Deadly Past. Kris Rafferty

knock to the head. She was not being reasonable.

      He narrowed his eyes. “Do you really want me working on your dead, naked body? Taking pictures?”

      Cynthia gave him a sidelong glance. “Perv.”

      “Stop arguing. We need to go.”

      Cynthia pulled her gun from its holster and held it out to him grip side forward. “I think… I think there is a chance I’m the shooter, Charlie, and you should take my gun and run tests on it.” He studied her eyes and saw she was totally serious. His shock rendered him silent. “I remember the vics alive, and now they’re dead, but I have no idea who they are, or why I’d kill them.” She dropped her gaze to the gun, still holding it out to him. Charlie refused to take it, because he understood taking it fed this wackadoodle fantasy. “We need to test it against any shell casings found at the scene.” Charlie folded his arms over his chest, shaking his head. No way he was taking that damn gun.

      “Cynthia, if you shot someone it would be in self-defense or in defense of another. Lost time doesn’t change a person’s character. My team has been in contact with me twice since they arrived on scene. Those men were executed. You didn’t do it.”

      “Things happen. You can’t know.” Her tone was fierce, but her expression betrayed her hesitancy. “Take the gun. Evidence doesn’t lie,” she said. “The safe house video doesn’t lie. I put hoods, duct tape, and zip ties in your trunk prior to the murders. We both know that reeks of premeditation.” She took a deep breath, then released it slowly, struggling to regain her composure. “Take the gun, Charlie.” Her eyes narrowed, daring him to deny her.

      “No.” He reassessed his caveman plan and decided kicking and screaming might do her some good. “We’re going to the ER now,” he said.

      “Fine.” Openly rebellious, she nonetheless followed him, shrugging into her destroyed suit jacket. “I’m telling you, I’m… I’m remembering.” Clearly upset, Cynthia’s face crumbled as she paused in the hallway, as if hit by a wave of emotion. “The hooded victims.” She pressed her hand against the wall, leaning. “Their screams. They were on their knees, bound, all lined up. I was there, Charlie. What if…” A hitch in her breath stopped her words. “What if…” Charlie couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled her into his embrace, not knowing what to expect. Would she fight his touch? Sob? Crap, he hoped not.

      Cynthia’s fingers clutched his shirt’s collar, then she did something she’d never done before. Standing on tiptoes, she pressed her face to his neck, burrowing close. Charlie froze, super aware of her warm lips against his skin. It took a moment, or two, to move past the shock and relax his body, to act as if it were one of their usual, brotherly hugs, though it was something new.

      “It’s the same memories on a loop.” Her lips brushed his neck as she spoke, sending tingles clear down to his thighs. She clung to him as he held her close, admonishing himself to focus on her needs, rather than how she was making him feel. “Then nothing,” she said, shuddering, as if a chill assaulted her. “I woke this morning at the safe house, and I’ve been struggling to remember since.” She tilted her head back, sniffing, searching his eyes. “There’s no denying my gun was fired six times, and six people are dead.”

      “But they were alive when you last saw them. That’s important. Maybe the most important thing.” He felt gutted by her fear, and it convinced him that she truly didn’t know she was innocent. “You didn’t kill them. Trust me on this, okay? We’ll figure this out.” He blamed her reaction on her head injury, and told himself not to worry about her behavior, but then she wiped a stray tear and brought his attention to her bloodstained fingertips.

      He was beyond worried. He was afraid for her.

      “Benton needs to know,” she said, lowering her head to his chest, releasing a short groan. “Why didn’t I call him last night?” she whispered. “Or any one of the team?”

      “You called me.” He gave her a little squeeze, prompting her to look at him again.

      “You’re right.” She forced a little smile. “And you’re practically an honorary FBI agent. You’re definitely one of the team.” When he shook his head, dismissing her words, her expression grew earnest. “No, really, Charlie. You’ve helped the task force for nearly a year now. You might not be FBI, but without you, we wouldn’t have taken down the Coppola syndicate. Dante Coppola, arguably the most powerful crime lord on the east coast, is now behind bars because of your willingness to step up and be our forensic expert witness.” She was referring to the time Dante Coppola’s attorneys were granted a change of venue for his racketeering trial, and it was moved from New Jersey to Boston. She sighed, threading her fingers through her hair and grimacing. “I’m a mess.”

      “It doesn’t matter. We need to get you checked out,” he said. “Take a shower after we run the tests.”

      Cynthia stepped out of his arms, smoothing her suit jacket with little success. “I said I would. Didn’t I? I really need to call Benton, first, though. He’ll be worried.” She gingerly dabbed at the back of her head with her fingers, and then pivoted back to the living room. “As far as he’s concerned, you’re not involved, though. Okay?”

      No. It was not okay. He turned to argue and knocked a photo off the wall, catching it before it hit the floor. Suddenly, he was staring at a picture of Cynthia’s long-dead childhood cat, Darth Vader. He replaced it on its nail, and then hurried after her. He caught up with her in the living room, reaching for her phone attached to the wall charger.

      “You’re not thinking straight.” He grabbed her, tossed her over his shoulder, and she landed with a whoosh as air left her lungs. She didn’t regain her breath until he was back in the hall, walking to the front door again. “We’re going to the ER. Benton can wait, and I am involved, Cynthia. There’s evidence in my trunk that links me to these murders.”

      “Evidence I most likely put there!” She slapped his back hard. “Put me down.”

      “Doesn’t mean you’re a killer. Give me a general profile on a person who’d execute six bound, hooded men, all begging for mercy.” He reached for the doorknob as Cynthia hit his kidneys with two mid-knuckle strikes. “Oomph.” He put her down, grabbing where it hurt.

      “I don’t feel guilty about hitting you, Charlie!” Her expression told Charlie she did, so he took it as apology enough. “You deserved it.”

      “Let’s go.” He opened the front door. She pressed her palm to the door, and he allowed her to slam it shut again, because forcing the issue might have landed her on her ass.

      “Stop it!” she snapped. “I have to call Benton and tell him what happened last night.”

      They both knew Cynthia had no idea what happened. That was the problem. And earlier, Charlie had been speaking rhetorically about the profile, but now realized Cynthia needed to work through it herself. Her priority would be a call to Benton, instead of medical attention, until she believed she hadn’t gone insane and become a mass murderer.

      “A profile. Do it.” He folded his arms over his chest, standing in front of her, glowering.

      She poked his chest. “Six rounds are missing from my magazine, Charlie. Six dead and my gun is the murder weapon.”

      “You don’t know that.” He took a step closer, pinning her against the door. “Humor me. Profile the unsub.” Then they could get the hell out of there. She leaned against the front door, frowning up at him.

      “It’s not that easy. The stats are all over the place, because a mass murderer is… They usually don’t commit mass murder more than once.” Whatever she saw on his face had her grimacing, but she finally complied. “They’re angry, dissatisfied, have poor social skills or few friends, and then they’re triggered.” He could see she was irritated rather than relieved that she didn’t fit a profile for the unsub, and that made no sense to Charlie. No surprise, Cynthia rarely did. “Ninety-six point five percent of mass murderers are male, and a majority suffer