“Yes. In conjunction with the Bureau. You know how it works, Nikki. Everything has to be done by the book. I can’t be confiding in my wife, the journalist, no matter how much I trust her.”
“I can help!”
He shook his head. “Just think how it looks.”
“It doesn’t matter. If I can help.”
“After what happened last time?”
Morrisette. She closed her eyes. Remembered that horrid day on the river.
“I’m sorry,” he said and stood, folding his arms around her. “But this is the way it has to be. The way we play it.”
Though a part of her itched to escalate the fight, to make him see her perspective, to force him to understand that she was just trying to help, she bit her tongue. She would have to run her own investigation around him. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done, and breaking off his embrace, she said, “Fine,” but didn’t mean it.
Leaving him watching her, she headed back upstairs, not to their bedroom, but again to her office, where Arlo was still dozing. She plopped down in her chair with enough force to cause it to roll back and hit the edge of the dog bed.
The shepherd was instantly awake, on his feet, hackles raised. He emitted a sharp, low growl. A warning.
“Shhh. No, no, no! It’s okay,” she whispered and patted his head, calming him. “No barking.” The last thing she wanted was to wake up “Fussy Pants.” He turned dark eyes up to look at her as she stroked him. “That’s better. Go back to bed.” With a slow wag of his tail, he curled up again, and Nikki was left stewing over the same questions that had plagued her for the past three weeks:
Who would commit these heinous murders and why?
If Pierce wouldn’t help her figure it out, she’d damn well do it herself.
Chapter 27
The call came in at 5:47, according to the digital clock glowing on the bedside table. Jamison Kittle’s voice was rough, stretched thin. “I need you to come to the house,” he said as Pierce, half-asleep, levered himself up on one elbow. It was still dark outside, and Nikki was breathing deeply next him, her hair falling out of the high ponytail she often wore to bed, one of her arms thrown across his chest.
“Now?” he whispered, carefully removing his wife’s arm with his free hand. She sighed in her sleep and rolled away.
“As soon as you can get here.”
“What’s wrong?” Pierce slipped out from under the covers.
With his phone pressed to his ear, he padded barefoot down the stairs to his office, where he quietly shut the door.
“It’s Naomi,” Jamison said. “She’s missing. Didn’t come home last night.”
“What?” Pierce was finally awake. “What do you mean, ‘didn’t come home’? Where was she?”
“I don’t really know. Out with friends, I guess. Anyway, that’s what she said.” He sounded distressed. Worried. “Look, just get here. Okay?”
Pierce blinked. Rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
He cut the connection, hurried upstairs. Took a quick shower to clear the cobwebs. He didn’t bother shaving, just toweled off and, in the bedroom, threw on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and socks.
Nikki was awake and had scooted up to the headboard, removing the scrunchie holding her hair away from her face.
“What’s going on?” she asked, eyeing his clothes and, he guessed, noting he wasn’t wearing his usual running gear.
“I’m going out to Jamison’s.” Sitting on the foot of the bed, he started putting on a pair of running shoes and noticed a striped paw reach from under the bed to try and snag a lace. Jennings, who seemed to have finally accepted the new interloper and was back to his old tricks. Pierce yanked the shoe away.
“Why?” Nikki asked.
“Not sure, but he asked me to come over,” he lied, thinking it better not to pique her overactive interest. “I’ll let you know when I get back.”
“But—?”