Protective Duty. Jessica R. Patch

scolding followed.

      The door opened. She’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt the color of island waters. A dolphin jumped an ocean wave on its front. “What are you doing here?” She eyed the food sack. “You brought food?”

      He ignored the question. “Why do you have a bullet hole in the trunk of your car?” Eric stepped inside. “And why did I not get a phone call?” The scent of vanilla rode over the smell of an older musty home. A candle burned in the corner on a rickety table by the sofa—the source of vanilla.

      Bryn groaned. “I haven’t been home but long enough to change my clothes. I intended to call you.”

      After the fact.

      That ate at him.

      Bryn stood before him, avoiding eye contact. Fidgety. She’d been shaken. “Something happened today.”

      Eric’s temper rose out of fear. “Yes. You were shot at!” She could have died. He pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen, then held it up for her to see. “No missed calls. No texts.”

      She grabbed the bag of food and took it to the kitchen. “Calm down. I know that look.”

      Eric balled his fists and edged up behind her. She turned around and smacked into his chest; a flustered expression filled her face.

      “Calm down? You left me with no explanation of where you were going, then you got shot at! And you want me to calm down?”

      The dog jumped on Eric’s pant legs and barked. He ignored the ball of fluff.

      Sighing, she collapsed on a kitchen chair and tented her fingers on the table, her hair draping over her face. “I needed a few minutes to clear my head, and I might have ripped my pant leg diving from the bullets.”

      Eric steeled his jaw as the image sent a wave of nausea through him.

      “I got a letter.”

      “What kind of letter?” he asked through clenched teeth.

      “The kind that didn’t need postage or a return address.” Bryn grabbed her purse hanging on the chair and handed him a Ziploc bag with a crumpled sheet of copy paper inside. “The short, sweet and to-the-point kind.”

      “And the gunfire?”

      “Happened while I was reading the note. Three shots. One by my feet. The second at the passenger side door. The last on my trunk when I drove away.”

      Eric needed to sit down, run his hands over Bryn’s face and hands and convince himself she was okay. The killer had never left his victims a note or shot at them. Just like making himself known in the park, this was different. “Where was your car?”

      “In a parking lot downtown. I was on personal business...an errand.”

      Eric glanced at her. Straight face. What kind of errand? What kind of personal business?

      She handed him a pair of latex gloves. He carefully extracted the letter from the plastic bag and read it.

      The knot in his gut turned into a glacier, freezing him from head to toe. Blood rushed into his ears. The glacier slowly melted as fury boiled until it broke out into a sweat on the back of his neck.

      He had to cool off. Be levelheaded. Carefully, he replaced the note inside the bag.

      Bryn twisted her fingers. “Well?”

      “What parking lot?” He pinned her with a glare.

      She shifted in her seat, then handed him another plastic bag from her purse. “I dug the slugs out when I got home.”

      “Before you called me? You said you only had time to change clothes.”

      “I needed to get my bearings together. We can get that to ballistics ASAP.” Her cheeks had lost their color, and she hadn’t stopped tapping her foot against the linoleum.

      As frustrated as he was, Eric couldn’t let her feel alone, and clearly she was afraid and nervous. Eric grabbed her clammy hands. “It’s gonna be okay. I promise.” He gave them a gentle squeeze. “Why won’t you tell me where you were? We could go check it out or send a unit.”

      Bryn freed her hands and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Doesn’t matter. He entered an abandoned warehouse and probably wore gloves, which means we won’t find prints on the note or the casings—if he didn’t take them with him.”

      He hadn’t worn gloves the night he strangled her. Of course, that hadn’t been calculated and planned like what happened today. Bryn had obviously thought this through, and it was even clearer she didn’t want him or anyone else in that parking lot. What was so secretive about it? For now, he’d let it drop because they had a bigger issue to discuss.

      “He’s following you. You missed it. Or he knew where you would be. Anyone else know where you were today?”

      Nostrils flaring, Bryn snatched the evidence bag out of his hand. “My personal business is mine alone.”

      She avoided the question. That meant someone might know where she’d been. It gnawed at him and then struck a solid blow to his abdomen. What if she’d come back to Memphis for someone? Met someone. What if he lived downtown or worked there? How did Eric feel about that?

      About as good as he felt about kale.

      Why else hide her location? She must think it’d cause a rift in their working or personal relationship—not that they had anything more than a professional relationship, but they weren’t fighting. Was that enough to go against protocol, though?

      “You need to tell Holt if you haven’t already.” If Eric couldn’t camp on her couch maybe she’d let her cousin.

      Bryn tossed her hands in the air. “I knew you’d say something like that. What if it was you? What if you got tossed into the bushes and shot at? Would you ask Holt to spend the night?”

      “Well, no, that’s weird.”

      “You’re making my point. Would you move out of your house and stay with someone?”

      “Probably not.” But he was a man. And as a man who wanted to keep all his parts, he kept that last statement in his head where it belonged.

      “Double standard. And I hate it!” Bryn slapped the table. The dog jumped into her lap. “He’s a good watchdog. He barks at anything and everything. I’m a light sleeper. And I have a gun at my bedside. What more can I do besides go into witness protection?”

      “That last question was rhetorical, right?” He massaged the back of his neck. “Okay, I get it. Bryn is a big girl. Doesn’t mean I won’t be concerned.” The normal amount, of course.

      “I’ll be extra careful.”

      “I’ll put a few unmarked cars out here at night.”

      “I’m not gonna say no to that.” She shuddered. Not quite the confident crusader she made herself out to be. At least she could give him that. Didn’t feel like enough, though.

      “So what’s the dog’s name?”

      “Newton.”

      “Fig?”

      “Wayne.” Bryn smirked, and her shoulders relaxed.

      “You have weird taste in names and celebrities.” He leaned in, elbows on his knees. “You okay?”

      Her nod didn’t convince him. Not at all.

      Eric wasn’t okay, either.