Dying Breath. Heather Graham

added quietly.

      “Oh, no, no, no, no...” the ghost of Dylan Ballantine said, hands pressed to his temples. “My mom, they’re talking about my mom.”

      “I know you!” Vickie’s mother gasped suddenly. “You—you’re Officer Pryce. You were the cop who was there the day that...”

      “The day I was nearly killed, Mom,” Vickie said.

      “Yes, yes, you’ve been at our home before, and we’re grateful, but...no, not again. My husband is right. You’ll get Vickie targeted by this sick person,” Lucy replied.

      “She may help save a woman’s life. We don’t like bringing anyone into harm’s way, Mrs. Preston,” Griffin said. “But I’m afraid that whoever is responsible, they know about the attempt by Bertram Aldridge on Vickie’s life. The Ballantine house is near the Paul Revere house. And Vickie ran from that house.”

      “Look!” Philip Preston said angrily, “I won’t have it! I won’t have you use her.”

      “Dad!” she said, standing up suddenly. “Dad, please. I know you’re talking out of love for me. But I’m an adult. I can make my own choices. And if there’s anything I can do, I’m willing to do it.”

      “No!” her mother said, her face going as pale as ash.

      “Mom, Dad, it will be all right. These men are FBI. There are cops everywhere. I’m going to go with them and see if I can do anything.”

      “Then you’re going to Italy with us!” her father said firmly.

      “Dad, we’ll talk later. But time may be of the essence here. Please. I’m going to go with them,” Vickie said firmly. She rose and looked at Griffin and said, “Shall we? I mean, I will be with the two of you at all times, right?”

      “Absolutely,” Griffin said, looking at her. He had, she thought, the darkest eyes she had ever seen. Dark eyes, dark hair, bronzed, rugged face. For a moment, their gazes seemed to be locked. He didn’t like this, she knew. He wasn’t happy to be drawing her in.

      She realized that he and the other agent, Jackson Crow, were here because they were desperate to save a woman’s life.

      And she could help.

      “You’ll call me, you’ll call us, the minute... I mean, you’ll keep in touch, you’ll let us know where you are every step of the way,” her father said.

      “We’re wasting time,” Dylan’s ghost said urgently.

      “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Vickie assured her parents. She looked from Griffin Pryce to Jackson Crow and said, “We need to go.”

      “Go where? Vickie—”

      “Where Preston ran and Paul rode,” Vickie said. “The corner where the Ballantine house is—down the street from the Paul Revere house. They have her there somewhere. If I see the site, I might know what the clue means.”

      * * *

      It had been some time since Griffin had seen Victoria Preston.

      Over eight years.

      He had never forgotten her.

      She had matured well.

      When he had first met her—terrified at the scene when he had shot and wounded Bertram Aldridge—she had still been a kid. At least basically. She’d already been about five-eight back then, willowy, with long black hair and tremendous green eyes and fine, slim features. She’d been a beautiful girl—but beautiful girls like her abounded, and he might have seen dozens like her at any sorority party or teen gathering.

      He’d immediately felt an affinity for her.

      And she’d needed to talk. Which was good, because there was paperwork. Lots of it. She’d explained about the door being slightly open, but Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine had been home. She’d made sure it was locked and the alarm on after they had gone.

      He hadn’t been a detective back then; he’d been on the force three years, gathering experience, and had already started the application process with the FBI.

      Detectives had taken over along with the FBI. Bertram Aldridge had gone back to being incarcerated with another trial in his future. He’d killed two guards during his escape.

      Griffin shouldn’t have had anything else to do with Victoria Preston. But he hadn’t been able to leave it alone. He’d had to check on her.

      Because he wouldn’t have been on time—he wouldn’t have saved her life—if Bertram Aldridge hadn’t gone down. His shot might have killed Bertram instead of wounding him, but Victoria Preston would have been shot as well if Bertram Aldridge’s shot hadn’t gone wild...

      He hadn’t liked to think about it back then. He didn’t like to think about it now.

      But he’d seen the kid who had been with Vickie.

      The ghost.

      Seen him, and then he’d been gone. Griffin never knew if Vickie had seen what he’d seen that day, if she hadn’t been saved to a far greater degree by a dead boy than she had been saved by his own actions.

      He’d never point-blank asked her if she’d seen the boy; he hadn’t been sure of what he’d seen himself, despite his own past.

      Now, of course, he knew. Yes, she saw the boy.

      And the boy was still with her.

      Chrissy Ballantine’s older son.

      Griffin was doing the driving; he was the Bostonian, who knew where he was going, which streets were open, which were closed, which only went in one direction. They could have easily walked. But under the circumstances, the car was quicker—and more official.

      And, thankfully, due to government tags, could be left anywhere, even in the narrow streets of Old Boston.

      He’d suggested that they head to the corner street of the Ballantine house. Naturally, police were still in the house. George Ballantine was there with his son, and crime scene techs and detectives were going over the house and the grounds and trying to ascertain how the kidnapper/killer got in—and how he or she got out.

      Jackson Crow was fast to get out of the car, but Vickie Preston was already out the back door. She stood for a moment, looking around. Griffin hurried around to her side, looking around as well.

      The Paul Revere house was just down the street. They were on the Freedom Trail. When Griffin had been growing up, he’d had lots of friends who lived in other areas and the suburbs who came here just to shop for their Italian sausages and cannoli.

      It was Old Boston. Centuries of history unfolded in a number of fairly centralized streets; giant skyscrapers stood among cemeteries where founding fathers had long lain at rest. Great Gothic houses of worship stood among the modern, built in defiance of restrictions long before the Constitution affording a separation of church and state had been penned. Boston was, in Griffin’s mind, a perfect example of the making of a country—and, in this particular area, there were treasures to be found.

      It was also a mammoth haystack. How to find a woman among the new and the old—and the many giant buildings that rested here and there between those crafted at a time when a skyscraper had yet to be imagined?

      “You think that she’s here—somewhere near the house?” Jackson asked Vickie.

      She stood looking up, thoughtful, distraught. Then she glanced Griffin’s way.

      “I’m a writer and researcher,” she murmured. “I don’t know much about the mind of a killer, I’m afraid. But...”

      “But what?” Griffin heard himself ask, a little too sharply.

      “Yeah, what, what?”

      The ghost of Dylan Ballantine was with them, anxious. Griffin hadn’t felt his presence in the car—Dylan must