When Shadows Fall. J.T. Ellison

snorted. “Penicillin and a million dollars. I wouldn’t get near her with your—”

      “Hey, now. Overtime for everyone.”

      “Ever the optimist.”

      Fletcher’s cell phone rang. “That’s Sam. Hang on a sec.” He put the phone to his ear. “What up, buttercup?”

      She laughed, and a tiny piece of him, the piece he’d shoved away into the darkest corners of his heart, constricted. He really liked that laugh, and liked to be the one who brought it forth. She laughed more and more lately; she was very different from the hard, closed-off woman he’d first met in the spring. She’d come back to life, it seemed, and Fletcher liked to think he had something to do with that.

      “Heya,” Sam said. “You got a minute?”

      “You know me, I’m just standing around with my, um, twiddling my thumbs.”

      She laughed again, deeper this time. But he heard the strain in her voice; she was putting up a good front. He immediately went on alert. “What’s the matter, Doc?”

      “I received a letter from a man who claims to have been murdered. He wants me to look into his death.”

      “Creepy. You think it’s for real, or someone pulling your chain?”

      She sighed. “It may be real, Fletch. There’s definitely a man with the same name who’s recently dead. I found an obituary for him. Matches the return address on the envelope. Out of Lynchburg.”

      “Are you at home?”

      “No, at my office in Georgetown. The letter came here.”

      “Good. If it had come to your house, we might be dealing with a nut job.”

      “We might be, anyway.” Her voice was soft, the voice of a woman who shouldn’t have to deal with these kinds of things.

      Sam, you’re gaining quite a reputation. He stopped himself from saying it aloud; she knew that, and didn’t need to hear it from him.

      “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Hang tight.”

      “Thank you, Fletch.”

      He hung up and looked at Hart. “I’m gonna take a ride. I’ll call Armstrong from the car, tell him what we found down here. Have fun with the Feds.”

      Chapter

      3

      Georgetown University School of Medicine

      Washington, D.C.

      SAM HUNG UP the phone. “Fletch is on his way,” she said.

      “Good,” Xander said. “There’s no sense in you becoming involved with this. Even though the letter was sent to you, this is a job for law enforcement. Shall we eat something before he comes? I did bring you a tuna sandwich.”

      A job for law enforcement. Which she most decidedly was not. She had to admit, the casual reference stung.

      Stop it, Sam. You made your bed.

      “Considering what seems to happen anytime Fletcher comes around? Yes, let’s eat something now, in case he bundles me off to give an official statement and I never come back.”

      They settled in to their lunch. She took a bite of the sandwich, realized she wasn’t hungry anymore. Her eyes drifted to the letter—she couldn’t help herself. It was disconcerting to have a stranger say he knew her determination. Yes, she’d managed to land herself in the papers on more than one occasion, being quoted regarding a case, and recently, the whole incident with the Metro terrorist, but the familiar tone of Savage’s missive freaked her out.

      Not to mention the warning accompanying the request. I fear your life may be in danger....

      Why her? Why did these bizarre situations keep finding her? Was it some sort of psychic retribution for getting on with her life? Karma, pissed off and wanting her pound of flesh?

      You’ve already taken everything from me. What more do you need?

      She glanced at Xander, who was staring out her windows with a look of private joy on his face. The view clearly pleased him; he loved anything to do with nature, the outdoors. She took advantage of his distraction to admire his dark eyes and dark hair, broad shoulders, capable hands. A man who could build a cabin with just an ax and his time, shoot a deer and skin it for dinner and love her in the darkness—she put down the sandwich and cleared her throat, suddenly both embarrassed and exceptionally turned on.

      She loved the man. There was no question. He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d managed to put him off, citing the fact that he was under the painful influence of a gunshot wound and thought he might die.

      But Xander wasn’t a man who would wait for long. What he wanted, he got. And for some odd reason, he’d decided he wanted her. Problem was, just the idea of marriage, after what she’d been through, was enough to make her lace up her running shoes and take off for parts unknown. But this was Xander. He was different. Everything was different now.

      Quick as a rabbit in the brush, he turned to her. “Are you eyeing me, or coveting my sandwich?”

      She dropped her gaze and smiled. “Eyeing your sandwich, coveting you.”

      His voice was husky. “How late are you planning to work today?”

      “I could be convinced to knock off early.”

      His eyes locked on hers, the sandwich forgotten. “What shall I do to convince you?”

      A throat cleared. “Would you two get a room, already?”

      Fletcher was standing in her doorway, half-exasperated and half-amused.

      Sam got up and gave him a hug. “Hey, Fletch. Thanks for coming over.”

      “No worries. You saved me from a nasty crime scene. I left Hart there, waiting for the feds to show. What’s this about a letter?”

      Xander shook Fletcher’s hand and handed him the letter. “Thanks for coming. Here it is.”

      Sam watched Fletcher read the letter, a couple of times if his eye movements were to be trusted, and when he finished, he set it gently on her desk as if it might explode.

      “Weird, huh? Do you think it’s for real?” she asked.

      Fletcher frowned, making a deep groove between his eyebrows. “Threatening is more like it. Who the hell is this Savage character?”

      “Here’s the obituary, it was in the Lynchburg News and Advance, the local paper.” She handed him a printed sheet of paper. “It’s not comprehensive at all.”

      Fletcher read the obit aloud. “Timothy R. Savage, 45, resident of Lynchburg, died Tuesday. A memorial service will be scheduled later in the month. In lieu of flowers, please direct donations to the Wounded Warrior Project, a cause near and dear to Timothy’s heart. You’re right, there’s not much to go on. It doesn’t say how he died, either.”

      “We thought it best to let you handle this,” Xander said.

      Fletcher shot him a look. “Gee, thanks.”

      “Better you than me, friend. Or Sam.”

      Fletcher stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed. “I’ll take the letter to the lab. It’s probably a hoax. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

      “Not worry about it?” Sam said. “You’re joking, right?”

      Fletcher folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. “Sam, you’re going to get this kind of attention for a while. Your name was plastered all over the papers and the web after your stunt in Colorado, so of course, some crazies are going to come out of the woodwork. Let me look into it, and I’ll let you know. Okay?”

      She watched him for clues that there might be more