LITMIR.BIZ

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touch anything. This is a crime scene.”

      Her spine stiffened as if offended by his statement. “This is my home. It’s supposed to be a place where I feel safe.”

      With her thick reddish-brown hair and delicate features, she was a whole lot more attractive than her driver’s license photo. Other than that obvious observation, he didn’t know what to make of Ms. Brooke Johnson. Though she was upset, she hadn’t lost control, which showed an admirable strength of character. On the other hand, she might have seen a man who wasn’t there.

      She held herself with an aloof poise. Cool, but not cold—not an ice princess. Earlier today, when he talked to her at that high-priced accessory boutique, she’d been friendly, even laughed at his lame jokes. He’d liked her enough that he’d held off telling her why he sought her out. He had wanted to wait, to build trust. Now, he feared that his hesitation might have proved fatal for her roommate. If he had to guess, he would say that Sally’s death was not a suicide.

      The wail of an approaching ambulance siren cut through the night. He looked toward the window. “The paramedics will be here real soon.”

      She stepped into the hallway and leaned her back against the wall, her gaze fastened on the heavy rope tied around the banister. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

      “There’s nothing you could have done to save her.”

      “I was so angry at her. She was driving me crazy with her clutter and her idiot boyfriends. I couldn’t stand it anymore.” Her words gushed out. Like a confession. “When I came home tonight, I was going to confront her. She had to shape up or get out. I should have been more understanding. I should have tried harder.”

      “This isn’t your fault, Brooke.”

      What he was about to tell her would make her feel a lot worse than she did right now, but there was no way to avoid the truth. The police would be here in minutes, and Michael was obligated to give them an explanation for why he’d shown up on Brooke’s doorstep.

      He holstered his gun and stepped in front of her. “I want you to listen to me. Listen carefully.”

      “Why is this happening? Why?”

      “Brooke, look at me.”

      When she lifted her face, he saw confusion and anger. He wished there was time to be gentle, but he’d missed that opportunity. “Three years ago in Atlanta,” he said, “you were on a jury.”

      “What?” She shook her head as if his words were incomprehensible.

      “You have to remember.”

      “Don’t tell me what to do.” He stepped back, aware that she still had the knife. “I don’t know who you are. Don’t care what you have to say.”

      “You’ve got to hear this.”

      “Leave me alone.”

      When she started toward the stairs, he easily grabbed her wrist and gave it a flick. The butcher knife clattered to the hardwood floor. He held both her arms, forcing her to stand still. “Listen to me.”

      Her teeth bared in a snarl. “Let go of me.”

      “Do you remember the trial?”

      “Armed robbery,” she snapped. “The guy was guilty.”

      “His name was Robert E. Lee Warren, known as Robby Lee. Six weeks ago, he was killed in a prison fight.”

      “Why are you telling me this?” The ambulance siren was right outside the door. The emergency lights flashed against the walls of the living room.

      “You were juror number four,” he said. “The first three people on that jury list are dead.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “Someone is killing off the jurors who convicted Robby Lee. You’re the next name on that list.”

      As his words sank into her consciousness, the fight seemed to drain from her body. Her blue eyes widened. “You’re talking about a serial killer.”

      “Yes.”

      “And he’s coming after me?”

      “I’m sorry, Brooke.” He loosened his grip on her arms, putting his right hand on her shoulder.

      She wrenched free. “Why do you care? This is my life. I’ll take care of myself.”

      As she turned on her heel and marched toward the stairs, he gave her points for spirit and guts. But she was way out of her league.

      It was up to him to make sure she stayed alive.

      BROOKE HUDDLED in the backseat of Deputy George McGraw’s spotless SUV. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around a mug of herbal tea that had gone cold as she stared at her house. So much for a safe haven. As Michael had so calmly pointed out, her A-frame was a crime scene.

      She rubbed at her bare wrist, wishing that she’d worn her watch when she left the house this morning. The gold Cartier with the cream-colored face had been taken away with Sally’s body in an ominously silent ambulance. Brooke had no idea how much time had passed since the police arrived. It seemed like only minutes, but it must have been longer—much longer. So much had happened. Deputy McGraw had taken her statement. Official vehicles had arrived and departed. Right now, there were several officers tromping up and down the steep hills and forest surrounding her house, waving flashlights and snapping photographs.

      Her jaw clenched as she watched. She wanted them all to leave. Her preferred method for coping with stress was to hide away by herself and find something to keep her hands busy. Her fingers itched to do something useful. Busywork. Instead of sitting here, mired in worry, she wanted to start cleaning. She’d scrub every surface in the house, wash her roommate’s dirty dishes, pack up her belongings and send them to…where? She drew a blank, unable to recall if Sally had ever mentioned where she came from, or her parents’ address, or even if she had brothers and sisters.

      Sadness welled up inside her. Her roommate had lived in the moment with the volume cranked up high. For Sally, every word was a song. Every step, a dance. She partied all night and still had enough energy to go hiking at dawn. But that was all Brooke really knew about her.

      As Brooke stared toward the house, her vision blurred with rising tears. She should have paid more attention to Sally, should have appreciated her exuberant appetite for life instead of complaining about the noise.

      Outside the back door that led to her kitchen, she saw Deputy McGraw conferring with Michael, who had been readily accepted by the local officers as soon as he showed his badge. He glanced toward her with his cool jade eyes, his thumb hitched in the pocket of his jeans next to the holster on his belt.

      She was still angry about their confrontation outside her bedroom. He’d knocked the knife from her hands, grabbed her arms without permission; she’d be well within her rights to charge him with assault.

      But she hadn’t been harmed. And he’d touched her with strength, not cruelty. Instinctively, she knew he didn’t want to hurt her. He was there to help. When he’d forced her to listen to him, she saw the worry in his expression—a deep and abiding concern for her safety. For an instant, she’d wanted to accept his protection and take shelter in his arms.

      Then sanity had returned. She didn’t know anything about this guy and didn’t want to believe his story about someone killing jurors from that trial three years ago. It didn’t make sense. If there really was such a serial killer, the FBI would investigate, wouldn’t they?

      She’d be nuts to trust this good-looking cop from Alabama. The fact that Michael had come all the way across the country to warn her was decidedly strange. Why hadn’t he just picked up the phone and called? Now that he’d delivered the information, what did he intend to do?

      The car door opened, and Deputy McGraw climbed inside. A huge, barrel-chested man with a walrus mustache, he took up a lot

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