”

“Why does your intonation hold a giant but at the end?”

“Maybe because there is one. I want the story of why you’re sitting at this desk instead of on current cases.”

“You interview Vivian Watts—Victor’s sister—and you’ll get it.”

“That was easy.” But there had to be a catch. The smile on his friend’s face was mixed with sadness. Totally not like him.

“Not as easy as you think. Watts’s sister moved to Dallas and has been proclaiming his innocence ever since.”

“This is a problem because...”

“The trial starts next week. She’s going to want to go public if the Texas Rangers are reopening the case. You’re going to have to keep her totally quiet. Still interested?”

“If I say no, you’re going straight to Heath with this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Wade laughed, leaning back in his chair and tossing a pen next to the stack of files.

“He’s better with a computer. I’m the best investigator you’ve ever worked with. Remember?” Slate stood, grabbed the jacket from the back of his chair, shoved his arms through and stuffed his hat on his head for emphasis.

“I think we’re remembering that conversation differently. But I’ll let you have your exit, Mr. Best Investigator.”

Slate left the offices, with Wade’s laughter echoing down the hall. He tossed the folder onto the seat of his truck, questioning what he’d just committed himself to. The page of the doctor’s notes with the evidence notations he’d read earlier stuck out in his memory:

Other entries in this handwritten journal end with a summary of each subject’s treatment—if any—along with instructions for other staff members. The treatment summary portion of Subject Nineteen’s entry is missing. As in not written or torn from the journal.

Blood spatter pattern indicates the journal was open to Subject Nineteen’s page and the deceased was seated at her desk, even though the body was moved to and posed in the chair normally occupied for sessions.

A slash from right to left, indicates a left-handed upward movement, which severed the right jugular. Force is consistent with a person standing behind the victim.

One case could ruin a ranger’s career or come close to it. Just like Wade. Was he willing to risk it? Was he willing to break the rules for someone he didn’t know?

Yes.

Hell, did his career actually compare with the lifetime he’d wanted to protect the innocent?

No.

His adrenaline was pumping for once, ready to help someone in need.


Chapter Two (#u0b26392c-075e-525d-87f8-ba0b993c75ee)

Planning the perfect death wasn’t easy, but she wanted one. It was the only way. Abby read the doctor’s diagnosis and recommendations every morning. It was in her bedside table drawer, tucked away from the world but in exactly the same place for her daily routine.

She awoke, showered, dressed for her day and read the report as her tea brewed. She might be groggy from a poor night’s sleep, but she still put in her contacts and read the torn sheet of notepaper from the journal.

It took her the same number of minutes to read the other papers she’d collected. Three diagnoses over three years from three different cities. Her tea would be ready for a dash of lemon to help her concentrate.

Holistic remedies suited her much better than the prescriptions she’d used since her twenties. Stopping the input of chemicals into her body was the best thing she’d ever done.

It was so freeing.

Her mind could think on multiple levels like it hadn’t for the past several years. She sipped the last bit of her tea with her blueberry tea biscuit. More brain energy and antioxidants. She’d need to be on her toes this morning for the next phase of her experiment.

Killing Dr. Roberts had been eye-opening. An epiphany of sorts. Abby no longer was held back by perfectionism. Her death demonstrated it was no longer necessary. The good doctor’s analysis had allowed her to move forward last year. Finding the perfect form of death would take practice, yes. But the doctor’s death had provided enlightenment—of a sort.

If she couldn’t perfect the act of death herself, she’d enlist others to help in her research. Simple enough.

She covered her lips and giggled, ready for her day of research to begin. She couldn’t say that she loved this day each week. As Dr. Roberts pointed out, the unfortunate attachment disorder kept her from loving anything. But this day gave her a bit of excitement to look forward to. Moving toward the completion of a project should give a normal person a sense of accomplishment.

And she was so close.

The alarm went off on her phone. She gathered her things from the hall table. Purse, lunch and then the clean surgical gloves and mask from their dispensers. She walked to the door and stood there waiting for it to open, then reminded herself that she had the right to open it when she wanted.

Four years away from the prison they called a hospital and she still had moments where she forgot she was free to move as she wished. It was less than a minute of her life every now and again, but she resented every wasted second it took to force herself to reach out and turn the doorknob.

Thinking about her habits, she crossed the parking lot and climbed the steps to wait under the awning. Dwelling on the idea that her quirks were odd was a waste of time. That’s what had sent her to Dr. Roberts to begin with.

A mistake. But a corrected mistake. Using Victor Watts had been an uncontrollable moment of fury. Talking to him before his test had always been nice. Pity because he seemed perfect for the ultimate experiment.

Taking a job at the Veterans Affairs Hospital eighteen months ago had been a moment of brilliance. Her father’s attorney had used very little energy to convince the owner of a pathetic little box of a house on Denley Drive to sell. She would have preferred to continue living in the five-star hotel. Her parents could afford it. Instead, her parents insisted things would be better if she didn’t.

At least the new house had a specific and organized place designed to meet her more than rational needs. And if she wasn’t allowed to drive, walking across the parking lot to the Dallas Area Rapid Transit station was at least convenient. The last time she’d met with her father’s attorney, he joked how fitting it was that the two stores nearby were a pharmacy and second-hand shop. He’d laughed at her.

The light rail arrived to take her down Lancaster Road. The job was mundane, her social life nonexistent, but it was all worth it for her research.

The Veterans Affairs Hospital gave her the subjects she needed. Broken, easily manipulated men who had the strength and the wherewithal to perform the necessary duties. Ha. Duties. They had the strength to fulfill the experiment Dr. Roberts wrote would never come to fruition.

The doctors were wrong. Everyone was wrong.

Perfection in death was possible.

So close. So so close.

Moving from this venue would be difficult. But working with this group of men and women was coming to an end.

Changing a variable in last week’s test would be interesting today. The small amount of excitement she could feel recharged her with purpose.

“Hi, Abby,” Dalia said from reception. “Looks like we have a full day of appointments. You’re going to be busy.”

“Wonderful.” She’d practiced the good-morning smile and mimicked the intonation most used when they were excited for their day. The smile that continued on Dalia’s face indicated that Abby had managed to keep her voice free of sarcasm.

She picked up the charts as she did every morning and took them to their small, efficient office. There were tapes ready to be transcribed and yes, a full day of veterans checking in for their sleep studies. The private at eight o’clock would be perfect. According to the notes in Simon Evans’s chart, he didn’t have a history of violence, but she could change that.

She could definitely change that.

Simon arrived right on time. Abby prepped him for his EEG and then the technician applied the nodes to begin the procedure. No one could connect her to the actual study, which was in a sleep lab, on a different floor, on different days. No one at the shorthanded Veterans Hospital ever questioned her competent help.

The electroencephalogram monitored brain waves while a patient slept. It set up a baseline and then monitored the volunteers throughout the sleep studies. Perfect for her needs since each participant needed a session per month.

Two of her experiments had succeeded recently.

It wouldn’t be long. Not long at all.

Simon was snoring. She checked the monitor. He seemed to be in full REM. She locked the outside door so they wouldn’t be disturbed, cautiously placed earphones over Simon’s head and turned on her carefully recorded message.

For the next hour, her softly spoken words about injustice, violence and murder repeated. Keywords that helped the subject draw the logical conclusion that death was the only possible solution for their problems.

The tape ended. Three hours of sleep was all the patient was allowed. The timer dinged, she awoke Simon and alerted the technician it was time to finish. Once he cleaned up, she brought the questionnaire to be completed along with the second page for her own study.

Simon passed the next appointment on the way out—Private Second Class Rashad Parker with debilitating night terrors. He’d already tried to choke his girlfriend in his sleep. Abby went through all the steps, waited until he entered rapid eye movement and introduced her tape.

Curiosity was the closest she got to elation. She thought Rashad would have succumbed to her mind-manipulation last week. With her new keywords, culmination was probable within the next couple of days.

Wouldn’t Dr. Roberts be surprised if she was still around?

She covered her lips and giggled.


Chapter Three (#u0b26392c-075e-525d-87f8-ba0b993c75ee)

Wiping down yet another table, Vivian Watts stepped back to let a man slide into the booth. “I’ll be right back with a menu.”

The lunch rush was over and in another hour she’d be off until she came back for the double tomorrow. And then she’d be done and never wanted to see another chicken wing as long as she lived. When she told the manager she’d need off next week for the trial, he agreed and promptly fired her.

Nothing personal, he’d said. Of course it was, she’d replied. And that was the end of the conversation. One more day to feel greasy. At least she’d be clean while standing on the precipice of bankruptcy.

Was it really bankruptcy if you didn’t own anything to be lost? Probably not. So technically, she’d be homeless without two shiny dimes to her name. Technically.

If all else failed, she could reenlist in the army. Who knows, this time she might be a commissioned officer since she’d earned her degree. She really didn’t want to go back into uniform. Of course, it would be better than wearing this little chicken wing thing.

She dropped the dirty stuff behind the bar, stuffed her last tip into her apron, grabbed a water and snatched a menu on her way back to the new table. It would be another single instead of the four-top that just filled up.

“Here you go. Can I get you something else to drink?” The nice hands taking the menu drew her to take a closer look at her latest customer.

Beautiful blue eyes shone bright in a tanned face. Very clean-shaven cheeks and chin, which was unusual with the beard fad for the twentysomething crowd. Crisp, overly starched shirt. There was a cowboy hat resting on the table to go along with the open badge of a...Texas Ranger.

Open in the way they identified themselves. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“I get it, Miss Watts, and I’m sorry to bug you at work. I’m not here in an official capacity.”

“The badge looks pretty official to me.”

“Yeah, I get that. I wanted you to know who I am and that I’m legit.” He pushed the badge back into his pocket. “I know now’s not a good time, but I’d like to ask you a few follow-up questions at your earliest convenience.”

“That also sounds very official.” She glanced around at the emptying tables. “If you aren’t going to order anything, I’d appreciate you leaving. The manager is particular about wait staff fraternizing with the customers. He particularly hates it.”

“Oh, I’m ordering. I’m starved. I’d like a basket of ranch habanero wings, side salad, fries and sweet tea.”

“This is a real order. You’re not expecting it on the house or anything? If you want the cop discount, I have to get the manager or it comes out of my check.”

“Real order. Real tip. Especially if the tea glass never runs dry.” He handed her the menu. “I’m Slate, by the way.”

“I’ll be right back with your tea.”

A week before Victor’s trial and a Texas Ranger shows up saying it’s unofficial business? Hope. A slim chance of it bubbled into her heart. Just as quickly, her rational mind took out a needle and popped it.

It had been over a year with no hope. A year of visiting her brother and faking a positive attitude so he didn’t lose all hope. She wouldn’t allow this one man who was here in an unofficial capacity to rattle her heart.

All the emotional strength she had left was reserved for her brother. Period.

Tea and salad to the table. Menus to another. Sneak a look at the ranger who’s watching something on his phone. Clear and wipe down a booth. Salt shakers filled for the next shift. Order up. Wings for the ranger.

“Need anything else?” she asked, sliding the basket in front of him.

He performed an ordinary shake of his head just like many customers had before him.

“Why should I talk to you without Victor’s lawyer present? Not like he’d know what to do if I wrote it all out for him. Why should I listen to you?”

“I just have a question.”

“For me?” She stuck her thumb in her chest, realizing too late that it drew his eyes to the bulging cleavage her waitress outfit emphasized. “Not Victor?”

The ranger dropped his hands in his lap and looked at her. Really looked at her, like very few people had in the past year.

“I can’t make any promises, Vivian. I just picked up your brother’s file this morning, but I have a question that I hope you can answer. Maybe it’ll lead to another question. That’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

Honesty. Clarity.

And a trickle of hope.

“I...uh...I get off at two.” She was about to cry because of that one snippet of misplaced emotion.

“Can I meet you—”

“I no longer own a car, officer.”

“Slate’s fine. There’s a coffee shop three doors down. That okay?”

“Sure. I’ll get your check.”

She turned quickly and used the corner of the bar towel to wipe the moisture from her face. Maybe he hadn’t seen it. Who was she trying to fool? Looking at her—really looking and connecting with her eyes—that’s why she was crying.

He’d seen it.

She punched in his ticket number and waited for the printout. No one else noticed her shaking hands or her racing heart. No one noticed anything except her hurrying through the rest of her shift.

Slate finished his wings with half a pitcher of tea still on his table. She’d dropped it off so he wouldn’t run out. He paid and was gone forty-five minutes before she finished up.

She grabbed her jacket and wished she’d brought a change of clothes. Having a serious, even unofficial conversation in the short, revealing T-shirt would be hard. She could keep her jacket on.

Sure. Coffee. That’s all this was. One Frappuccino and one question.

With the stupid hope that it would be another...and then another...

And then the reopening of her brother’s investigation and surely proving that he was innocent. No trial. They could go home.

Oh, my gosh. That was why she hadn’t let herself hope during the past year. One small peek at the possibility and she was back to leading a normal life in Florida. She couldn’t do this to herself and certainly couldn’t do it to her brother.

She hated...hope.


Chapter Four (#u0b26392c-075e-525d-87f8-ba0b993c75ee)

Meeting Vivian Watts at work seemed like a smart thing to do, until Slate remembered the waitress uniforms at the restaurant. But that was after he’d walked through the door and asked for her section. Immediately noticing how smoking hot she was stopped coherent thought.

And then she’d cried.

Mercy. He was just like any man wanting to do the right thing. He wanted her to stop crying.

He knew he could help make that happen. All he had to do was find a murderer.

Choosing a table in the far back corner of the coffee shop, he opened a file no one in the room should see. The chicken wings sat like a lump in his gut. Maybe the acid from the strong brew would help with the digestion. Good thing he didn’t have a weak stomach or he’d be losing it all by studying the murder scene pictures.

He wanted to help Vivian and Victor Watts. But it did all boil down to one question that no one had ever asked her brother.

“Officer.”

He flipped the file shut and stood, pushing back his chair. “You want something?”

“No. I’m fine.” Vivian sat and pulled her coat tighter.

It was sweltering hot inside the shop despite the November chill that hung outside. Well, she was wearing hot pants and half a T-shirt.

“It’s Slate. Lieutenant if this was official, but again, I can’t make any promises.”

“I stopped believing in promises about the time my brother was arrested for murder. Every promise that was made to us by the Dallas police was broken. And then there’s been the three court-appointed attorneys who promised they’d find the real murderer.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had to go through this experience. It doesn’t feel fair, but the evidence does point to your brother.”

“Spare me, Lieutenant. Until you’ve lost everything you’ve had and are about to see your only family convicted of murder in a state that has the death penalty... Please, just ask your question so I can go home.”

“Sure.” He opened the file to a copy of the murder victim’s journal entry. “Can you tell me if your brother ever participated in a study performed by Dr. Roberts?”

“The answer is already in your file. He was seeing her for a sleep disorder. Night terrors. Yes, he knew the victim. Yes, he had an appointment with her the day she was murdered. No, he’d never mentioned that he had a problem to me. No, he never mentioned wanting to kill anyone. No, he hasn’t been the same since he was discharged from the army.” She pushed away from the table. “Thank you for taking a look at Victor’s case. But I really have to get home—”

“Subject Nineteen. Was that your brother’s number?”

“What are you talking about?” She sank back onto the metal chair.

“No one’s ever mentioned how your brother was linked to the murder before?”

“All I know is that my brother was participating in a VA-approved sleep study sponsored by Dr. Kym Roberts. She was one of the doctors conducting the study where she was murdered.”

“That’s all in the file.”

“So what does this subject number mean?” It was actually the answer he wanted to hear.

Watts was a part of the study. The police had verified that much. But there was nothing in the file verifying he was Subject Nineteen. What if it was a different person? They’d have another suspect. But he couldn’t share something like that. It would wreck the prosecution’s case. Slate wouldn’t get “box” duty like Wade. He’d be looking not only for a different job, but a different profession.

No one would hire him if he shared that type of information.

“I can’t show you the evidence.”

“You mean whatever made you question Victor’s innocence?”

“Yes. So you’ve never heard of his status in the study as a subject number?”

“As far as I can tell, it wasn’t a blind study if that’s what you’re referring to. I have a copy of it at home. It doesn’t include the names of the participants but it has information specifically for Victor. Do you need it? Could I bring it to your office tomorrow?” Vivian scrunched her nose, sort of grimacing.

“You said you don’t have a car. Perhaps I could give you a lift home.”

“There’s an office supply store around the corner from my apartment if you need copies.”

“That’ll work.”

“Lieutenant, I know you said you weren’t reopening Victor’s case. It does sort of sound like you’ve found something new.” She bit her lip, pulling her jacket even tighter around her.

“Why don’t you show me the copy of the report you have? That’s the first step.”

The sky broke open in a severe thunderstorm that had been threatening all day. Slate stuck his hat on tight, tucked the file into his shirt and gestured for Vivian to stay at the door. “No sense in the both of us getting soaked. I’ll be right back.”

Slate ran the two blocks to his truck, dumped his hat in the back seat, locked the file in the middle compartment and drove back to the coffee shop. A little over ten minutes. But when he pulled up outside, Vivian wasn’t standing near the door. He waited a couple more minutes. Then he pushed on the flashers and ran inside to see.

“Hey.” He got the attention of the barista. “Where’s the woman I was with a few minutes ago?”

“You left. She left. I don’t know where.”

“Well, if that don’t beat all.”

Cranking the heat once inside the truck, he dialed Wade.

“So?” his friend asked first thing.

“I met with her. How ’bout you look at the list of things in the evidence file?” Slate paused, slapping the file against his thigh waiting while Wade pulled up the rest of the information.

Information he’d deliberately left out to entice Slate to look further into the case.

“Got it.”

“Is there a follow-up report from a sleep study that the victim was conducting?”

“Nothing.”

“So if I thought the list was necessary to answer the questions that we had...”

“I knew it!” Wade said with force, then repeated himself in a lower voice. “You’d need to sweet-talk a copy, not request it through a warrant. Seriously, Slate, if you have those kinds of doubts, take it to the district attorney’s office.”

“I need a couple more things clarified and then I’ll head there.”

Yeah. A couple more questions like...why didn’t Vivian wait at the coffee shop? He opened the incomplete file Wade had given to him to pique his interest, then added Vivian’s address to his GPS. Traffic was pretty bad in the downpour. He wasn’t surprised that someone who didn’t own a vehicle lived right on the bus route, but he was surprised that Vivian wasn’t home.

He was already soaked but standing on an apartment doorstep would only draw attention to himself. And it was getting colder by the minute. So he waited in the truck. He had a perfect view of the door, but several minutes later, there was a knock on his window, followed with a gesture to roll it down.

“Get in!” he shouted.

Vivian ran around to the opposite side and jumped in the front seat. Soaked to the skin, still dressed in the short shorts and T-shirt.

“I thought we agreed I’d give you a ride.”

“I appreciate it, Lieutenant, but I didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings.” She dripped on the papers she had in a folder. “The top copy is the original. You can see that the cover letter is a diagnosis and the results of the study.”

“They mailed this to you?”

It didn’t look identical to the other report even though it began the same.

“To my brother. This is where he lived prior to his arrest.” She opened the door. “I’ll be heading inside now. Thanks for looking at Victor’s case...even unofficially.”

“But I’m not.”

Too late. The door was shut and she ran up the sidewalk. So he took the time to compare the two papers.

This report was in the same tone as the journal page. Formal, doctorly, professional. And dated recently. It was also signed by an assistant who had been interviewed just after the doctor’s murder. The statement, along with numerous others from hospital staff, was in the file. The recent report...was not.

Nothing new.

Except there were names. Summaries of group sessions. No one was referred to as a subject and there sure as hell wasn’t a Subject Nineteen.

“Damn. They have the wrong guy.”


Chapter Five (#u0b26392c-075e-525d-87f8-ba0b993c75ee)

“Your brother’s innocent.”

“I know.”

Vivian opened the door wider, no longer embarrassed that the one-room furnished apartment had a pullout couch and a kitchenette with half a refrigerator. She’d passed that stigma three months ago when she calculated she’d be out of money by the beginning of the month.

One more week before the trial and two more days with a roof over her head.

She gestured for the Texas Ranger to enter and wait on the cracked linoleum by the door. “Let me get you a towel.”

On the way to the bathroom, she shoved the bed into its couch position and tossed the cushions back on it. But another glance at the ranger confirmed that he was soaked to the skin...just like she’d been a couple of minutes earlier.

“There’s a fold-up chair behind you.”

“That’s okay, I don’t mind standing. And dripping.” He laughed.

Lieutenant Slate had a good laugh. Deep and sincere that crinkled the skin near the corner of his eyes. She pulled a clean towel from the shelf and caught herself checking what she looked like in the mirror. And then picking up the hand towel and wiping the nonwaterproof mascara from under her eyes.

She tossed the towel across the small area into the ranger’s hands. He took off his hat, looking for a place to set it, then carefully flipped it upside down into her—thankfully—empty sink.

Briskly, he brushed the worn cotton across his short hair, then used his hand to slick it back down again. “Sorry about the puddle.”

“No problem.” She sat on the couch, tucking her cold feet under her, seriously glad that she’d put on lounge pants instead of jumping into the shower.

“You’re very patient,” he said, shifting his boots into a wider stance. “If someone told me my brother was innocent after he’d confessed to a murder, I’d be chomping at the bit for an explanation.”

“I’m tired, Lieutenant Slate. That’s all. And you’ll have to forgive me for not being excited about your announcement that you are not reopening his case. I’ve known my brother was innocent from day one.”

“It’s just Slate, ma’am. Slate Thompson. And I get it.”

“And I’m Vivian. Definitely not a ma’am.” She gestured to the end of the couch. “Please sit. A little water isn’t the worst thing that’s been on that cushion.”

“If you’re sure?” he asked, but he was already shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it over hers on the back of the door.

When he turned around, she saw the file folder with the sleep-study report stuffed into the back of his jeans.

“That was one way to keep it dry.”

“Yeah.” He pulled it around front and tapped his palm with it several times. “So, this report sheds a new light on your brother.”

“I’m not a silly, inexperienced sister, Lieutenant Thompson.” By using his formal name, she wanted to keep things a little more professional than they looked in her shabby studio apartment. “Honestly, I turned over the original report to Victor’s attorney the day after it arrived here. He said there was nothing he could do with it. That it didn’t prove anything since the prosecution had already submitted the study as proof of his guilt.”

The momentary elation she’d felt in the coffee shop had long passed.

“I disagree.” He leaned forward, resting an elbow on his thigh in order to look at her and handle the copy at the same time. “This isn’t the report that’s in the file.”

Had she heard him correctly? “I’m not following.”

“This report was written by Dr. Roberts’s assistant and sent to the participants nine months after Victor’s arrest.”

“So it couldn’t be a major part of the prosecutor’s case, right? I’m so stupid.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“How could I have missed something that evident?”

“Look, Vivian, don’t beat yourself up. You don’t have access to the evidence. I wouldn’t either if it hadn’t been a ranger who made the arrest.”

She sat forward, close enough on the small couch that Slate’s heat rose like steam around him. There was no use trying to keep the relationship professional. He’d be a family friend for life when they got her brother out of jail.

“So what happens now? Do you need Victor’s lawyer or do you have all that information in the file? I should get dressed. I want to be there when you tell him.” She stood and realized he hadn’t moved.

He dropped his head and tapped the papers onto his palm again.

“What? I thought you said this would clear him?” She crossed her arms and wanted to look angry, but was afraid she looked a little ridiculous in her silky lounge pants and sweatshirt. Tapping her bare toe on the old carpet didn’t present too much power either.

His hesitation only made her angrier and more anxious.

“Mr. Thompson, please.” She let her arms drop to her sides, afraid the tears would return and she’d totally lose it this time. “Just tell me.”

“I’m not supposed to be here.” He finally made eye contact with her. “I work for the other side. You get that, right?”

“And you’d want to sentence my brother to death even knowing he’s innocent?”

“No. That’s not it.” He jumped to his feet.

The small room had never seemed as small as at that very moment. It wasn’t that Slate towered over her. She wasn’t a short woman, but the panic she’d been warding off consumed her. It covered her like a suffocating blanket and she had a hard time breathing.

The more air she took in, the less she could breathe.

“Vivian, look at me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

His hand covered her mouth. She dug her fingernails into the side of his hand attempting to remove it. It wouldn’t budge. She felt the panic of not being able to breathe but forced a small amount of air through her nose.

“Listen to my voice. You’re hyperventilating, Vivian. I’m going to help you slow down your respirations. Try to count backward from ten in your head.”

He tugged her one direction and went the other. Ending the move so they faced each other. “That’s it. Deeply through your nose.”

She shook her head, feeling the panic again with the lack of oxygen. Ten.

“In.”

She sniffed as best as she could.

“Now let it out.”

The sound of her breath hitting his fingers was weird.

“In.”

It was broken, but she managed, catching the hint of coffee on him. Nine.

“Deeper,” he whispered closer to her ear. “Let it out slowly.”

She obeyed. Eight.

“You got this. Now I’m going to take my hand away. Just keep breathing in and out.”

Freedom washed over her as he dropped his hand and took a step away.

“In. Out. Just think calm.”

Seven. She covered her face, unable to look into his obviously concerned eyes.

“You okay now?”

“I think I can... That’s...that’s never happened to me before.”

“I apologize for the up close and personal, but I didn’t have a paper bag in my pocket.”

She swayed and his hands darted out to steady her. “Whoa. I think I’m a little light-headed.”

“No surprise. Why don’t you sit again? I’ll get you a bottle of water.” He helped until the back of her knees bent against the couch and she sat.

“Tap. Glasses...” She pointed above the sink. The dishes were on an open shelf. He wouldn’t have trouble finding them. “That was...so embarrassing.”

Slate moved his hat out of the sink and filled a glass, then handed her the water. “Do the panic attacks happen often?”

“Never.”

He looked at her like that was hard to believe, but he didn’t say the words. “I figure this is a lot to take in. You’re gonna have to trust me.”

“Does that slow-talkin’ cowboy act work on a lot of the girls?” She watched his puzzled reaction. Had she miscalculated him? Was he for real? “Look. I don’t trust anyone anymore. Victor and I have been screwed over by the best of them. Just tell me what’s wrong with this report and why aren’t we on our way to the attorney’s office?”

“Yeah, about that.” He grimaced slightly while sucking air through his teeth. Then he arched his hand down the back of his head and scratched his neck. Then he put his hands in the air like he was stopping her from moving. “You’re not going to have another attack, are you?”

She crossed her arms and legs in answer.

“My buddy was checking the file to make sure everything on our end is ready to go next week. Heath might have arrested your brother, but no one in my Company had anything to do with the investigation.”

“So?”

“I don’t actually have permission to be working the case.”

“Oh. I understand. You’d rather not be involved so you’re going to let my brother hang.”

“No, that’s not exactly what I meant.” He pulled his phone from his back pocket.

“Mr. Thompson, it’s time for you to leave.” She stood and pointed to the door.

He held a finger up in the air with one hand, bringing his phone up with the other. “One second. Just give me—Wade. Look, your hunch was right. Yeah, I’ve got a good lead, but I’m going to need some time. No.” He brought his light blue eyes up from looking at the carpet to meet hers. “I did not get food poisoning. I’ll put in for the time off. I just wanted to be sure you’d be around for tech support. Yeah, man. One of the best.” He disconnected, shaking his head then rubbing his forehead right between his brows.

“What was that about?” she asked, trying not to feel pleased or excited or both.

“I’m going to help you.” He took off his badge hooked on his shirt pocket and tucked it away with his ID. “I just can’t be a Texas Ranger while I do.”

“You’re really going to help me? Help Victor?” That bubble was back, ready to pop with his next words.

“I didn’t sign up for this job just to step aside and see an innocent man go to prison.” He stepped back toward the kitchen and picked up his hat, now on the two-burner stove. “Now that you know the logistics on my end, let’s go see Victor’s attorney. I’ll be in the truck while you dress. It’s still raining out there. You might want to bring an umbrella.”

Was that a wink while he secured that Stetson on his head?

It didn’t matter. She felt years older than Slate Thompson. And her heart was a little short on...

Well, everything. It was depleted. Empty. Desperate for any human kindness.

The tears came as soon as Slate pulled the door shut behind him. Just a short, easily controlled attack while she gathered clothes.

Who knew what they’d be doing later. And she meant they. There wasn’t any way in the world she was letting that cowboy get out of her sight until she found out everything he knew about Victor’s case.

Slate had only met the poor, pitiful, chicken wing waitress in dire need of help. He had no idea what she became when she put on her business suit. It might be her last one, but she looked and felt like she was in control.

Normal.


Chapter Six (#u0b26392c-075e-525d-87f8-ba0b993c75ee)

Half an hour passed. Then another ten minutes. Slate was stepping out of the truck to see what was keeping Vivian when her apartment door opened.

It was one of those jaw-dropping moments that didn’t happen very often in his life. He’d kept it together and hadn’t cracked a smile in his Department of Public Safety days when a girl took off her top trying to get out of a speeding ticket. The man who thought his clothes were on fire and spit a bottle of water all over his uniform—he’d handled it all with a straight face and no disgust.

But seeing Vivian Watts step onto the wet sidewalk in a blue suit made him take a second look. And maybe a third. Her wild dark brown hair was neatly tucked at the back of her head. He noticed because he ran to her side of the truck and grabbed the umbrella she’d brought with her.

Helping her onto the front seat, he politely waited for her to put down a towel. It gave him plenty of time to admire the line of her calf and the height of the matching blue heels. Not to mention a close-up view of the shapely behind in her tight-fitting skirt.

The wolf in him came out. His lips were all puckered to let loose a howling whistle when he caught himself and kind of sucked air through his teeth. She noticed. Yep, she smiled, knowing what was blowing through his mind.

He ran to his side of the truck, chucking the umbrella in the back seat. His tie had been off since he’d left for lunch, but the way she was dressed almost made him feel guilty enough to put it back on.

Almost.

“I’m assuming we need to go to your place for you to get dry clothes. I’m fine with that by the way.”

“I live west of the metroplex on a ranch. It’s sort of out of the way.”

“So the cowboy thing isn’t a thing? It’s genuine?”

“That’d be me.”

“You don’t mind being wet?”

“Well, I’ve been worse. Beer once. Now that’s sticky when it dries.” Slate had already looked up the address of the attorney in Uptown.

“As much as I’d like to hear about you covered in beer... I think you take a left here.”

“Not around this time of day. It really is a funny story.”

“I gather.”

Slate tapped on the radio, immediately turning it down. “You don’t have to worry. I looked at directions and traffic before you got in the truck.”

“Do you think we should talk about what happens now? How do we get the report if Victor’s attorney didn’t keep the copy I gave him? Are you sure you know how to get to his office? I think you missed another turn.”

Lots of questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. “Let’s just take it one thing at a time. First step is to get there and ask for a copy of the study. We compare. We might get lucky.”

“Lucky? How long have you been a ranger?”

“Almost two years. I was fortunate to be stationed here in Garland. That’s close enough to help out my family. How about you? What did you do before you came to Dallas or have you been here awhile?”

“I studied international business and had an internship at one of the top companies in Miami.”

“You gave all that up to come help your brother.”

“That didn’t sound like a question.”

Slate stated fact. He admired her for it. She didn’t know there was a personal financial report in the file. One reflecting she and her brother were broke. He’d read her statement to the police, an interview that confirmed most of the information obtained through the VA.

“Are you going to tell Victor’s attorney that you’re reopening his case?”

“One step at a time, remember?” Slate didn’t have permission to do anything. Unfortunately, the attorney would know that. “Why don’t you tell me about your brother?”

“As in...?”

“What problem was he having? Something like he couldn’t sleep, right?”

“Night terrors. He’s had them since returning from the Middle East. He’s never really talked to me about his time in the army. The most common question from you guys is do I think he’s capable of killing someone.” She paused, taking a look out the window. “The answer is I don’t know. I haven’t spent a lot of time with him after he left the military. He came to Dallas because of Dr. Roberts and her study. He wanted to be a part of it and live a normal life.”

“Look, Vivian.” He was about to cover her hand but he redirected his hand to the steering wheel. “I’m on your side. Honestly, I don’t know if they’ll reopen the investigation. I’m pretty sure the prosecutor will fight it since he thinks his case is pretty solid.”

“Then what are we doing?”

The windshield wipers banged out a rhythm, adding a slow swish as the rain turned to a sprinkle. “Not giving up.”

“I never did.”

He turned to face her, seat belt stretched tight across his chest. “If your brother is truly innocent...neither will I.”

Where the hell had that come from? That whole fighting-for-justice thought earlier? Maybe. More than likely. It couldn’t have anything to do with the wolf whistle he’d swallowed along with the urgent need to puff up his chest and rescue the fair maiden. Naw...nothing like that.

Or exactly that.

He’d wanted to help Vivian and her brother since meeting her in that ridiculous waitress outfit. The suit, however, fit her to perfection. It was much sexier than the skimpy shorts. Even though he’d enjoyed looking at her legs.

Someone behind him honked a horn. The light was green and he continued to the law office. He parked and Vivian didn’t open her door.

“Look, Slate. As much as I appreciate your promise, I’m not holding you to it. You seem like a nice guy. I have no idea why this is happening to my brother, but it’s not your responsibility.”

“Let’s talk to your lawyer and compare the reports. See what he thinks is going on. Throw around some ideas. Then maybe we can grab dinner and talk.”

* * *

VIVIAN WAS RELUCTANT to walk down the street with Slate to one of his favorite restaurants. The visit with Victor’s lawyer had been a bust. Even her favorite suit couldn’t make her feel better about the cavalier attitude he’d shown by not keeping the appointment.

It began to sprinkle again. Slate grabbed her hand and hurried through the dinner crowd on Maple Avenue and crossed the street.

“Here we go. I’m starved.” He released her hand and shot both of his through his hair, slicking the longer portion on top straight back like he had in her apartment.

“You just ate three hours ago.” She swiped droplets of water from her sleeves, then pulled a curl back under control, tucking it behind her ear. “Slate, I...um...I can’t eat here.”

Sam and Nick’s was the third most expensive steak house in Dallas. She knew only because she listened to customers talk about the amazing places they’d been to—other than her chicken restaurant. She had agreed to come with him to dinner, but she wasn’t going to order anything. She couldn’t. The money in her wallet was bus fare to get her back and forth to court.

“Sorry, I should have asked if you’re a vegetarian or vegan. Look, there’s a place every fifty feet around here. I’m sure we can find one for non-meat eaters.” He grabbed her hand again.

The doorman stared at them.

“I’m not a vegetarian,” she whispered. Then she leaned in closer to him. “This place is too fancy for me.”

“Well, shoot. My mouth is salivating for a good sirloin.” He took a step away from the door, letting another couple pass through. “Wait. This is my idea. My treat. Can we eat here now?”

As much as she’d lowered her voice to avoid embarrassing looks, Slate spoke loudly, not seeming to catch a hint of her embarrassment—at all. He tugged gently on her hand, backing up to and through the open doorway.

The maître d’ recognized Slate as he turned around to face her. “We can seat you right away, Lieutenant Thompson.”

The couple that was before them had just been told it was a forty-five minute wait. Vivian looked at the ranger and he promptly winked at her. He also still had hold of her hand. Firm grip.

“They do have really good sirloin here.”

“So this really is one of your favorite places. They know you on sight.”

He bent close to her ear, his warm breath cascading over the sensitive lobe. “I sort of stopped a robbery one night. They won’t let me forget it.” He jerked his chin to a framed article hanging on the wall.

Well, how about that. He was a real-life hero. She got closer, along with the couple now behind them in line, and read all about the armed robber who hadn’t made it out the door because a Texas Ranger had been dining here.

“Thank God. That’s the first gun we’ve seen out in the open like this,” the woman in line said. “I didn’t know what to think. Do you wear your weapon when you’re on a date?”

“Actually, ma’am—” Slate’s accent turned super slow and drawn out “—I’m required to have it with me at all times. Unless I’ve been drinking, of course.”

The maître d’ returned and Slate’s heavily countrified accent disappeared as he spoke with Candace—he knew the young woman by name—and asked her how her son was getting along at his new daycare.

Seated at a table for two near the corner, Slate held out Vivian’s chair and seated himself against the wall. He waved off the menus.

“Mind if I order for you?”

“Not at all.” She might as well let him. If he was buying, she wouldn’t have to look at the prices and wonder how she’d ever repay him.

“Double the usual, Mikey. And how’s your kid brother? He going to pass chemistry?”

“Yes, sir, Senor Slate. We got him the tutor and it was free. Just like you think.” The waiter raised his brows and looked at her. “You want a drink, Miss? And house salad dressing like Senor Slate?”

“That would be great, and water’s fine. Thanks.”

“He’s a good kid,” Slate said as Mikey walked away. “When his father was killed, he had to quit high school to support his family, but he got his GED.”

She was almost speechless. Almost. “Are you for real? I mean, I thought there was some reason you were offering to help me. Some gimmick. Or something that you’re hiding from the police. But it seems like you genuinely care. Do you?”

Slate Thompson looked surprised. No, he actually looked terrified.

“I hadn’t... I...”

“Don’t worry, Slate. Your secret’s safe with me.”

There weren’t too many people in the world who truly cared about others anymore.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to discuss the case with your—I need to take this.” He withdrew his phone and answered. “What’s up? No, I’m in Uptown. Yeah, twenty minutes with sirens. You’re certain? I’ll check it out.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Vivian said, “I’ll take the bus home.”

“There’s been a murder-suicide at the VA Hospital. One of the men in the same study as your brother.” He scanned his phone. “If you don’t mind waiting in the truck, I can take you home after. Easier than trying to find the buses in the rain. Come on.”

He asked the waiter to make it a to-go order, paid the bill and left her to go get his truck.

“He’s such a nice man,” the maître d’ said after the door shut behind him. “He saved my life during that robbery. The guy held a gun under my chin and said he was going to blow my head off. After the whole terrifying thing was over, Slate brought a counselor by to talk with me before my shift a couple of days later. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to repay him.”

“He seems very kind.” Amazing is more like it.

“Here’s your order,” the waiter said, handing her the bag of food.

Right on cue, Slate pulled up under the awning.

She climbed into the passenger side. “I don’t want to be a bother, Slate. You could drop me at the Rapid Transit station and I can get home from there.”

“You’d ruin your shoes waiting in the rain. I promise, I won’t be long. Wade, one of the guys in my Company, gave me the heads-up.”

“Do you believe it’s related to my brother?”

“Another ranger thinks it’s one of the guys in the study.”

“Right. No promises.”

Get a grip. Slate Thompson had a job. He was doing it, and a side benefit was helping Victor. There was no reason to think any part of it was personal.

No matter how often he held her hand.


Chapter Seven (#u0b26392c-075e-525d-87f8-ba0b993c75ee)

There is more than one way to kill. There is more than one way to kill. There is more than one way to kill.

Abby wrote in her journal, but scratched each sentence out quickly. She covered it with her hand so no one could see it. Even if she was alone and in a private office.

That didn’t matter. The government spied on everyone through all sorts of devices, and the police were everywhere.

Cell phones had cameras. Stoplights had cameras. Cars had back-up cameras. They were everywhere. She couldn’t get away from them.

Spies were spies and had to be dealt with. But there was no one around. No one to deal with for the moment.

The doctor had said journals were important. Dr. Roberts had a journal and had written about her as a patient, had written about them all. Abby had taken care of her in the best way she could. Not a perfect way, though. Abby hadn’t found that yet.

Dr. Roberts had been right about that particular problem. Abby needed to find it soon. The day was getting close when she’d need to move and start over in another city at another hospital.

“I am not crazy. Dr. Roberts told me I wasn’t. I can believe her,” she whispered.

Abby needed another pencil. She’d scratched out her last journal sentence so hard, she’d broken the tip. She looked around, but there wasn’t another near her to continue. She rolled the chair closer to the small window facing the front of the building.

It was two hours past time to go home. Catching her normal train wouldn’t be possible. She was familiar with the alternative, taking a cab, but that wasn’t possible either. And she was hungry.

Her subconscious suggestions with Rashad Parker had been so successful that he hadn’t waited. He’d gone to the cafeteria, secured a knife and stabbed two people, then slit his throat. Now the hospital was on lockdown.

If she’d known it would work so well, she would have followed him. Now she had been ordered to stay in her office until the hospital was cleared, until the police were certain no one else was at risk.

It was four minutes past dinner.

She moved away from the distracting police lights and arranged the patient binders by date. Then numeric order. She checked the contents to verify that she’d organized them correctly. She’d already finished transcribing the dictation. She listened again. There were no corrections to be made.

She couldn’t allow herself to panic just because her schedule was off. She needed to journal more. That would calm the rising nervousness.

A knock on the outer door relieved the moment of panic. She tucked her journal into her handbag with the microtapes she’d used on the sleep-study patients today. She practiced the concerned look she should have in the glass of the only picture hanging on the wall.

The knock persisted. She grabbed her handbag and twisted the lock.

“Come in.” She stepped away from the door and waited for the person on the other side to open it.

“Ms. Norman?” The man wasn’t dressed like a policeman. He wore a suit and tie.

“Yes. May I go now?”

“Sorry, it’s taken a while to clear the offices on each floor. We understand that you had a Rashad Parker here today.”

“Yes. He’s one of the sleep-study patients. Is he okay? Did something happen?”

“You seem concerned. Was he acting strangely? Make any threats toward anyone?”

“No, of course not.” She added a breathiness that indicated worry. She’d studied an emotional thesaurus and practiced at eight o’clock each evening for half an hour. Even so, unable to pursue her normal routine was making her a bit anxious. “May I leave now? I’ve missed my train and the second train, too.”

“I apologize. I forgot to introduce myself. Detective Arnold. Here’s my card. I’ll have one of the officers escort you out of the building. Mind if I have a look around?”

“I do. I’m not the doctor or the technician. I just set things up for them. There are patient files in here and records. I believe you’ll need a court order to proceed with the hospital.” She gripped the knob and pulled the door closed behind her. “Which officer will see me safely outside?”

“Burnsy. Will you take Ms. Norman out?”

An officer in full uniform with an automatic weapon took her to the stairs. “Sorry, ma’am, but the elevators are off-limits.”

“I prefer the stairs.”

On the ground floor, she waited and allowed the officer to open the door—having to remind him that it was the polite thing to do for a lady. She slipped on her surgical gloves and mask for the ride home. She might be forced to take public transportation, but she would not succumb to the germs. She had important work to finish.

Finally out of the building, she took a deep, satisfying breath. There were so many things to add to her study journal. She wished illustrations were possible but her drawings were elementary. She’d never be able to include the images she had in her mind of Dr. Roberts as she died. A shame she hadn’t taken actual pictures.

The walk through the sprinkling rain to Lancaster Road let her observe the television reporters, the police and the bystanders. The streets were empty except for those types of vehicles. She sat on her bench next to the Veterans Affairs building at the corner of Avenue of Flags and Liberty Loop, taking a moment to reevaluate.

How would she get to her apartment? Not by sitting here. The light rail train home arrived every fifteen minutes. Police blocked the street and rail entrance but as people came down, they showed their hospital badges and were let by. That’s all she had to tell them. She needed by to get home. She had seven more minutes to get on the platform.

A man spoke to both the officers who monitored the road. He showed them a badge. She could hear him offer to help with the situation. But more startled to hear him asking specific questions about Rashid Parker.

“This guy was on my radar and I want to ask the detective in charge to keep me informed. You can understand that, guys, right?”

Abby quickly took out her phone and snapped a picture of the officer. She tried to zoom in on the license plate of the truck he’d gotten out of, but the dimming light and mist made it impossible.

Why is he asking about Rashid?

“Walk past,” she whispered behind her mask. “You’ve missed the train home. You have five minutes and twenty seconds before the next one scheduled. You can control the obsessive-compulsive disorder. You control you. You are not a compulsion.” She channeled the last words, repeating them again and again until her feet moved.

Before she allowed herself to think, she showed the police officers her hospital identification. She was even able to pull down the mask so they could verify. She walked through to the next corner, passing the truck, pretending to be absorbed in her phone, but taking pictures of the truck and its occupant.

The woman inside looked familiar. Someone in the study? No. Maybe one of their relatives? She’d look it up when she returned home. She had a file on everyone participating in her study. Knowing everything about them was crucial, including anyone who might care for them and be an outside influence.

But why was a relative at the hospital? And why was she with a police officer? The dark-haired woman was the wrong race to be waiting on news of Rashid.

Her research would give her answers. Reminding herself that today had been excellent, with excellent results. The murder-suicide was the fastest response she’d ever accomplished.

If Abby experienced joy, there would be elation when writing the details of this event. Such a success.

She was one step closer to discovering the perfect death and implementing it on herself.


Chapter Eight (#u0b26392c-075e-525d-87f8-ba0b993c75ee)

Slate opened the truck door and Vivian jumped from her skin. He climbed inside and chose not to mention that the doors should have been locked even if he was on the outskirts of the taped-off area.

“I couldn’t find out much more than what Wade told us. Does the name Rashid Parker mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“So your brother never mentioned him or anything?”

“My brother barely speaks to me and never about his doctor’s murder. It’s always events from our childhood, before he joined the army. Does it mean more if he knew Mr. Parker?”

The obvious reason might just be that her brother was guilty. But something told Slate he wasn’t. More than Wade’s hunch. Something bugged him about Subject Nineteen and the fact that Victor wasn’t part of the blind study described in Dr. Roberts’s journal.

That had to mean something.

“I look at it this way. I don’t like coincidences in any case I work.” He was thinking aloud, but being honest with Vivian was essential. “This case has way too many for my comfort level. I’d never hand it over to a prosecutor. I’m surprised the Dallas DA accepted it.”

“This feeling of yours—it has something to do with the sleep study?”

“It’s sort of a rule of mine. The first itch makes me scratch my head. An investigator might accept one. But then when the second coincidence hits, you’re getting into territory that needs another verification. When the third pops up? Well, three coincidences mean something’s hinky and your case is about to go to hell.”

“Did you discover three?” she asked. “Are you worried about sharing something that might clear my brother? I’ll be contacting his attorney whether you do or not.”

“That’s not a problem. I’ll contact him tomorrow.” The officer waved them through the intersection and a waft of his sirloin made his stomach growl. “You have steak knives at your place?”

“If not, I give you permission to eat with your fingers.”

“Like a wild man. Cool.”

“But you still have to explain. What does Rashid Parker have to do with my brother?”

“One. Wade didn’t obtain the complete list but he confirmed Parker was at the hospital for the study. Don’t ask me how, I’m not asking him. But Parker is definitely a part of the same sleep study that your brother was involved in. Two. None of those men and women are listed as subject anything. And three...”

“Yes?”

“Three is that it feels off, too convenient. Why did your brother confess and why has he never been able to recall the details about that day? Everything else, yes, but not that day?” His stomach growled again. “Can you dig me a roll out of the sack?”

“There’s a fourth thing.” She handed him two fluffy yeast rolls.

“Yeah?”

“The incidents both happened at the VA Hospital.”

“Damn, you’re right.” He inhaled a buttery roll and swallowed. “That’s one too many.” “Rolls?”

He laughed. “No. The number of coincidences.”

“So do you think they’ll let you reopen the case?”

“Hold on a sec.” Slate called Wade through his hands-free set, leaving it on speaker so Vivian could hear. “You still at the office, man?”

“Where else am I going to be until these files are done?”

“Forget I asked. Give Heath the necessary info and he’ll run his magic on that sleep-study list.”

“So my hunch was right?”

“You can lord it over me later.” He quickly looked at Vivian. “Call Heath. I need that info before I hit Watts’s lawyer’s office in the morning.”

“I’ll get him started. We looking for anything in particular?”

“If I’m right, you’ll know.” He disconnected as he pulled in front of Vivian’s apartment. He could see the hesitation in her body language before she pulled the door handle. “Look, Vivian, I should probably get home.”

She visibly relaxed. “Thank you for everything, Slate. I should head inside. I’m working a double tomorrow, so would you leave me a message if you find anything?”

He nodded and pushed the dinner sack at her when she set it in her vacated seat. “You take it. I’ll pick up a burger on the way home.”

“I can’t possibly.”

“It’s the least I can do for dragging you around in the rain.”

Her head shook from side to side. “You aren’t going to take no for an answer, are you?”

“I’ll stop by the wing place if I find anything.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

Vivian’s expression filled with sadness and regret. With that, she shut the truck door. He could read people pretty well and she was silently screaming that she didn’t expect anyone—especially a lawman—to help. He waited for her to go inside her apartment, then called Wade again.

“Miss me already?” Wade answered.

“Check with the OIG for the VA. See if they have any weird reports or complaints.”

“That would be the Office of Inspector General for Veterans Affairs that won’t be open until tomorrow. And what will you be doing?”

“I’m going home and repairing a barn stall like I told my dad I would. I’m also about to beg my mother to fix me dinner. Totally starved.”

“Bring the leftovers tomorrow. Payback for me doing all your legwork.”

“You’re the one sitting behind a desk, man. I’m the one sitting on wet denim from doing your legwork on this hunch of yours.”

“And it’s paying off.”

“Tomorrow, man.”

It was probably better that Vivian Watts had to work a double tomorrow. Probably better since he needed to wrap up his current caseload before he could take vacation days and help her. He couldn’t flash around his badge, but mentioning that he was a ranger might open some doors that had been slammed for her.

Statistics weren’t in their favor. He wouldn’t be just another man who got her hopes up and left her hanging.


Chapter Nine (#u0b26392c-075e-525d-87f8-ba0b993c75ee)

“I could never have assumed that Rashid would react to the suggestion before he left the hospital.” Abby pulled at her cuticles with tweezers. She spoke to the only person completely familiar with her work, herself.

Several doctors, including Roberts, had ordered her to stop, stating it was unhealthy to pick at her nails. They were wrong.

Her skin was raw, but there were still pieces. She picked more furiously before looking up into her red, freshly scrubbed face. Certain there was another layer of dirt on her epidermis, she obtained another washcloth, rubbing and scrubbing as hard as she could.

Setting the cloth onto the counter, she switched back to the tweezers, picking until the bright red of her clean blood seeped around the nail. She went to the cabinet to remove the last washcloth from the sealed bag. She would begin the cleansing process again until she was positive the germs from walking on an unfamiliar street were no longer present.

“Enough!” her reflection yelled.

“I can never get clean enough,” she answered behind the cloth.

“You must control yourself, Abby. Break from your routine. There is work to be done. Check the list you made while waiting for the train. It’s thorough.”

“Yes. I need to identify the woman in the truck.” The tweezers caught her eye. She dropped the newer white cloth on top of the metal but immediately had to place them in the sterilizing jar.

“My darling Abby. You are so smart and will find my answers. The perfect death will be ours. I’ve always had faith in you.”




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