Colton's Secret Investigation. Justine Davis

at that. “I feel as if I’m in a war,” she admitted.

      “Awful stuff going on. Awful stuff.”

      She couldn’t argue that. With a fresh target and a new magazine, she shut everything else out of her mind and imagined having this ruthless Avalanche Killer in her sights. And this time when the target came back, there were four holes in the ten ring—three small individual holes, and one big ragged one.

      Ray gave a low whistle. “Eight through the same hole? That’s some fine shooting, Deputy Bloom. I’m guessing you’ll be wanting that one turned in as your qualifying score?”

      “Turn them both in,” she said as she gathered up her brass.

      Ray’s smile widened, and he gave her an approving nod. “Honesty. I like that. It’s in short supply these days.”

      “Sadly true.”

      “Any closer on finding that maniac?”

      “I think the official phrase is ‘the investigation is ongoing.’”

      Ray snorted inelegantly.

      “My sentiments exactly,” she agreed.

      And she meant it. This case was beyond frustrating, for so many reasons. The obvious, of course—a deranged serial killer was destroying a town, both emotionally and economically, and here she was nearly a year later with no resolution—but also she felt as if she was letting Trey down. The sheriff had trusted her to get the job done when he’d had to recuse himself because the first suspect’s body had been found on his cousin Wyatt’s ranch, and there’d been an uproar about the Coltons getting preferential treatment. Which only made the load heavier, given her own personal history—which she had kept secret.

      And then there was her gut certainty that Sabrina Gilford had not been a victim of their serial killer, which was just the cherry on top of this swirling mix. It was enough to give her nightmares, and in fact on occasion had.

       Straighten up, girl—you didn’t get to where you are by quitting. Whoever, wherever this killer is, he’s going down, and you’re going to do it.

      If he hadn’t gone for the shaved head look some time ago, Stefan Roberts figured he’d be tearing his hair out about now.

      “I won’t go! I don’t like it here. I don’t like you!”

      He stared at the five-year-old who was his son, standing there glaring at him with his arms crossed firmly across his small chest. He weighed his options. He could spend some more time trying to talk the child into going to school without a fuss. Except he was already running late for work. He could leave it for Mrs. Crane, the sitter he’d hired, to handle. But that seemed…cowardly somehow. He could pick the kid up and carry him out to the car. And maybe stuff him in the trunk? That’d go over well.

      He sucked in a deep breath and fought for calm. Blowing up at his son would do no good at all, he was sure. He’d snapped at him a few times when he’d hit the end of his patience, and the boy had just closed off further.

      “Look, Samuel, I know this wasn’t your idea. You didn’t want this. But we’re here—we’re stuck with each other. Can’t you make the best of it?”

      The glare only intensified. So once more, he’d apparently said the wrong thing. And his already frayed temper lost another thread. When he spoke it was with the rigidness of an anger barely held at bay.

      “That’s enough. You’re going to school, Samuel. How you go is up to you.”

      Something shifted in the boy’s dark eyes, so like his mother’s. Something that was there and gone so quickly it was hard to pin a name on it. Had he been at work, he would have immediately registered it as fear, but he didn’t want to believe his son was afraid of him. The massive changes in his life, sure. But him? He didn’t like that idea at all.

      But right now, he just had to get the boy out the door and to school. Mrs. Crane would see to him when school was out. He would have to talk to her, see if she had any ideas on how to deal with the rotten attitude Samuel seemed to have arrived with. But he didn’t have time now. He had to get to work. Daria would be wondering where the hell he was. And he didn’t want Daria Bloom mad at him.

       Might be safer if she was.

      He barely acknowledged the wayward thought. He was used to them by now. That day three months ago when he’d first walked into the sheriff’s office and seen the deputy assigned to the case, he’d known this wasn’t going to be routine. Working every day, in close proximity, to that? He’d known the first moment she turned those wide, beautiful, golden-brown eyes on him assessingly that this woman could be trouble. There wasn’t a damned thing about her he didn’t like, from the way that short, sleek haircut of hers bared the nape of her neck when she bent her head, to the way she moved, like a dancer he’d seen once back in Chicago.

      Then again, he’d learned his lesson well; he’d been hot for Leah, too, and look how that had turned out. She hadn’t had whatever it took to be married to an FBI agent, if that even existed. She’d been excited at first, but then the reality of long hours away and the stringent dedication that the job necessitated had settled in. When she’d gotten pregnant with Samuel, things had improved a little, but it hadn’t lasted. By then she had bigger, grander plans for her future than being married to him.

      And then it had fallen apart, and the son he loved so much had become a part-time presence in his life. He hated the fact, but between his work hours, Leah’s lack of cooperation, and then his transfer, that’s what had happened.

      He shook off the thoughts; he needed to focus on the immediate issue, which was getting Samuel to school. In the end it took bribery—the promise of an extra bit of video-game time—but Stefan counted it as a win. At least the kid’s favorite game was a fantasy instead of just blowing stuff up or shooting people. And as he finally headed off to work, he found himself smiling wryly that that was the most optimistic thing he could think of just now.

      He called the field office to check in. It was a formality, since he’d been allocated to this case full-time until it was resolved. When he got to the sheriff’s office and found Daria had not yet arrived, he felt a tiny bit of annoyance mixed with relief.

      “She’s at the range,” the perky secretary they’d been assigned told him. Then, in a tone of confidentiality, she added, “She’s the best shot in the department, you know. Some of the guys won’t admit that, but she’s outscored all of them at one time or another.”

      “Good to know,” Stefan said drolly. “I’ll try not to make her shooting mad at me.” He was only half kidding. There was something about Daria Bloom that made him think she was not a woman to be crossed.

      “Oh, she’d never shoot at you. That’d be like shooting at one of the local scenic wonders.”

      Stefan blinked. Was she flirting with him? She was, what, maybe twenty? He suddenly felt old.

      “Now you’re a scenic wonder?”

      He nearly groaned aloud as the voice came from behind him. A voice he recognized too well, since the husky timbre of it sent the craziest tingle over his skin. But he put on his best unaffected grin as he turned to see the woman in question approaching.

      “So’s Denver International,” he said, referring to the jaw-dropping airport structure voted the ugliest building in the state by half the population, the most beautiful by the other half. And to his inward delight, she laughed. It was rare enough with all the pressure on her right now that she even smiled, so he counted this as a win.

      “Sorry I’m late. I needed to clean both weapons, so it took longer.”

      “Gotta keep the tools clean,” he agreed. “I was running behind myself.”

      “Problem?”