LITMIR.BIZ

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be adding paranoia to the list.”

      Carmichael’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Do you consider yourself to be overly suspicious of the motives of people around you?”

      She pretended to consider the possibility. When she’d been doing the background check on Carmichael, she’d done a little self-diagnosing while she was at it. She might be experiencing a sense of fatalism where her job was concerned, but it was fully grounded in cold, hard facts.

      Beth realized the psychologist was still waiting for an answer on the paranoia issue. “No. I don’t consider myself to be paranoid.”

      Even if Carmichael didn’t know the real reason she was undergoing counseling, the only reason she still had a job, she did. She was the prosecution’s only witness on the Rabbit Rheaume money laundering case, and they were worried that she’d fall apart during cross examination. These sessions were meant to keep her functioning until after the trial—until after she’d taken the stand and the feds had their conviction.

      But once they did, all bets would be off.

      For more than two years now, since she’d gone over his head, Bill Monroe had been looking for a way to get rid of her—not an easy task considering the previous glowing evaluations he’d given her.

      The knot in her gut tightened. Even before she’d gone in undercover, landing a position as Rabbit Rheaume’s assistant, she’d been trying to hold on, to play Monroe’s game. She was hoping that those above him would somehow miraculously recognize that he was conducting a witch hunt against her. But even from the beginning she’d known that her survival was unlikely. That even though she’d managed to survive Rabbit’s car trunk, it was unlikely she’d survive Monroe. He was a twenty-two-year veteran of the Bureau. Part of the men’s club. And the FBI historically tended to protect those in higher positions, sacrificing lower-ranked employees.

      Realizing Carmichael was watching her again, she slammed the door closed on that line of thought. She couldn’t afford it right now. “Maybe I’m a little lost at the moment, that’s all.”

      “We all are sometimes. But none of us has to remain that way.” Carmichael crossed to his desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out a prescription pad.

      She found it difficult to hide her exasperation. What kind of pill would it be this time? She’d tried taking what he’d prescribed on the first visit, something for anxiety, but when the drug had interfered with her ability to function, she’d quit taking it. She’d needed to stay clear-headed, keep her wits about her.

      When he finished writing, he ripped off the top sheet and handed it to her. Even though she had no intention of having the prescription filled, Beth glanced down at the writing. The name Harriet Thompson was followed by a local phone number.

      “She’s a colleague of mine. She didn’t attend Maryland and doesn’t know Bill Monroe.”

      Her eyes narrowed briefly as she wondered if she was in fact paranoid.

      “You’re a very strong woman, Beth, but you still need to talk to someone.”

      She glanced up. “Are you firing me?”

      “No. I just want to be sure that the next time we meet, you’re here for the right reasons. I can help you, but only if you let me.”

      ONLY MINUTES LATER Beth buttoned the heavy, wool coat over her navy-blue suit and pulled on gloves before pushing open the office building’s exterior door and stepping out into the cold night. As the early-November wind cut through her, Carmichael’s words lingered in the back of her mind.

      She’d always considered herself to be tough and competent. During the sixteen weeks at Quantico, she’d physically and mentally outperformed most of her class, even those with military or law enforcement backgrounds.

      But in a single night, that had all changed. She’d gone from tough to frightened. And now, nearly four months after she’d escaped the trunk of a burning car, she still felt trapped, as if everything around her was going up in flames. Her career. Her relationship with her father.

      She couldn’t afford to look weak, though. Not if she wanted to keep her job. And not when she took the stand at the Rheaume trial. If the prosecution lost there, getting a conviction on the connected attempted-murder charge was going to become even tougher. How was she going to live with herself if the man who had tried to kill her wasn’t made to pay?

      She crossed the now-deserted street. Though it was just past seven-thirty, there were few lights on in the surrounding buildings. Which wasn’t surprising since most of them were private medical offices.

      Her footsteps rang out sharply. The little bit of snow they’d had earlier had melted, but now with nightfall, the moisture had refrozen, creating an extremely thin shield of ice. Not enough to make driving dangerous, but enough to make walking a little trickier, especially in pumps.

      She headed into the parking garage. During normal business hours there was an attendant at the entrance, but the enclosure was now deserted.

      As she stepped around the barrier bar, a red Beemer came down the ramp, headed for the exit. Out of habit, she reached inside her jacket to check her weapon, but then remembered she’d locked it in her trunk.

      Seeing the woman behind the wheel, Beth relaxed. For the past few months, she’d done a lot of looking over her shoulder, waiting to see if Rheaume would try to stack the deck in his favor. It was just another reason that she was constantly on edge, and why she refused to take the antianxiety medication. And the reason she’d be armed at her next appointment despite Carmichael’s office policy. There was a difference between paranoia and vigilance.

      As she passed the elevator doors, she glanced at them but didn’t slow. She’d managed to ride up in the one at the office two days ago, but at the moment she didn’t feel like trying it again.

      If the outside temperature had seemed frigid, inside the garage was even worse. She slid her gloved hands into her pockets. A few cars—a green Taurus, a blue Explorer and a white Escalade were clustered near the entrance—but the rest of the lower level had cleared out. Unfortunately, it had been full when she’d arrived, so she’d been forced to leave her car on the second level. She hiked up the ramp.

      Several of the fluorescent lights overhead were out. As quickly as she looked up, she diverted her gaze from the reinforced-concrete ceiling. For some reason even in this reasonably wide-open space, she felt as if all that weight was pressing down on her, as if she’d be buried beneath it. Inhaling sharply, she forced her hands a little deeper into her pockets.

      She was fine. Absolutely fine. The claustrophobia was getting better. Maybe it was resolving more slowly than she wanted, but she just needed to keep pushing herself.

      Reaching the top of the incline, she spotted her red Taurus off to the right, but instead of walking toward it, she stopped in her tracks. A white Chevy van with heavily tinted windows had been backed in next to the Taurus. Her fingers closed around the car keys in her pocket. There had been a maroon Honda in the slot earlier and quite a few empty spaces near the elevator.

      She scanned the rest of the second level and, finding it deserted, studied the van again. Something just didn’t feel right. With this level pretty much empty, why would the driver choose to park there? And more important, why go to the trouble of backing in?

      The front seats were empty, but that didn’t eliminate the possibility that someone was in the backend, waiting to roll open the side door, waiting to pull her inside when she tried to reach the driver’s door of her car.

      Should she bail?

      And do what, though? Use her cell phone to call a cop? What if she was wrong about the van? What if in this one instance she actually had taken that downhill slide from cautious to paranoid?

      If so, calling Baltimore PD would have been a bad idea. Once the cops realized she was a fed, there was very little chance it wouldn’t get back to Monroe. Or that he wouldn’t use it against her, claiming that the incident further demonstrated

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