Chapter Fifteen

"We tracked Todd Arniston down at the Cakewalk Café this morning," Sheriff Walker told Shelby when she and the FBI artist met him at the sheriff's department the next afternoon. "He agreed to come in and talk to us. He answered our questions willingly, and he appears to be exactly what he says he is—a writer working on a book about the Chalk brothers."

"You should have called me in," she said.

"I would have if I thought there was a need," Walker said. "You're welcome to listen to the recording of the interview and read the transcripts. Arniston's story checked out. He doesn't have a criminal record, not even a traffic violation."

"He admits he was at the campground when Camille Gregory was murdered," she said.

"So were a lot of other people."

"Why didn't you interview him when you talked to the other campers?"

"He says he left the campground before floodwaters cut off the road. No one else mentioned him to us, and he didn't fill out a registration form for the campsite he occupied. But he doesn't deny being there. He says he didn't know Camille was there. No one else places him at or near her campsite."

"What about the stuffed bear that was left at Zach's townhouse?"

"We don't know when it was left there," Walker said. "It could have been any time between when Zach left for work that morning at eight until he returned home a little after nine at night. Arniston admits he can't account for his whereabouts for the entire thirteen hours, but most people wouldn't be able to. We didn't recover any fingerprints from the scene. Unless someone says they saw him or his car near Zach's townhouse, we don't have any reason to think he was responsible."

"He's been following Zach around."

"Because he wants to interview him," Walker said.

"Except he never said that until yesterday."

"I'll admit that's odd, but odd doesn't equal guilty."

"So you took everything he said at face value?" She couldn't keep the accusation from her voice.

The sheriff remained as unreadable as ever. "We took his fingerprints and sent them to the state for analysis," he said. "We'll let you know if anything turns up." He glanced toward the artist, who was setting up a laptop on a table in the interview room across the hall. "Has it occurred to you that Zach might have staged that bear in his townhouse? We only have his word that he lost his key."

"Zach did not stage that bear or lie about losing his key."

"People do that sort of thing in a bid for attention. How well do you really know him?"

I know him , she wanted to protest. She knew all of Camille's stories about her brother—the quiet, thoughtful man who didn't go out of his way to seek attention. But stories weren't what counted with people like Sheriff Walker. "The FBI has a file on Zach Gregory that goes back more than four years," she said. "There are no signs of any tendency to lie or seek attention."

The sheriff glanced toward the FBI artist again. "He never told anyone about seeing someone outside the restaurant the night that judge was murdered."

"Because he didn't think it was important, and he's not the type of man who likes to put himself forward."

Adelaide moved down the hallway toward them. "Zach Gregory is here," she said.

"I'll bring him back," Shelby said, and left before the sheriff could say anything else.

Zach stood at her approach. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing's wrong."

"You look angry about something."

She was tempted to tell him about the sheriff's ridiculous suggestion that he had made up the story about the bear, but decided against it. As much as she hated the idea of anyone suspecting Zach, she knew the sheriff was approaching the case as any good law enforcement officer would, looking at everyone as a possible suspect. No matter how compelling the evidence, it was never a good idea to focus on only one suspect, especially in the early stages of an investigation. "The artist is back here," she said. "You'll work with him first, then give your statement about what you saw that night at the restaurant. The artist will ask you questions about what you saw and use your answers to come up with a sketch, which you'll fine-tune together. The end result should be a drawing of the man you saw that night at the Britannia."

"What will you do while I'm doing that?" he asked.

"I have some calls to make. I'll check in with you soon."

She got Zach settled with the artist, an affable man named Fred who had driven over from Denver. "The most important thing is to relax and remember there are no wrong answers," he said as Shelby was leaving.

Though Sheriff Walker had offered her the use of an empty office in his department, she opted to walk outside to telephone Special Agent in Charge Lester. She told him about the sheriff's conclusions about Todd Arniston, and their inability to locate Janie.

"Neither of these people sound like very strong suspects to me," Lester said. "I don't think you're making enough progress in this case to justify keeping you in Eagle Mountain."

"Sir, I respectfully disagree. At least give me another day or two to follow some leads." She didn't have any leads to follow, but he didn't need to know that.

"I want you back in the office Monday morning, and that's final," he said.

"Yes, sir." She ended the call. Three days to find some kind of closure. Zach deserved that, even if it was the only thing she could give him.

Z ACH SAT BACK and looked at the drawing on the artist's computer screen. A young man with a prominent nose and chiseled cheekbones looked out at him, fear haunting the man's dark eyes. For the space of a breath, Zach was back on that Houston street, the man silhouetted beneath the red glow of the traffic signal, his heart hammering in sympathy with the man's obvious terror.

"That's him," he said, back in the present now. "How did you do that?"

"You did it," Fred said. "I drew what you told me. I just knew the right questions to ask."

"Is it strange that I still remember him so well, after so much time has passed?"

"Not really. Trauma makes a strong impression. That, or a sense of connection with another person. You were afraid that night, and you saw that same feeling in him, even if you didn't acknowledge it." He started typing.

"What happens now?" Zach asked.

"I'll send this to my office, and from there it will be uploaded to various national databases. It will be up to the agents working the case, but sometimes these images are published in local media in the hopes that someone who recognizes the person will come forward." He closed the laptop. "You could help solve a crime. Or prevent another one."

He walked with Zach into the hallway, where Deputy Owen met him. "Come with me, and I'll take your statement," Owen said and led him into another interview room.

Telling the story yet again wasn't as difficult as Zach had anticipated. Declan Owen expressed no judgment or opinion, merely prompting Zach when he needed more detail or wanted to clarify the sequence of events. When Zach was done, he waited another quarter of an hour for a printed copy of his statement and signed it. "Thanks," Owen said. "You're free to go now."

He escorted Zach to the lobby, where he had expected to find Shelby waiting. Adelaide saw him looking around. "Agent Dryden said she would see you later," she said.

He hid his disappointment, but told himself he was being ridiculous. Hadn't he said he didn't want Shelby babysitting him? Maybe she felt the same way he did—that being together all the time was too frustrating, fighting this attraction between them, for reasons that still weren't clear to him. Though maybe she didn't want to start something she couldn't finish. He could understand that. She would need to go back to Houston sooner rather than later. The thought made him even more glum.

Rather than go home to mope, he stopped by Mo's, where he ordered nachos and a beer. He sat at a table by the window and watched groups of tourists on the sidewalk—couples and happy families laden with shopping bags, wearing souvenir T-shirts and stopping often to take pictures.

A flash of blond hair made him sit up straighter, and he leaned forward, studying a group of people across the street waiting to cross. Was that Janie in the back?

He shoved back his chair and rushed outside. But there was no tall blonde woman anywhere. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, a boulder others had to move around, and stared in all directions.

Back in the restaurant, Kiki met him at the door. "Everything okay?" she asked.

"Yeah. I thought I saw someone I knew." He took out his wallet. "Let me settle up, and I'll get out of your hair."

He drove home, unable to relax. The tension didn't ease when he parked and saw someone by his door. He sat in the car, wondering if he should leave again, when Shelby moved into the light. He hurried to meet her. She didn't look happy to see him, fine lines of tension creasing her forehead. "We have to talk," she said.

A S SOON AS the words were out of her mouth, Shelby silently cursed herself for being overly dramatic. Talk about a phrase that would send almost anyone running in the other direction. She rested a hand on his arm. "I just want to bring you up to date on some developments," she said.

"Sure." He unlocked the door, and she followed him in. They both stood just inside the door for a moment, looking around.

"Does everything look okay?" she asked.

"Sure. It's fine." He moved into the living room and sat on the sofa. "What's up?"

"I have to be back in Houston Monday."

Was that hurt or anger—or both—in his eyes? He didn't try to hide the emotions, merely shook his head. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said.

"The sheriff's department has agreed to run regular patrols, and if you see anything suspicious, they'll respond right away."

"I'm not sorry because I won't have a personal bodyguard anymore. I'm sorry because somehow, as awful as the past couple of weeks have been, you've made them bearable. Some parts of them have been good, even."

The kiss they had shared was good. She sat on the edge of the sofa, close but not touching. "I won't forget you, Zach."

"Yeah, you will. You'll always have another case. Another witness."

"You're not just another witness." He was Zach. Camille's brother. The man she had fallen for before they even met.

He didn't look away, his gaze challenging.

"I care about you, is that what you want me to say?" she asked.

"If that's true, why are you holding back?" he asked.

The problem was she wasn't holding back. Not the way she was supposed to, not letting herself get involved with people who were part of the cases she worked. "My problem is I can never be what I'm supposed to be," she said. "I'm not supposed to become friends with the witnesses or victims I interview. I'm not supposed to let my emotions get in the way of my objectivity. I'm not supposed to care. But I always care." She clenched her hands into fists. "I cared about Camille. She was my friend, and I miss her. And now I care about you."

He pulled her close, arms wrapped around her. "I know." When he looked into her eyes, she was sure he didn't see the cold FBI agent her bosses wanted her to be, but the warm woman whose feelings dictated her actions every bit as much as the evidence in a case.

She was growing warmer by the minute. She touched the tip of one finger to the corner of his mouth. "I'm not supposed to get involved with people who are part of my cases," she said. "I'm not supposed to be attracted to them."

He shifted, fitting her more firmly between his legs, the ridge of his erection pressed into her stomach. "You're not?" he asked, his voice gruff.

"I'm not." She raised up on her toes and replaced the finger on his mouth with her lips. "But I'm not a robot. I feel so much. I want you so much."

He moved his head just enough to cover her lips with his, his fingers buried in her hair, caressing the back of her neck, their bodies pressed together from chest to knee. He tasted of salt and beer, his lips so full and soft, his tongue warm and sensuous.

He broke the kiss and looked at her so long without speaking that her stomach fluttered with nerves. "What are you thinking?" she asked.

"That it's not wrong to care. And it isn't wrong to feel. And that professionalism is sometimes overrated."

Eyes still locked to hers, he slid one hand to her waist, then over the curve of her hip, down her thigh to the hem of her skirt. He pushed up the fabric, and she gasped at the heat of his palm on her bare skin. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked, lips close to her ear.

She shifted to look into his eyes again. "No."

He smiled, a lazy, sensuous expression that made her want to tear off his shirt. Instead, she settled for sliding her hand up under the fabric and across his taut stomach, his muscles contracting at her touch. "Do you want me to stop?" she asked, teasing.

"Not now. Not ever." He kissed her again, and she arched to him and hooked one leg around his thigh. He cupped her bottom, and she ground against him, while his mouth continued to prove that she only thought she had been kissed before. These were kisses she felt in every part of her. Was it possible, she wondered, to orgasm from a kiss?

"Let's go somewhere more comfortable," he said.

She nodded, and he led her to his bedroom. They were still moving toward the bed when he began to undress her, undoing buttons and lowering zippers with a minimum of fumbling. He peeled back her blouse and pressed his lips to the hollow of her shoulder, and she let out a sigh that was almost a purr and hooked one leg around his thigh to draw him closer.

He urged the blouse off her shoulders and down her arms, momentarily pinning her before she wriggled out. She popped the catch of her bra and cast it aside, then stepped back when he reached for her and took hold of the tab of his zipper. "You're still wearing too many clothes," she said.

For a big man, he moved quickly, and within seconds stood before her, naked in the glow of a single bedside lamp. He looked powerful, muscular and hairy chested. He might have been intimidating, but she felt safe with him. She wanted to touch every part of him and to feel him touch her.

"Do you have a condom?" she asked.

In answer, he opened the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a foil packet. She smiled and moved into his arms.

He fell back on the bed and pulled her on top of him. He caressed her hip and smiled. "I was beginning to think this was never going to happen."

"Oh?" She straddled him, palms flat on his chest. "Have you been fantasizing about me?"

"All the time." He pulled her down and kissed her mouth, then began to work his way down her body.

She sighed again. "Do you like that?" he asked as he traced his tongue beneath her breasts.

"I do. And this." She moved his hand to cover her nipple.

"What about this?" she asked a few moments later, as she shifted against him.

"Oh, yeah," he said, and tucked her more securely against him. "And I like this view."

The men she had been with before hadn't talked much in bed. It wasn't that they ignored what she wanted—most were considerate lovers. But none took the time to check in with her the way Zach did. It surprised her, considering how quiet he was in everyday life. And it added another layer of connection she hadn't experienced before.

By the time he rolled on the condom and she welcomed him inside her, she felt tied to him more than physically. He held her gaze as the tension between them built, and when she felt herself on the edge, he kissed her with such tenderness tears stung her eyes, even as her body shuddered with passion. Then she felt his own release, moving through her, too.

Afterward, they lay curled together, silent, as if they had said everything that needed saying. She fought sleep, wanting this intense closeness to last as long as possible. But she must have drifted off anyway because the next thing she knew, Zach was shaking her. "Your phone is ringing," he said. "Do you need to answer it?"

She groaned, then sank back onto the pillows when the phone stopped ringing. But the message alert sounded almost immediately. "I'd better check," she said and struggled to a sitting position. She wrapped the sheet around her and made her way into the front room and retrieved her phone from her purse and carried it with her back into the bedroom.

Zach was sitting up now, too, blankets around his hips. She stared for a moment, struck by the thought that she would never get tired of looking at this man naked. "Who called?" he asked.

She came out of her daze and looked at the phone. "The sheriff." Her heart sped up as she tapped in the code to access her voicemail.

As usual, Sheriff Walker didn't mince words. "Call me," he said.

She returned his call and waited while the phone rang once, twice...on the third ring, he picked up. "Where are you?" he asked.

"Why do you need to know that?"

"We just found Todd Arniston."

"Where did you find him?" And why did she care? Hadn't the sheriff already dismissed Todd as a suspect?

"We found him in a car parked on the road near the Pi?on Creek campground. He was shot in the back of the head. He's dead."

She gasped, and Zach leaned toward her. "What is it?" he asked.

"I'll be right there," she said to the sheriff.

"There's something else you should know," Walker said. "We just got a report on the fingerprints we sent in. Todd Arniston wasn't his real name. His real name was Thomas Chalk."