Christmas Crime in Colorado. Cassie Miles

recommendation. Like everything in the boutique, the gloves were very expensive, and she’d been a bit surprised that a cop from Birmingham could afford the exorbitant price.

      “My best guess,” he said, “is that the killer punched a hole in your tire, causing a slow leak.”

      “When could he have done that?”

      “Right after you arrived at your house. Or maybe he waited until later and shot a bullet into the tire. There was a lot of confusion.”

      “I didn’t hear gunfire.”

      “Silencer,” he said. “He could have done it when you pulled up at the stop sign. You sat there for a good, long while. I could see your tail lights when I was trying to get out of the driveway.”

      Though he was talking about a serial killer with a gun, she felt the band of tension squeezing her lungs begin to loosen. Breathing came more easily. In the warm interior of his car, she relaxed. The questions she should have been asking about why he’d come after her and what he wanted from her seemed unimportant. For the moment, she felt safe.

      He stopped at an intersection. No headlights were visible in any direction. “I think we’re good,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror.

      She gazed at him, taking in his high forehead, deep-set eyes and firm jaw. He had that deceptively lazy look that she thought of as Southern and sultry.

      She leaned back against the seat, aware of the bonedeep weariness that came in the aftermath of danger. What she needed right now was to sleep, to curl up in a ball and go completely unconscious. But there was more to do tonight, and she needed to get organized. “If you take a right here and drive for a couple of miles to Lander’s Crossing, then another right, we’ll be headed back toward Aspen.”

      “Got it.” He drove for a moment in silence, then he said, “We need to talk about a few things, Brooke.”

      She held up her hand, forestalling any more warnings. “Not about your serial killer. I’ve had enough for today.”

      “You need to know what to expect. I’m not just whistling Dixie. This killer is real.”

      “Then why didn’t the FBI contact me?”

      “Good question. And I have a real good explanation,” he drawled. “It all started about a month ago, at the end of October. I got word from Atlanta that Grant Rawlins had been killed. It was an execution-style murder with one bullet through the forehead and another in his heart.”

      Grant Rawlins. His name brought back memories of the trial. Locked up in a bland room in the Atlanta courthouse, their deliberations lasted a whole day. She remembered being tired, watching the afternoon sun pouring through the windows and fading to dusk, knowing that they would have to return the next day to finalize their verdict.

      At that time, three years ago, her marriage had already sprung a leak. Thomas had been with another woman, but he’d broken off the affair. She’d forgiven him, confident that they could get their marriage back on course. His career was beginning to take off, and she’d been proud to be his wife.

      Back then she’d been a solidly married woman who would never dream of being unfaithful. Still, she couldn’t help noticing Grant Rawlins—a dark, handsome man with a subtle charisma. He moved athletically in spite of his prosthetic leg. “We elected Grant to be foreman of the jury.”

      “He was a leader,” Michael said proudly. “We served together in the Marines.”

      “He told me he lost his leg in the service,” she said.

      “And saved my life.” His jaw tensed. “Grant was a true hero. And I want justice for his murder.”

      She shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to continue the discussion but intrigued by Michael’s story. “Surely there was an investigation.”

      “The Atlanta PD did a decent job. They were the ones who made the link to the jury that convicted Robby Lee Warren. When he got killed in prison, there were plenty of people screaming for revenge. Robby Lee’s three brothers. His father. And the thugs he ran with.”

      “But nobody was arrested for Grant’s murder?”

      “Not enough evidence. Too many alibis.” He took the turn that lead toward Aspen. “The case went cold, but I couldn’t put the murder behind me. I kept seeing Grant, lying in his coffin with his Purple Heart ribbon pinned to his lapel. So I took a six-month leave of absence from my job to focus all my efforts on finding his killer.”

      Michael’s loyalty was fierce—she understood his need to solve this crime. “You said there were other deaths.”

      “Juror number two died in what looked like a car accident. I tried to make the case that Grant’s murderer had set up the accident, but the two murders were so different that they didn’t fit FBI profiles.”

      “And the third juror?”

      “Disappeared. The body hasn’t been found.” He gave her a long look. “That’s why I’m here with you. I owe it to Grant to keep you safe.”

      Her typical I-can-take-care-of-myself response stuck in her craw. She couldn’t easily dismiss his story, turn her back and walk away. His logic made sense. And his emotional response to his friend’s death rang true.

      She believed him.

      Accepting Michael’s story affected her in ways that couldn’t be ignored. Ever since she moved to Aspen, she’d been recuperating from her horror-story divorce. The mountains had healed her. She thought she was recovered, but his words awakened her fears. It felt like she’d gone to the doctor with a headache and found out that she had a fatal illness. Michael had pronounced her death sentence.

      She had a terrible thought that she didn’t want to put into words. But she had to. “Did he kill my roommate thinking that she was me?”

      “I don’t know your roommate, but it sounds like she had other people who might want her dead. And I suppose we should still consider the possibility that she committed suicide.”

      “Give me an answer, Michael.”

      “I can’t say for sure.”

      “I need to know if she died in my place.” How could Brooke ever forgive herself? Her eyes burned, and she squeezed them shut, fighting the tears.

      “I’m sorry,” he said.

      “Me, too.”

      MICHAEL HADN’T wanted to make her feel guilty for her roommate’s death. If anyone was to blame, it was him. He’d known about the threat and hadn’t moved quickly enough. That wasn’t a mistake he’d make a second time. “Where were you headed tonight?”

      “Glenwood Springs.”

      “Why so far away?”

      “My budget. Glenwood is less expensive. And I wanted to get away from all this. From Sally’s death.” Her voice began to quaver. “But I can’t get away. Not when I could be responsible for her death. I can’t run fast enough or far enough to hide from the guilt.”

      Covering her face with her hands, she leaned forward. Her long hair tumbled around her face. Her shoulders shook convulsively as she wept.

      He pulled into a parking lot outside a convenience store on the outskirts of town. Slipping the car into Park, he kept the engine running and the heater cranked on High. Though it wasn’t snowing, these mountains were freezing cold.

      Tentatively, he reached toward her. After all these years as a cop, he still didn’t know how to handle a woman who was crying. He liked it better when Brooke was snarling at him, brandishing a butcher knife. At least he knew how to handle that. Her tears made him feel helpless.

      When he touched her shoulder, she pulled away—a standard reaction from a woman who had been abused. From Brooke’s records, he knew that she was divorced and had taken out a restraining order