All Fall Down. Erica Spindler

might make you feel better for a moment, but it can’t substitute for love. Nor for tenderness. Or affection.”

      Mia stiffened. “Excuse me?”

      Ashley motioned to the garments Mia had lovingly lined up on the bed. “It’s the money, isn’t it? That’s why you won’t leave him?”

      Her sister’s face flooded with color. “I made a vow in front of God, Ashley. I promised ‘for better or for worse.’ I have to give him another chance. That’s what marriage is all about.” She tilted up her chin. “But then, you’ve never been married, so you wouldn’t understand.”

      Hurt took her breath. Anger followed on its heels. “That was a cheap shot, Mia.”

      “And accusing me of marrying my husband for money wasn’t?”

      “That’s not what I said. I’m just trying to make sense of what makes no sense at all. Namely, why would you stay with a man who’s not only unfaithful, but abusive as well?”

      “What entitles you to question me, Ash? What do you know about love? Or about commitment? Nothing. And you never will because you close yourself off from everybody.”

      Ashley took a step backward. Her sister’s words pierced to her core, to her every feeling of loneliness and alienation. She saw her future stretching endlessly before her, empty and loveless. She saw herself alone, always alone.

      She struggled past the image. “I know what you and Melanie say about me. That I’m a coldhearted bitch who hates men. That I’d sooner kill one than open my heart to one.”

      “That’s not true! We don’t—”

      “Well here’s a good laugh for you, Mia. I long for love, too. Especially when I see one of those sappy TV commercials, the ones depicting two tanned and beautiful people walking hand in hand along some exotic beach. I see that, and I want it. Then I get a grip and remind myself that it’s all bullshit.”

      “It’s not, Ash.” Mia reached for her hand. “In the end, love is all there is. It’s—”

      “A guy you trust punching you in the face, is that what you’re about to say? Or one who holds you down and forces himself into—” She choked the words back. “I’m not the one with a problem, Mia. You are. Because you believe in fairy tales.”

      “No.” Mia shook her head. “You have the problem. You’re so afraid of being loved, you push everybody away. You refuse to see that there can be good—”

      “What’s the gun for?” she demanded, cutting her sister off, unable to bear hearing another word. “Hoping Melanie will swoop in like when we were kids and save the day? Hoping she’ll put a bullet in your bastard husband’s brain?”

      “Stop it!” Mia cried, grabbing her arms and shaking her. “Just stop! I hate when you get like this. What’s wrong with you, Ashley?”

      Tears flooded Ashley’s eyes. She loved her sisters so much. So why couldn’t they understand her? Why couldn’t they make her feel better? Why couldn’t anyone?

      She fought the tears back, focusing on her pain and rage—the twin demons she relied on so often. Her friends. Her only friends. She would show Mia. And Melanie. Someday they would know what she had done for them. And they would be grateful. And sorry. So very sorry.

      “Screw you!” Ashley wrenched free of her sister’s grasp. “There’s nothing wrong with me. You’ll see. And when you do, you’ll beg me to forgive you, Mia. You’ll beg.”

      10

      The tequila burned as it slid down Connor Parks’s throat. He drained the glass anyway, refilled it, then tossed back another. Then another. He knew from experience that three shots, tossed back in quick succession, would catapult him to the edge of inebriation. From there he could sip and savor his way clear over.

      In the past five years, he had become an expert on the numbing effects of alcohol.

      Connor poured another finger of the liquor, then set the glass on the coffee table, on top of a folder stamped Photos—Do Not Bend. That folder was not alone, other folders, papers and files covered every available inch of the table, the floor around it and even the seat of an easy chair. The photos and files, the documents they contained, represented the past five years of his life. They represented his quest to find a killer and bring him to justice.

      Not just any killer—the man who had taken his sister from him. His sweet Suzi. His only family.

      Connor picked up one of the files, but didn’t open it. He knew its contents by heart, could recite the words contained within by rote, the way he could the Declaration of Independence as a kid.

       His sister’s killer’s profile.

      He had spent every available moment of the last five years studying it and the corresponding crime-scene evidence. Without authorization, he had used the Bureau’s resources to search for and investigate similar crime scenes and similar signatures. In the process, he had thrown away a marriage, a career, his reputation.

      Even so, he was no closer to catching Suzi’s killer now than he had been the day he’d been notified of her disappearance.

      Connor passed a hand over his eyes, his head heavy from too much booze and too little sleep. A part of him wanted to give up, if only for the night. He forced himself to go on, to focus on the facts, such as they were. Though Suzi’s body had never been found, that she had been murdered had been obvious from the scene.

       The scene. Her pretty patio home in Charleston. The one he had helped her buy.

      With his mind’s eye, Connor hurtled back five years to that house, to that awful day. The day the Charleston police had called him at Quantico and informed him that it appeared Suzi had been missing for four days, that foul play was suspected.

       Connor stood in Suzi’s foyer, orchestrated pandemonium reigning around him, his stomach in his throat. As a professional courtesy, the CPD had promised Connor and a fellow profiler immediate access to the as yet unprocessed scene—if they could be there ASAP. He had caught the first flight home.

       He surveyed his surroundings, the hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck prickling. Violent

       death left an indelible mark on a place. It possessed an aura. Palpable. Resonant. Even when a scene appeared normal at first glance, as this one did, death made its presence felt.

       Connor moved forward, deeper into the house. Some scenes shouted, some whimpered. He had seen it all. Scenes painted red by blood and gore; others as clean as a hospital room. He had seen murder victims who’d been brutalized beyond recognition and others who appeared more asleep than dead. And everything in between.

       Or so he’d thought. Until today.

       Suzi. It couldn’t be.

       Despair assailed him again. He fought it off and focused on the job before him. The UNSUB had taken great pains—and a good bit of time—to clean up after himself. That level of comfort told Connor much: that the UNSUB hadn’t feared being disturbed or discovered, that he had been familiar with the neighborhood, maybe even the house.

       Connor crossed to the bloodstains that marred the carpet in front of the fireplace and squatted in front of them. The UNSUB had attempted to scrub them away. Connor snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then inspected the largest stain. It was still damp. He brought his fingers to his nose. They smelled of pine cleaner.

       He shifted his gaze, moving it over the room. Judging by the impressions in the thick pile, the carpet appeared to have been recently vacuumed. His gaze landed on the hearth, stopping on the set of iron fireplace tools. Broom. Shovel. Log iron. The fourth hook stood empty.

       Connor made a mental