Colorado Crime Scene. Cindi Myers

wasn’t looking for you on those videos, but you stuck in my head. I remember a lot of people, but most of them don’t make any strong impression on me. But you did. I wanted to meet you and try to figure out why.” That was the truth in its simplest form. Basic attraction leads to impulsive action. His bosses would not approve.

      “Seriously?” She stared at him.

      He nodded. “You said you wanted the truth, and that’s it.”

      “I can’t decide if that’s the worst pickup line I ever heard, or the best.” Some of the tension went out of her and she sat back, studying him.

      “You have to give me points for originality,” he said.

      This coaxed the beginnings of a smile from her. She had full lips, highlighted with a pink gloss. He wondered what it would feel like kissing those lips, then he pushed the thought away.

      “So how does this memory thing of yours work?” she asked. “Do you just automatically remember everyone you’ve ever seen?”

      “I have to focus on them for a few seconds, but yes, after that I’ll recognize them again.” As a small child, he thought everyone related to the world that way. Once he’d learned a face, he never forgot it. He remembered not only that he’d seen a person before, but where and what they’d been doing. Most of the time, it wasn’t a particularly useful talent, not like Mark’s memory for facts and written information. That talent had allowed him to breeze through school. He’d earned his PhD in physics before his twenty-fifth birthday, while Luke had been only an average student.

      Then the FBI had come calling and he’d found his niche, the one place where his particular skill could make a difference.

      Two men entered the bar, dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts, engrossed in conversation. He’d seen the older one earlier on the street, buying coffee from a food cart. The other one was the wrong race for any of his suspects, though he filed the man’s face away for future reference, as was his habit.

      “You’re doing it now, aren’t you?” Morgan asked. “Memorizing people.”

      “It’s my job,” he repeated.

      “Is that why you’re here—to memorize people at the bike race?”

      “Let’s just say I’m here for work, and leave it at that.”

      But he knew before he said the words that she wasn’t the type to leave it. “You’re looking for someone, aren’t you? Someone else you saw on those surveillance videos.” She went very still; he wondered if she was holding her breath, waiting for his answer.

      “I really can’t talk about my assignment with a civilian. It’s confidential.” Maybe he’d already said too much.

      “But I’m free to make an educated guess. And since you are a federal agent, I’d guess that you’re here because of the terrorist who’s been targeting bike races.”

      “Let’s just say that after the bombings in Paris and London, there’s a big law enforcement presence at this race.” But only one small group was there with his assignment—to look for people who had been present when the other bombings occurred and bring them in for questioning. Only a handful of people had shown up at both the races where bombs had detonated, all of them men. Which didn’t mean others weren’t involved. That Morgan wasn’t involved.

      “There was serious discussion about canceling this race,” she said. “The organization was just getting back on its feet after the doping scandals of several years ago, and now some nut job is setting off bombs at some of the biggest races.” She leaned toward him again, her voice low. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re looking for the bomber. Do you know who he is?”

      Was she asking the question as a journalist or out of idle curiosity—or because she had a more personal interest in the answer? “I can’t say.”

      “Of course, you know who he is. You said before you were here searching for someone who wasn’t me. You’re looking for the bomber.” She stared into his eyes, as if she could see into his head and decipher the image of the bomber there. “Why can’t you tell me who it is? I attend a lot of these races. Maybe I can help you find him.”

      “Or maybe he’s a friend of yours and you’ll run right to him and tell him the FBI is looking for him.”

      She gasped. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

      “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you but what you’ve told me.”

      She tried to look wounded, but mostly she looked afraid. Because he’d hit too close to the truth? “Why does it matter so much to you?” he asked.

      She stood, bumping the table and sending water from her glass sloshing onto the surface. “I have to go,” she said.

      “What did I say to upset you?” He stood, but she had already brushed past him, hurrying out of the bar and into the lobby.

      He started after her but stopped in the door of the bar. What would he do when he caught up to her? Clearly, she was done talking to him. And he had no reason to keep her, only a gnawing uneasiness that something wasn’t right.

      Moving cautiously, keeping objects and other people between himself and Morgan, he followed her across the lobby. She stopped in front of the elevators and pulled out her phone, punching in a number. The anxiety on her face increased as she listened for a few seconds, then ended the call. She hadn’t said anything, and he had the impression whoever she’d been trying to reach hadn’t answered.

      Had she been calling the bomber to warn him? His stomach knotted with a mixture of anger and disappointment. He didn’t want her to be guilty, but he couldn’t discard all the evidence that told him something wasn’t right.

      The elevator doors slid open and she stepped inside. He moved from behind the pillar that had shielded him and her eyes met his. Beautiful eyes, filled with an aching sadness. The sense of loss hit him like a punch. He recognized that grief because he’d felt it himself. Who had she lost, and what had he done to cause her such fresh pain?

       Chapter Two

      Morgan choked back a sob as the elevator doors slid closed. She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged her arms tightly across her body, forcing the emotions back into the box she usually kept so tightly shut. By the time the elevator opened on the twelfth floor she felt more in control. She checked the hallway for signs of Agent Renfro. She wouldn’t have put it past the man to run up twelve flights of stairs to catch her outside her room. But the carpeted hallway, which smelled of old cigarette smoke overlaid with the vanilla potpourri that stood in bowls on tables by the elevators, was empty.

      Safely in her room, she pulled out her phone again and hit the button to redial Scott’s number. She pressed the phone to her ear, listening to the mechanical buzz, then the click to his voice mail. His familiar voice, terse but cheerful, said, “Leave a message,” then came the disconnect. The mailbox had been full for months, and he never answered her calls. But she never gave up hope that one day he would pick up. And sometimes she called just to hear his voice. Three cryptic words that helped her believe he was safe and all right, somewhere.

      She sank onto the edge of the bed and stared at the still life of a bowl of fruit on the opposite wall, the colors blurring as she kept her unblinking eyes fixed on it. If only she could dull her emotions as easily. At first she’d been annoyed—and yes, a little intrigued—that the good-looking guy in the suit was following her. She was sure she’d never seen him before, but, unlike Agent Renfro, she didn’t have a good memory for faces. When he’d flashed his FBI credentials, she’d been afraid she might faint right there.

      She’d been terrified he’d approached her because of Scott. He was in some kind of trouble—big trouble, if the feds were involved. She’d almost said as much but had swallowed the words.