What Lies Behind - J.T. Ellison MIRA

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last month.

      Nine dead. Multiple jurisdictions. No apparent links outside of a hometown and a profiler’s hunch.

      A nightmare.

      She shot the Ardbeg, poured another and gathered up the thick stack of papers on the side table. No sense going back to bed just this moment. She’d read a while more, keep filling her brain with the disparate notes of nine different autopsy reports by nine different doctors and coroners.

      Maybe this time, something would be different.

      McLean, Virginia

      ROBIN SOULEYRET’S PHONE rang at 3:23 a.m. Eyes snapping open, she saw the number on the caller ID. Surprised, she palmed the receiver. “You know better than to call in the middle of the night unless someone is dead. So who died?”

      There was silence.

      “Amanda? What is it? Are you okay?”

      Nothing. Then a click.

      That was odd. Robin sat up in the bed, realized she was still naked, glanced at the empty spot beside her. Felt the pillow. It was cold. He’d left. She tamped down the feeling that churned in the pit of her stomach. Annoyance? Relief? Sorrow? She didn’t know, but this was their deal. No strings, and definitely no feelings. They were just filling a need for each other.

      With a sigh, she reached down and grabbed the shirt she’d been wearing off the floor, pulled it on and dialed Amanda’s phone back.

      It went straight to voice mail. Her sister’s lilting voice filled her ears. “This is Mandy. You know what to do.”

      Robin tried to keep the irritation from her tone. Well, most of it, anyway.

      “You woke me up, little sister. Care to call me back, tell me what’s up?”

      Lying back against the pillows, she stared at the ceiling. Wished Riley hadn’t been in such a hurry to split. She wouldn’t have minded making him breakfast. Just this once.

      The room was dark around her, empty, but not lonely, never lonely. She’d chosen this life, known what it would be—all work, and no play. No real lasting relationships, with friends or lovers, no kids, no normality. Just a constant string of challenges, issues to be overcome. She’d realized long ago she was just an ant among other ants in a very strange hill, crawling across the world, bumping into a crumb here and there. Some were even big enough to take back to their queen.

      Which made her think about Amanda again. She tried the phone once more, to no avail.

      A vague uneasiness flooded her system. Maybe Amanda had dialed her number accidentally. Butt-dialed her. Or decided what she wanted to say wasn’t important enough to wake Robin in the middle of the night.

      “Fat chance of that, you little bonehead. Where are you?”

      She’d never get back to sleep at this rate. She got up, made a pot of strong Turkish coffee, measured in some sugar so it would be orta s¸ekerli, just sweet enough to add to the flavor, bring out the chocolate notes without overwhelming the richness. She inhaled the fumes as it began to boil, craving the dark, deep taste.

      Her Turkish friends would be aghast at her drinking coffee in the middle of the night, but as she liked to point out to them, she was an American, not Turkish, and by God she’d drink it whenever she wanted—in the morning, before her dinner, in the middle of the night. So there.

      Cup in hand, she made her way through the cottage to the back porch. The sky was as dark as the coffee, beginning its losing battle with the sun, which was still three hours off. She redialed Amanda’s phone.

      Nothing.

      Took a sip of the coffee, listened to the night things chirping and crawling in the bushes, imagined the birds and mice having an intimate, elegant cocktail party under the bough of the fir tree. Breaking bread with the enemy. Her specialty.

      When she’d finished the coffee, she knew it was time to make the call. She hated to do it, but she had no choice. Mandy was her little sister, headstrong and brave, but prone to getting herself into situations that involved delicate extrications. The girl seemed to live for close calls, and she managed well, considering. She’d only asked for help once, a month ago. Robin had been forced to turn her down, unable to break away from her own messed-up world to help. They hadn’t spoken since, and Robin was missing her impetuous sister.

      She dialed the number.

      Listened to the greeting.

      Punched in an extension.

      Waited a moment, then hung up.

      A heartbeat later, the phone rang.

      She answered, surprised to hear Riley’s voice on the other end. “Robin?”

      “What are you doing on the desk? I figured you’d be at home, sound asleep.” Or in my bed, sound asleep. Or wide-awake, an even better scenario.

      The unspoken words shimmered around her, golden threads of need and desire. She needed to get a handle on these nascent emotions, and quickly. Riley wasn’t thinking about champagne and roses and candlelight every time he bedded her, she knew that. Of course, Riley didn’t see the glorious colors dancing around his words, either.

      “I got called in. There’s been an incident in Georgetown.”

      The golden threads dissipated with a pop and something like fear skittered up her back. She didn’t recognize the sensation right away. She hadn’t been afraid in a very long time.

      “Anything I can do?” she said, careful to stay neutral.

      Riley’s voice cracked a bit. “I’m comin’ over. You sit tight.”

      Riley was from Texas, and no matter what, when he was upset, or tired, or drunk, little bits of an accent floated through his teeth, tripping off his tongue in blues and reds, like the flag.

      The quivery, uncontrolled feeling coursed through her again. It was fear, she thought—deep, abiding, acrid and horrible. It filled her nostrils and played along the edges of her skin. “Riley. Tell me right now. What’s happened?”

      His great gusting sigh scared her even more. Riley was a rock. Nothing rattled him.

      She already knew what he was going to say, felt herself sliding out of the chair, to the cold concrete patio, as if being closer to the earth would help cushion the blow.

      “It’s Amanda, Robin. She’s been killed.”

      The stark word danced around her, sharp needles poking and prodding.

      Killed. Killed. Killed.

       You knew you should have helped her. Why didn’t you swallow your pride and call?

       She’s dead, and it’s your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

      “That’s not possible,” she whispered.

      But it was true. She could feel the emptiness in the world. The spot that housed her sister, always tangible and reachable, was gone.

      She dropped the phone, didn’t hear Riley say, “I’ll be there in five minutes. You stay put.”

      Amanda.

      Mandy.

      Gone.

      Black. Black and gray, swirling, choking, drawing her down, the words covering her like a scratchy blanket, drawing tighter, suffocating.

      It is your fault, Robin.

      Georgetown

      DARREN FLETCHER PULLED up to the crime scene with the remnants of a hurried to-go

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