After The Dark. Cynthia Eden

the story made the news?” Samantha muttered. This wasn’t the kind of bar that had TVs. This was a dark hole made for drinking.

      And vanishing.

      “It made the news.” He pulled out a chair, flipped it around and straddled the seat. “You made the news.” He whistled. “That asshole of a boss really threw you under the bus.”

      She lifted another shot glass and drained it in a gulp.

      “Drinking yourself into oblivion isn’t going to make the situation better...” Cameron cocked his head and studied her.

      Her brows shot up at that. “Cam, I’m not even close to oblivion.”

      He should know better.

      “The case is wrong.” She slammed down the glass. “Allan March is wrong. I don’t buy it. The scene was too pat. He was too desperate. That guy isn’t the one I was after.”

      Cameron blinked. “The reporter said plenty of evidence was on hand—”

      “Like people don’t get framed?” She laughed, and the sound was bitter. “I know all about that. My dad lost his badge because he got pulled into that BS about setting up drug dealers on his beat.” Though her dad had always sworn he hadn’t been involved in the frame-ups, his protests did little good for his reputation. “People get framed. It’s a sad fact of the world.” She pushed a glass toward Cameron.

      He didn’t take it. He never drank much, and when he did drink, it was only the best. Expensive wines and champagnes. Jeez, the guy loved his champagne. When they’d gotten their master’s degrees, she remembered the way he’d gone out and bought that fancy bottle of—

      “Why would someone want to frame that guy?” His quiet question jerked her from the memory of their past.

      She rolled her shoulders. “Because Allan was convenient.” Duh. Wait, duh? Maybe she did need to slow down on the drinks. “An easy target. The custodian who kept to himself. The widower with no close friends. Maybe the perp I’m after wanted the attention off his back, so he tossed Allan into the mix.”

      Cameron frowned. “Allan...he killed himself.”

      “That’s the part I haven’t worked out yet.” But she would. “I don’t understand that bit. I swear, I actually thought the guy was going to shoot me, but then he turned the gun on himself. Weird as hell.” She reached for another shot glass. The bartender had done such a lovely job of lining them up for her. “Maybe he had a deal with the killer. I mean, Allan had a daughter, after all. One that needs money for college, money for life. And Allan didn’t have any money. He barely had anything at all. Maybe the killer offered Allan money to take the fall. Maybe he was supposed to go out in a blaze of glory.” Her eyes narrowed as she considered this new angle. If Allan had gotten a payoff, then perhaps she could find the paper trail. Follow the money. “But...Allan was a caretaker.” Her voice dropped as Allan’s profile spun in her head. “His nature was protective, so in the end, he couldn’t shoot me. Couldn’t shoot at Blake. That wasn’t who he was.” Her lashes lifted as realization hit her. “He couldn’t attack us because Allan March wasn’t a killer. Instead of shooting us, he turned the gun on himself. The only person he hurt was himself.” Excitement had her heart racing.

      But Cameron just shook his head. His hair—blond and perfectly styled, as always—gleamed for a moment when he leaned forward beneath the faint light over her table. “Normally, you know I love it when you bounce your ideas off me...”

      Her temples were throbbing.

      “But the man had a dead woman at his feet. That part made the news, too.”

      “And no blood on him,” she mumbled. Because that had been bothering her. That was why the scene had been wrong. When they’d first arrived, Allan had been sweating in his white shirt—and there had been no blood on the shirt. Not until Blake shot him. “The vic’s throat was slit—ear to ear—and Allan didn’t have a drop of blood on him. He should’ve had her blood on him.” She pushed to her feet. “I have to make Justin listen to me. I’m not wrong. Allan was just a fall guy. The real killer—”

      Cameron surged to his feet. His hand wrapped around her arm. “You can’t go to your FBI boss with alcohol on your breath and a wild theory spilling from your lips.” His voice was grim. “You want more than a suspension? You want to lose the job forever?”

      “I want to stop the killer!” Okay, maybe her voice was too loud. Good thing the bar was deserted.

      “How many shots did you take?”

      She tried to pull away from him.

      “No, damn it, let me help you.” And then they were walking to the door—together. His car was at the curb. That fancy Benz. He had such a plush job. Good for him... He’d gone to Princeton on a scholarship, same as her. Two kids with brains who’d fought their way to the top of the class rank. “I’ll take you home. You sleep this off, and tomorrow, tomorrow, I will hear your theory, okay? Tomorrow, I will help you.”

      Nausea rolled in her belly. She didn’t think she’d eaten that day, and she really didn’t want to vomit all over his plush leather interior. So Samantha sank back into the seat and closed her eyes. She didn’t speak while he drove, but all too soon, Cameron was stopping the vehicle. Her eyes cracked open as she peered through the window. “This isn’t my house.”

      “No...because while you were sleeping—”

      She hadn’t been, had she?

      “I drove by your place. Reporters were camped out on your doorstep. So I brought you here.”

      Her hand lifted and slid over his cheek. She smiled at him. “See, when you want to be, you can be nice.”

      He laughed, the sound almost harsh. “I know you go for the good-guy type, but that isn’t me.” He jumped out of the car. Cameron hurried to her side, but she’d already let herself out, thank you very much. A light dusting of snow fell onto her as she stood on the sidewalk. Winters in DC. So very different from her time growing up in the Deep South.

      “You can stay in the guest room,” Cameron said as they walked toward his front door. He unlocked it and ushered her into the warmth of his house. “Unless, of course...”

      She stopped and glanced up at him.

      “Unless you want to sleep with me.”

      Samantha blinked at those words. She hadn’t been with Cameron—not intimately—in over a year. Not since I met Blake. She and Cameron were safely in the friend zone. A zone she intended to keep occupying. They’d always been better friends than lovers. “I’ll take that guest room.”

      His jaw tightened. He pointed down the hallway. “You know where it is.”

      Right. Because she knew his place, inside and out, just as he knew hers. “Thanks for being a friend, Cam. I don’t have many of those left.” She turned from him and began to shuffle her way down the hall.

      “Blake Gamble is your friend.”

      His words stopped her. “I don’t know what Blake is,” she said honestly. “He was my partner—”

      “Come on, Sam. He’s just your type. The good kind.”

      She looked over her shoulder. Was that an annoyed tone in his voice? Odd, Cameron never sounded angry. Not with her.

      “Maybe you don’t really want someone good, though,” he continued, voice nearly growling. “Did you ever think that? You spend so much time profiling others...you should take a long, hard look at yourself. Why do you think you belong with a true-blue sort?”

      I know why... “Good night, Cameron.”

      “We both know you like the dark. Nothing wrong with that. After all...” His lips curved in a mocking smile. “Isn’t that your name?”

      She hurried down the hallway. Shut