Chapter Four
Easton slammed on the brakes, jerking forward as his pickup truck came to a stop on Highland Path. The text he’d received from Gus had provoked something feral inside him. The abuse Kinley experienced as a child left him sick to his soul, but now to come after the woman she’d become? Abhorrent. That someone had taken another life as some kind of ill tribute to Kinley, dressing the deceased to play the role, left a metallic taste on his tongue. If he got his hands on the person responsible, he’d revel in making them regret ever laying eyes on Kinley, on any child. He closed his eyes briefly, numbing himself to the memories assaulting him. Decades later, he could still feel their hands, some rough and calloused, others smooth and cold, grabbing for him. He tried not to dwell on his childhood, but some things brought old terrors simmering to the surface.
He killed the engine and stepped down from his vehicle. A reporter was recording a clip beneath the sheen of spotlights directly in front of the house. He’d shield Kinley as best he could from the media, if needed. Oh, they wouldn’t know who she was, or details of the victim found within the house, but they might badger her for an interview. Gus would finish processing the scene, and he had already spoken with their lieutenant regarding the connection between Kinley and the homicide.
Cold metal met his palm as he slammed the truck door and walked in long, purposeful strides toward the house. The reporter held out their microphone, asking a question as he passed. He simply ignored their presence. His priority was seeing to Kinley’s safety.
“Stop there.” The officer at the door stared down at him, suspicion clouding his expression. A cold gust of wind raked his hair. “Only authorized personnel beyond this point.”
“Agent Easton Adair. FBI.” He showed his credentials, and the officer’s posture instantly eased a fraction. “I’m here to escort Officer Wright from the scene.” He wasn’t on official business, but he’d filled in his immediate director about the possible emergence of the Kingston Town Killer. As a member of an elite cyber squad, he often worked internally within various agency departments. If the FBI formed a task force to investigate, he wanted to be part of it. More than that, though, was the driving urgency to get Kinley somewhere safe. His physical and emotional reaction to her was baffling. He recognized himself in her—a human broken with thorough and agonizing force. Someone brought so low and desperate, it was a miracle they were able to claw their way out of the depths they’d been dragged. After he helped her, he’d go back to his one resounding mission. Stopping trauma before it happened.
Kinley appeared just beyond the threshold. Her features were set, any sign of emotion locked down tight. Her chin was high as she took the first step toward him. A satisfied breath filled his lungs, and he walked up the stairs, erasing the distance between them. Kinley’s insides must be quivering, but the façade she projected was one of calm composure. She impressed the heck out of him.
“I told Gus I could get out of here on my own. I’m sorry he called. Besides, I drove here.”
“Two troopers have already left to pick your car up. They’ll bring it to the barracks.”
More reporters had gathered outside, and a camera flashed from the crowd. A low growl reverberated in his throat. He had to make a conscious effort not to tuck Kinley into his side and rush her to the truck. She’d hate that. Rebuilding her self-identity must’ve been an uphill battle, but she’d done it. She was law enforcement just like he was, and she could more than hold her own against any threat. Still, he had her back and walked on the side closer to the reporters so she didn’t have to. Their shouted questions rolled off his back as they strode quickly to the truck. Visibility was low, with the only light source from the news station equipment.
“Kinley Miller,” someone shouted. The probing call didn’t break their stride, but they both stiffened. Someone had uncovered Kinley’s identity, and reporters were circling hungrily, scenting a breaking news report in the making. “Is it true you are the lone survivor of the Kingston Town Killer?”
“Is this investigation linked to the serial killer?” a male reporter called out. They started closing in on them, shuffling through the dead leaves and clutching their microphones.
“Has he contacted you?”
His hand hovered over the small of Kinley’s back, and he moved closer to her.
“Was a child being held inside the house?”
Voices were more high-pitched and desperate as they continued to walk, and one man stepped right into their path. Adrenaline shot through him.
“Back up.” The fury in his voice was barely restrained, and his calm shattered when the man didn’t budge. “Get the fuck back.” Without waiting, he put an arm around Kinley, just as he swore he wouldn’t, and shoved past the reporter.
When they reached his truck, he opened the driver’s side and rushed her inside. The moment the door slammed behind them, he threw the vehicle in reverse to put some distance between them and the media.
“What the hell was that?” Her voice shook, color high on her cheeks. “How did they find out my identity, and why did you shelter me? The suspect could’ve been watching in the crowd.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Now he’s going see me being coddled, assume I’m weak.”
“It took him over a decade to find you. That makes you the opposite of weak. I no sooner would’ve left you to that pack of wolves than you would’ve hesitated to pull the trigger when a weapon was trained on Gus and Sasha.” He took advantage of a wider section of road, cutting the wheel and shifting the truck into drive.
“That was different.” Her voice had lost some of its heat. He got it. Really, he did. It was why he hadn’t touched her when they left the crime scene—only reaching for her when a clear threat presented itself. He’d do it again.
The truck bumped down the unpaved street, jerking over divots in the road. “No. We’re trained to protect. It’s who we are.” He stole a look, but her eyes were already locked on his face. He found himself tangled up in a gaze that packed one hell of a punch. Lust quivered low in his gut, coiling in the junction of his hips. Tearing his eyes away, he focused on the road in front of them.
She sighed, head lolling back against the seat. “Until I’m in mortal danger, trust me to do what I’ve trained for my entire life. Interfering any earlier tells me you think less of my skills. A partnership between Gus and me works because he sees me as an officer, not a woman who needs to be protected.”
“Shit, Kinley. I don’t think you’re incompetent. I saw a threat and wanted to get you the hell out.” He glanced in his rearview mirror. There was no one behind them on the lightless road. “I’m very aware you’re a woman, but not in the way you think. I’d feel just as comfortable having you show up to an emergency call as I would any man—probably more because you’ve walked to the other side of hell. You rattle me. Bring something out in me that might be best kept locked away.” He’d said way too much and not enough. Talkative, he was not. Around her, though, he wanted to spill all his secrets. Chat about her favorite food, find out if she read or binged Netflix shows in her free time. These urges weren’t his norm, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not if being more open would bring him closer to the woman beside him.
Her gaze was on him. She was sizing him up just as surely as if she’d reached her hand out and grabbed his arm. “I don’t know what to say to that.” Her voice dropped, and if it were even a fraction lower, her words would’ve been lost in the hum of the heater.
“Nothing is probably best, then.” That was the truth. Keeping her safe came first, before his desire to get closer. “There’s a higher-up at Seven News who owes me a favor. Let’s see how his reporters figured out your identity.” He used the vehicle’s voice dial to initiate the call.
The direct office line rang once before a man picked up the receiver. “Justin Mancuso.”
Must be busy for the man to be working at nearly nine o’clock. “Late night for you. Do you live at the station these days?”
“Agent Adair. How the heck are you?” The station exec’s smile was audible through the line.
“Depends. You’re on speaker. I’m currently driving away from the scene of a homicide.” He turned on his directional and took the exit for downtown Framingham, toward Kinley’s apartment. “Running, actually, from your evening news reporter. I have Kinley Miller in the passenger seat.”