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  Nausea rolled in Emma’s stomach, and she had to look away.

  “There wasn’t a lot to go on here, at least not at first.”

  Emma’s stomach churned harder. The smell of the place was starting to get to her. Antiseptic. Death.

  “But during my exam of the leg, I realized the patient had gone through knee surgery.” Victoria sounded pleased with herself. “There was a serial number on the screw that I discovered. I traced it and discovered that the remains belonged to a kid named Wayne Johnson. He’d had knee surgery after a car accident when he was seventeen.” Sadness flashed over her face. “I was able to get hold of his medical records and it seems he developed an addiction to pain medication after that surgery. His parents were killed in the car accident, and I don’t know, maybe the drugs made things easier for him.” Her gaze seemed sad behind the lenses of her glasses. “I don’t do so well at understanding the motives of the living. I can just tell you what the dead say.”

  Wayne. The name was clicking for Emma and making the churning in her stomach even worse. “Jax told us a boy named Wayne was missing.” A boy who’d tried to get off drugs. Who’d tried to get clean.

  Victoria’s gloved fingers rose to the black body bag—a bag that could not possibly contain a full body.

  “Don’t,” Emma said. The word came out sounding like a plea.

  Victoria glanced over at her, eyes wide behind the small lenses of the glasses she wore.

  “I have enough crap in my head. I don’t want to see that, too,” Emma said. So what if the confession made her sound weak? It was better than passing out at their feet.

  Victoria flushed. “I’m sorry!” She immediately jumped away from the bag. “I’m around them so much, I forget I’m not . . .” The flush deepened. “Normal.”

  The last part was whispered with shame.

  Dean’s shoulder brushed against Emma. “Are you okay?” His question was low, just for her.

  Emma nodded. After clearing her throat, she said, “One of my contacts in the city told me that a boy named Wayne had gone missing. This all fits with what we know about him.”

  “Another victim. Not Ricker’s kill,” Dean said, “but one that SOB out there just tossed away like garbage.”

  Victoria pushed the slab back into the locker. She moved to the right but hesitated before she reached for the next locker. Her gaze darted toward Emma. “Do you want to wait outside? I really need to show Dean what I found on Ricker’s skeleton.”

  Emma locked her knees together. She shouldn’t have stopped the woman before. “I’m fine.” Just bones. Just bones . . .

  Dean’s fingers caught Emma’s and squeezed.

  Victoria’s worried stare swept over Emma’s face. “They can’t hurt you,” she said. Then Victoria winced. “That sounded ridiculous, didn’t it? I just . . . by the time they get to me, I figure they’re the ones who’ve been hurt. I need to help them, in my way. Even people like Ricker. We have to find out what happened to them all, right?”

  “I killed Ricker,” Dean said, voice flat. “I shot him, and he fell off the side of that mountain. Kevin already told me that his body showed signs of broken bones and fractures—”

  “Oh, yes, all of that is true. And when he called for an update, I certainly shared that information with Agent Cormack. But there were a few things I held back.” She unzipped the bag. Emma noticed that her fingers were shaking a bit. “There were certainly plenty of breaks. His left femur was broken in two places, his right tibia suffered a displaced fracture. His clavicle was also fractured. Four of his metacarpals were broken—”

  “We get it,” Dean said. “The guy’s bones were wrecked.”

  That sure sounded like the result of a fall to Emma. When the bag opened, she made a point of not staring at the remains. Emma kept her gaze locked on Victoria.

  The other woman nibbled on her lower lip. “You’re on record saying that you shot him in the right shoulder and the left knee.”

  “Yes.” Dean’s voice held no emotion. “Then the bastard fell.”

  “You didn’t shoot him anywhere else? You’re absolutely certain?” She seemed to assess Dean. “It’s just us here, and I hope you know that you can trust me.”

  Uh-oh. Emma had a feeling that the news coming next wasn’t going to be good.

  “I’m certain of where I hit him.” Now Dean sounded annoyed. “I know what I did.”

  “Because I found evidence to suggest that he was shot a third time. With a gun that was similar in caliber to your own . . . actually . . . based on the marking that I found on his bones, I would say the gun used was exactly like your FBI-issued weapon, a Glock 22.” She paused. “I believe that is the type of weapon you used that night, isn’t it?”

  “That’s a standard gun for FBI agents.”

  “Yes,” Victoria’s voice was soft. “I thought it was.”

  “FBI agents,” Dean continued. “And cops.”

  Victoria’s hands hovered over the bones. “And anyone who wanted to put a killer out of his misery.”

  Don’t look at the bones. Don’t look.

  “If he survived your shots, if he survived the fall but was incapacitated then perhaps that last shot wasn’t intended to do anything but . . . take the man out of his misery. I mean, he wasn’t close to help then, having fallen who knows how far. If he hadn’t gotten help, he would have just slowly bled out.”

  Like his victims?

  Victoria picked up the skull. Emma hadn’t expected the move, and her gaze snapped right to it. For a moment, horror froze her.

  Victoria turned the skull around. A hole was in the back of that skull. A perfect hole—a perfect entrance point for a bullet.

  Dean’s fingers tightened around Emma’s.

  “When Elroy comes in, he just looks at the front of the skull. He hasn’t seen this particular wound because he hasn’t stuck around to watch my actual examination.” Victoria’s shoulders hunched forward. “I will give him this bit of news. It will be in my report, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

  Emma couldn’t look away from that skull.

  With me, in the dark. Cold, hard bone . . .

  “Hell, Viki, before you talked to Elroy, you wanted to make sure I hadn’t gone up behind the bastard and shot him in the back of the head.”

  Emma shivered. She’d never heard that particular tone in Dean’s voice before.

  Worry flashed on Victoria’s face, but she didn’t deny his words. “He nearly killed you. You were defending yourself—”

  “Not if I shot him in the back of the head.”

  Victoria swallowed. “No,” her voice was low. “Not then.” But her chin lifted. “That’s why I think this was a mercy killing. He survived the fall, but he wasn’t going to keep living much longer.”

  “I wouldn’t have shown the bastard any mercy.” Dean pulled away from Emma. Stalked toward the slab. Glared down at the remains. “I would have wanted him to suffer every moment he had left.”

  Emma had always known about the darkness in Dean. She’d felt it, brushing against his carefully controlled surface a few times. But right then, she could see it in him. His smile was slightly cruel, as Dean said, “He deserved the pain.”

  “Th-then someone else didn’t think so,” Victoria said. “Someone else put him out of his misery. Someone else moved his remains. Took care of the remains until . . .” She gestured to the slab. “Only the bones remained. Then that person gave Ricker a final resting place.”

  “A resting place in New Orleans.” Emma turned away. She just couldn’t keep looking at that skull. Dealing with the dead was commonplace for them, but not for her. Emma’s hands were clammy, and her heartbeat was shaking her whole chest.

  “No one was supposed to be in that crypt,” Victoria said quickly. “Agent Cormack already did research on it. The family that owned it filed bankruptcy. They moved away—and the bank took control of their assets. The crypt was just sitting there, waiting for the killer to find it.”
r />   The smell in the morgue seemed even worse. And why was it so dang cold in there?

  She heard the zip of the bag being resealed. Her back snapped straight up at that sound.

  “Sarah thought that whoever killed Ricker wanted to keep him close. Perhaps even wanted a place to go and visit him.”

  “There was a bench in that crypt.” Dean’s voice was halting. “But he put Emma in there. He wanted us to find them.”

  “Sarah doesn’t think so.” The metal locker clanged shut.

  Emma glanced back. She was trying to focus on breathing. And not giving in to a sudden claustrophobic panic. I’m not in the tomb. I’m not sealed up with the bones.

  “I mean, the guy isn’t psychic, right?” Victoria continued.

  That particular comment had Emma cutting her eyes back to the other woman.

  “Crap.” Victoria winced. “Wrong thing to say again, right?” She shook her head. “I just mean, what could the odds possibly be? How would he have known that Emma was going to try to slip away through the cemetery? I think he might have—I mean, we, Sarah and I—think he might have just put Emma in that crypt because he knew no one else was going in there. He thought it was safe.” She gave a grim smile. “He was wrong. He messed up, and that gives us an advantage.”

  The main doors swung open then. Emma tensed, expecting to see Elroy stride inside, but it was just Sarah.

  “Good,” Sarah murmured when she saw them. “The gang’s all together.”

  “I was telling them about the new profile you’re making.”

  Sarah motioned toward the door. “I’ll tell you the rest, but we need to hurry. I saw Elroy on my way in here, but he didn’t see me.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “I told him earlier that the FBI’s original profile was off, but he’s not interested in listening to what I have to say. He made it clear that Victoria was the only one of us who was still supposed to have access on this case.”

  Dean marched toward Emma. “As soon as he gets Victoria’s reports, he’s going to push her aside, too.”

  “That’s how the game works.”

  Emma and Dean followed Sarah out of the morgue. The farther they got from the place, the easier it became for Emma to breathe. And when they actually made it back to the sunlight, she felt a bit light-headed.

  Emma’s hand flew out and grabbed the railing near the building.

  “Are you okay?” Sarah asked her, lightly touching Emma’s shoulder.

  After pulling in a few very deep breaths, Emma managed to say, “Never better.” I keep thinking that I’m being buried alive, but hey, that’s totally normal, right? Nothing crazy there.

  “Is it your head?” Dean asked. “Dammit, this is my fault. I shouldn’t have dragged you all the way down here.”

  “It’s not my head.” Well, maybe it was. But it wasn’t the concussion. It was the crap going on in her head. “I’m fine.” She could lie with the best of them.

  Emma straightened her shoulders and hurried across the street. Running into either Elroy or Cormack wasn’t on her agenda, so she was glad to put some distance between herself and the morgue. Never want to go back there.

  As soon as they were clear, Emma turned to confront Sarah. “Spill on the new profile.”

  Sarah’s brows climbed, and it looked as if she almost smiled. “It’s not perfect—”

  But Dean shook his head. “Your profiles are usually pretty dead-on.”

  “Usually, but this guy is different. I think it’s because the crimes that he’s committed—well, it’s more mimicry than anything else. He’s been re-creating Ricker’s attacks because he wanted us to think Ricker was involved.” Her breath whispered out on a sigh. “That was the bait. He abducted those people—probably far more than we know about—and he killed them because he wanted to perfect his craft. He wanted to be able to kill the way Ricker had.”

  “Bait,” Emma repeated. This was what had worried her the most. “Just who do you think he was trying to reel in?”

  Sarah’s gaze flickered to Dean.

  “Me?” His brows climbed. “Why? Because I killed his damn partner, and he wants some payback? Well, then he needs to come after me, me, and not take Julia Finney or that kid Wayne or Emma—”

  “I don’t think they were partners.”

  Now Emma was surprised.

  “A partner wouldn’t have needed this practice time at perfecting his kills. A partner would have come after Dean much faster. This killer . . . he was slowly building up. Escalating. He’s linked to Ricker, but I don’t think he was killing with him before Dean shot the guy on the mountain.”

  The web just kept becoming more tangled for Emma.

  So sort out that damn shit.

  She wasn’t good at understanding motives. She couldn’t psychoanalyze people she’d never met.

  She needed to see people. To see places. To look for details.

  Her eyes squeezed shut. “I have to go back to the crypt.”

  “The fuck you do,” was Dean’s instant denial.

  That was so cute. Her eyes opened. “I get that you want to keep me safe.”

  “He buried you. Sure, you weren’t under the ground, but he sealed you up there.” He caught her shoulders and pulled her close. “Why would you ever want to go back there?”

  “I don’t want to go back, but I need to do it.”

  He was already shaking his head.

  “I might see something there, okay! Something that others missed. Something that the cops didn’t see. Something you didn’t see because you were so worried about me.” He had to give her that. “It’s all I have to offer.” Her voice dropped. “You were right. I don’t have the training that you all have. I don’t have a fistful of degrees like her.” She pointed to a watchful Sarah. “I just have street smarts. I have a dad who taught me always to be aware of what was happening around me. When I enter any restaurant, I automatically find all the exits. I count the number of booths. I do a sweep of the customers there.” Did all of that sound crazy? Then fine, she was crazy. So what?

  “Emma . . .”

  She couldn’t decipher the emotion in his voice, so she just kept talking, the words coming faster, as she said, “I might have let myself get a little rusty, but I can do this. I can prove that I belong on—”

  Oh, hell. Was she oversharing or what?

  Emma cleared her throat. “I can prove that I can help you.”

  Dean stared into her eyes. After a moment, he said, “Sarah, give us two hours, then get the team to meet us at Emma’s apartment.”

  “Will do.” Sarah hesitated, then said, “At least your dad taught you some good things, Emma. Some fathers just want their children to grow up and become nightmares. You should be grateful for the father you had.”

  What?

  Before Emma could question her, Sarah hurried away.

  “You don’t need to prove yourself.”

  Uh-oh. Dean was sounding all pissed.

  “Not to Sarah. Not to any of the LOST agents, and least of all to me.”

  “I’m not just some con woman.”

  He caught her chin. Tilted her head up so that she had to meet his eyes. “I know that, baby.”

  “My father was more, too.” There it was. Stark pride came in her voice. “My mother cut out on us, and he did the best he could. I know he skirted the law. I know he wasn’t perfect, far from it, but he loved me. And he died because he wanted to help those missing girls and because he wanted to save me.”

  Understanding flashed on his face. “And that’s why you wanted to save Julia. Full circle, isn’t it? Like father, like daughter.”

  Wade had said those words once, but they’d been mocking. When Dean said them, Emma thought the words sounded almost tender. “Is that so bad?” Emma asked. “To want to be like him?” Cars buzzed by on the street. “He would have loved the idea of LOST. I think he probably would have gotten your Gabe to give him a job in about five minutes flat.” Her father had been able to talk his way into anythi
ng.

  “What about you?” Dean asked her. “Is that why you’ve been so determined? Because you want . . . LOST?”

  LOST was only the beginning of what she wanted. “We need to get to that cemetery.”

  “And you need to answer my question.”

  Fine. “I want you.”

  He blinked.

  “I want to keep having wild sex with you.”

  An elderly man passing on the street stopped to cough. No, to choke. But he recovered fairly fast.

  “I want to see what we have,” she continued, voice a bit softer because maybe that other part she’d revealed had been too loud. “I want to see where it can take us.”

  “Emma—”

  “And, yes, I might want to see if I can do more than just give readings. Is that wrong?”

  He pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “Nothing about you is wrong. Not to me.”

  Ah, if only that were true. Emma knew she had plenty of dark places inside her. Her deepest secret was the one that her father had carried to his grave.

  Ten years ago, she’d killed a man, and an act like that had to leave a mark on a person’s soul. She was far too aware of that mark most days.

  My father took the blame, but it was me. Always . . . me.

  Dean had shared so much with her, and Emma didn’t know why she still held back with him.

  Because he was FBI for so long. Because the guy used to stand for truth and justice and all those things that matter.

  “Let’s get to that cemetery,” she whispered.

  He nodded.

  WATCHING, WATCHING . . .

  Dean Bannon had always been an arrogant SOB. To head right to the morgue, after he’d been told to stay off the case . . .

  The guy never would learn. And that was all right. Lesson time was long over.

  Payback. That was the only thing that mattered now.

  He watched as Dean and Emma jumped into their car and raced away. Where were they off to now? Not that it mattered. They weren’t going to catch him. He was in control now, of everything.