FBI Special Agent Laurel Gillespie rang her friend's doorbell for the third time. She rested her hand on her Glock .23 and eyed the carved wood front door. No way could she break it down. But she remembered from childhood that the back door was half glass--one quick whack with the butt of her gun and she could be inside.
        Her neck prickled as she glanced up and down the darkened street. She felt like she was being watched, just like when they were kids. There was always a chintz curtain fluttering in a nearby window, the universal symbol for a nosy neighbor.
        But this wasn't high school. Laurel's imagination was whirring, playing out ominous scenarios. Misty falling in the shower, or opening her door to an enemy.
        "Come on, Misty. Where are you? Answer the door," she whispered.
        Worse images whirled through her brain. She couldn't make them stop or explain them away, because Misty Waller was dependable to a fault. Practically obsessive-compulsive. It wasn't in her nature not to be where she'd said she'd be.
        Laurel had the urge to shout and bang on the door, but caution kept her quiet. She'd called her friend as soon as her flight landed in Memphis, just like they'd agreed. But Misty hadn't answered--not her home phone or her cell.
        So Laurel had picked up her rental car and driven the forty-five miles south to Dusty Springs, Mississippi. She'd called her several more times but got no answer.
        Now here she was--and still no Misty. Her concern ballooned into fear. Something was wrong.
        She rang the doorbell one last time. The chime echoed hollowly through the house.
        She drew her weapon and carefully tried the doorknob, expecting resistance. To her surprise the knob turned. Immediately, instinctively, she flattened her back against the door facing. Too many things didn't add up.
        Even though she'd taken a couple of days off for her high school reunion, she couldn't ignore her training. She was FBI.
        Her boss's voice echoed in her ears. Every suspicious circumstance is a crime scene until you prove it's not.
        He was right. This had stopped being a reunion of high school best friends the moment Misty had failed to answer her phone.
        Carefully, she nudged the door open and angled inside, leading with her weapon, her senses on full alert. The first thing she spotted was scraps of paper littering the dark foyer.
        Alarm thrummed through her all the way to her fingertips. Her fears were right. Someone had broken in.
She swept the foyer with her gaze. It was as familiar to her as her own childhood home two streets over. Everything seemed quiet.
        She turned to her left, where a blue glow flickered off the walls and seeped out into the foyer.
TV with no sound. Nostalgia stirred in her chest. Another habit of Misty's from high school. She'd always studied in front of the TV with the sound turned off.
        But not with the lights off.
        Concern sent Laurel's pulse thrumming. Just as she took a breath and pressed her back against the wall, prepared to angle around the doorway leading with her gun, a muffled thud froze her in place.
        Her heart hammered in her chest. "FBI," she called. "I'm coming in. Identify yourself."
        A plaintive yowl answered her. A cat. Of course. Misty had always had a cat.
        Taking a deep breath to steady her pulse, Laurel stepped around the door facing, her Glock at the ready.         The cat bumped her leg, startling her.
        She swept the room with her gun. On the floor in front of the couch, silhouetted in the TV's glow, she saw a crumpled form.
        Her fingers tightened on her weapon and her heart rate doubled. "Misty? Is that you?"
        No response.
        She fought to keep her breathing even. Training had taught her that danger sent the pulse sky high--three hundred beats per minute or more. But it had also taught her how to control it. She had to keep her cool.
        She felt for the light switch but couldn't find it. She swung her weapon around one more time, squinting in the dim blue light. The living room looked like the day after a ticker-tape parade. Photos and scraps of paper were scattered everywhere. No sound reached her ears except the cat's faint purring and the discordant hum of an ancient window air conditioner.
        She eyed the body with apprehension. "Misty?"
        Nothing. She crossed the room keeping her back to the wall and her finger on the trigger. One glance at the pale face and hair told her it was her friend. Blood blackened the left side of her head.
        Each step ramped up Laurel's pulse until it roared in her ears and echoed through her limbs. She could actually feel her hands quiver with each beat.
        But before she could check on Misty, she needed to sweep the house. Neglecting basic precautions could get her killed. She quickly and thoroughly explored the rest of the house. Nothing else was disturbed.
        Back in the den, she knelt and felt her friend's neck for a pulse. It was thready and shallow, but it was there. Laurel's shoulders quivered with relief. Misty was alive.
        "Misty? Misty honey?" she murmured.
        Misty didn't answer.
        Laurel reached for her cell phone to call 9-1-1.
        "Damn it." She'd left it in the car, plugged into the charger. She glanced around but didn't see a phone.
        She brushed matted bloody hair back from Misty's forehead. Maybe she'd just fallen. But Laurel's brain rejected that scenario out of hand. It didn't fit with the position of Misty's body. Someone had deliberately attacked her friend.

* * * * *

POLICE CHIEF CADE DUPREE approached Misty Waller's house with caution. He'd been jogging when the call came in that someone was lurking around the area. That was the word old Miss Gardner, Misty's neighbor used. Lurking. To hear her tell it, people had been lurking all afternoon.
        His mouth curved into a smile as he seated his baseball cap on his head. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen anybody lurk.
        A curtain fluttered in Miss Gardner's window across the street. Cade resisted the urge to wave at her as he approached Misty's house.
        One glance at Misty's front door dissolved his amusement and sharpened his senses. It was ajar.
Not good. As long as he'd known her, Misty had never left her door unlocked. In fact she was obsessive about it.
        He retrieved his Sig Saur from the cargo pocket of his sweat pants, stepped quietly onto the front porch, then nudged the door open. The door facing's paint was peeling, but it was intact. It hadn't been forced.
        Inside was dark except for the glow of the television set that bled out into the hall. The only sound was the rumbling growl of the air-conditioning unit in the living room. Its chilled air shivered across his sweat-dampened skin and raised the hackles on his neck.
        The house was too dark, too quiet, too on edge. He took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway.
        There, in front of the TV. A shapely curved bottom faced him. Not Misty. This bottom was skinnier, sexier. He squinted. The female figure crouched over a crumpled form.
        Misty? He aimed his gun at her back and took a step toward her.
        "Police! Don't move." Cade clicked the safety off his gun.
        The woman tensed, then half-turned. "Thank goodness you're here," she said, starting to rise. "Call--"
        "I--said--don't--move." He didn't raise his voice, but the woman's jaw clenched and she lifted her hands.         Her crouched form wavered and blue light reflected off coppery hair as she fought to keep her balance.
        A glint of steel caught his eye. A gun. She was holding a gun. Alarm bells clanged in his head. He rocked to the balls of his feet and flexed his trigger finger. He was ready to shoot if he had to.
        "Put the gun on the floor," he ordered. "Slow and easy."
        "Sir, I'm--"
        "Do it now! Keep your hands where I can see them and your mouth shut."
        She turned her right hand enough to show him her finger was not on the trigger. Then she slowly lowered the gun to the hardwood floor and lifted both hands, fingers spread. Her jaw worked and her mouth flattened into a straight line. She glanced behind her at the crumpled form.
        Cade risked a glance. The intruder's body blocked his view but he did see pale hair. It had to be Misty.         "Get your hands up. All the way."
        She reluctantly followed his commands. She was still in a crouch, still teetering on her high heels. The         plain gray skirt and short jacket she wore did nothing to hide her shapely silhouette or her long, long legs.
        Who in hell was she? Not a burglar. They rarely dressed for success in a suit and heels.
        "Now stand up," he barked. "Nope. Keep those hands high. Turn around slowly."
        As she stood, he got a better view of Misty's round pretty face and the blood matted in her hair. "Misty, you all right?" Damn, there was a lot of blood.
        Misty stirred and moaned. Relief loosened his tight neck and shoulders. "Lie still. I'm calling an ambulance."
        The woman with the legs half-turned toward Misty.
        "You stay put." He retrieved his cell phone from a pocket and pressed a button with his thumb. "Get the EMTs over here," he barked. "The Waller's house. Misty's hurt."
        He gestured with his gun. "Back away from her." He slid his phone back into the cargo pocket on his sweats.
        She obeyed, taking a couple of tiny steps backward, her annoyed gaze never leaving his face. "You're wasting time--"
        "Hey!" he snapped. "I told you to keep quiet." He was fairly certain she hadn't attacked Misty. She seemed more worried, as if she'd come in and found her. But he wasn't taking any chances. He gestured again.
        "Further. I want you against that wall. We can chat later."
        "Just listen to me," she said quickly and firmly. "I'm FBI--"
        "Shut up!" Cade barked. Then what she said sunk in. "You're what?"
        "FBI. Special Agent Laurel Gillespie. I can show you my badge. It's in the left pocket of my jacket."
        FBI? "Why didn't you say so?"
        She glared at him. "Why didn't--? I tried to, but you were too busy getting the drop on me. Good job by the way."
        Cade bristled at her sarcasm. He thumbed his baseball cap back to the crown of his head and squinted at her. "What's the FBI doing here?"
        Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a little O. "Cade?"
                She knew him? He studied her more closely. Did he know her?
        "Cade Dupree?" Her voice cracked.
        "Wait a minute. What'd you say your name is?"
        Her jaw twitched and she squeezed her eyes shut for an instant. Then she took a deep breath. "Laurel Gillespie. You don't remember me. I was a year behind you in high school."
        He lowered his weapon. "Put your hands down," he said gruffly.
        She cleared her throat. "Where's that ambulance?"
        Just as she spoke, he heard the sirens. "Right here."
        "Thank God! I found her like this. I don't know how badly she's hurt. You stopped me before I could--" she gestured toward Misty.
        "Why didn't you call 9-1-1?"
        She spread her hands. "Left my phone in the car. Can I check on her?"
        He nodded. She was with the FBI? Unwelcome memories washed over him. The excitement of finally getting to Quantico. The sense of pride and purpose that the FBI had chosen him. But then his brother had died, his father had suffered a stroke and he'd had to give up his dream and return to Dusty Springs.
        She crouched down, presenting that sexy backside to him again. "I'm afraid she's got a concussion. Her pupils are dilating differently." She gently pushed blood-soaked hair out of her face. "Misty honey. Don't move. The ambulance is here."
        "Laurel--" Misty tried to raise her head, then stopped, grimacing.
        "Hey Mist. It's Cade. Lie still sweetheart. What happened?"
        Cade's voice came from just behind Laurel. Too close. While she'd been concentrating on Misty, he'd crouched next to her, so close she could smell his aftershave. It was fresh and subtle. Sexy.
        "Cade? What are you doing here?" Misty whispered.
        He reached around her and took Misty's hand. "Hang on Mist. Lie still. The ambulance is coming."
        Dear Heavens, it really was Cade Dupree. From the instant she'd first seen the authoritative figure standing in the doorway, pointing his weapon at her, he'd seemed familiar.
        She should have recognized his confident stance, his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped silhouette in sweatpants and faded red Ole Miss T-shirt. But the baseball cap had hidden his face.
        Dark spots of sweat on his shirt and the sheen on his arms and face, plus the pedometer strapped to his bicep, told her he'd been working out. Her brain fed her a vision of him running, his long legs and lean hips undulating with the rhythm in his head.
        She turned her head. His handsome familiar face was only a few inches from hers, his thick lashes lowered as he watched Misty. He hadn't changed except that his face had more character and his body had filled out with lean hard muscles.
        Her pulse fluttered as his gaze met hers and roamed over her face. How had she not known him instantly? She'd thought she'd never forget that voice, those long powerful legs, that lanky frame. And his sky blue eyes. She'd swooned over those eyes in high school.
        He sent her a taste of his wicked, killer smile. "So--Laurel Gillespie," he drawled, "FBI agent."
        Despite the unwelcome return of her adolescent jitters, Laurel bristled at his patronizing tone.
        "I take it you're here for the reunion?" he asked just as the EMTs burst in. Cade whispered something to Misty then moved so the EMTs could check her out. He took charge of the scene immediately. He ordered Laurel to the front door to make sure no nosy neighbors got inside.
        Great. Just where she didn't want to be. In full view of the entire town of Dusty Springs.
        She felt like a threshold guardian as a parade of curious neighbors tried to get inside. She had no trouble flashing her badge to turn away the owner of the hardware store and his wife, or a young mother with a toddler in her arms, or a couple of teenage'd boys, all of whom gasped in awe when she informed them that the house was a crime scene. But she dreaded running into any of her former classmates.
        Her memories of high school were of not fitting in, not dating, of the nightmare of braces and glasses, unruly red hair, and painful shyness.
        A familiar man in his early fifties wearing a badge and a gun walked up to her. Behind him a younger man in a mis-buttoned police uniform shirt carried a roll of yellow crime scene tape.
        "Evening Laurel. That is, Special Agent Gillespie. I didn't know you'd made an FBI agent."
        "Officer Evans, hi."
        "Cade--Chief Dupree--called us to tape off the scene. He said you might need some help." He punched a thumb backwards through the air. "This is Officer Shelton Phillips."
        She nodded at Phillips and smiled at Fred. "Thanks," she said gratefully.
Fred Evans had been a police officer back when she was in high school. His daughter Debra had belonged to the snootiest clique in school.
        Officer Phillips quickly cordoned off the front of the house and then headed around back.
        Laurel turned toward the dwindling crowd just as a tall woman with skinny legs and a haughty air walked up. Kathy Hodges. Speaking of the clique. Kathy Hodges and Debra and a couple of other girls had named themselves the Cool Girls. The rest of the class called them the CeeGees. They'd made it their mission to target certain classmates, usually the shyest ones, to humiliate and embarrass.
        Laurel's confidence drained away as the memory of the most embarrassing night of her life swept through her head with the clarity of a high-definition movie.
        Afterwards, she'd kicked herself for not seeing through the cruel prank. But on the night of the Homecoming Dance her sophomore year, she'd really believed that Senior Football Captain James Dupree wanted her to dance the traditional first dance with him. Although she was smitten with James' younger brother Cade, no way would she pass up the biggest honor in a sophomore girl's year.
        Remembered excitement and apprehension swirled through her as she relived that awful moment.
        Standing on the dance floor in a brand new gown. Hearing Kathy's voice urging her to move closer to the bandstand. Her heart fluttering as James stood up to announce his choice, his cocky gaze sweeping the room, stopping for a fraction of a second on her.
        Then as someone's hand on her back urged her up the steps, James named another girl. The laughter of the CeeGees still rang in her ears. By the next morning it was all over school and Laurel was humiliated.
        Now here she was, facing Kathy for the first time since she'd graduated and moved to Maryland with her parents. And despite her success, she suddenly felt like the plain, shy girl she'd been ten years ago.
        Kathy's blond hair was sleek and newly colored, her make-up was perfect, but her eyes were bloodshot, and not even expensive makeup could hide all the tiny veins visible around her nose. A lit cigarette smoldered in her perfectly manicured hand. She looked thin and pinched and miserable.
        Laurel stood straighter as Kathy walked purposefully up the steps.
        "Pardon me," Kathy said, waving the hand that held the cigarette. Even above the cigarette smoke, Laurel could smell whiskey on her breath.
        "Sorry Kathy. This is a crime scene. No one's allowed inside."
        Kathy's perfectly shaped brows drew down as she eyed Laurel. "Nonsense. Misty's my friend."
        Doubt it, Laurel thought.
        Kathy made a shooing gesture toward Laurel. "Check with Cade--Police Chief Dupree. Now excuse me."
        Laurel's initial flutter of apprehension at facing Kathy evaporated in a flash fire of anger. She held her badge in front of Kathy's face.
        "Sorry. FBI. Please step back."
        "Who the hell are you?" Kathy nervously flicked ash off her cigarette.
        "Special Agent Laurel Gillespie." She met Kathy's hard green gaze and was rewarded by a look of frank shock.
        Just as Fred Evans walked up behind Kathy, she recovered.
        "You have got to be kidding." She tried to side step Laurel.
        "Hold it, Kathy." Officer Evans took her arm.
        Kathy looked down at his hand. "You don't want to do that, Fred."
        Laurel frowned. Were Kathy's words slurred? She'd smelled the booze on her breath. But was she really drunk at just after eight in the evening?
        "One word to Harrison and you--" Kathy pointed her cigarette at Fred, "will be facing assault charges."         That came out as ashault sharges.
        "Right." His brown eyes twinkled as he glanced at Laurel. "Your husband's a real estate attorney. Come on, let's take you home. All the excitement's over. I'll get Harrison to get you into bed." He gestured to Officer Phillips.
        "Oh please, Freddy. Harrison hasn't gotten me into bed in two years."
        "Shelton, walk Mrs. Adler home and make sure Harrison's there. I'll stay here in case the Chief needs anything else."
        Phillips led Kathy away.
        Laurel didn't have any more trouble, although several more people she'd known in high school showed up. Obviously, word still spread as fast as it always had in Dusty Springs.
        Within a couple of minutes, the EMTs rolled Misty out on a gurney. Fred and Phillips and a couple of guys they'd recruited kept the rubberneckers at bay as the EMTs loaded Misty into the ambulance.
        Static erupted from Fred's radio. He listened, said something, and then walked up the steps.
        "I've got everything under control out here," Fred said. "Chief Dupree wants you inside."
        "Thanks. But please call me Laurel. It's good to see you. So you're working with Cade now."
        He chuckled and nodded. "Yep. Worked for his dad and now for him. Kind of a tradition in Dusty Springs I guess."
        "How is Debra?"
        His chuckle faded. "She's fine. Cade's waiting for you."
        Laurel thanked him again and went inside. The living room's overhead light was on. It spotlighted the scrapbooks and photo albums that were torn and tossed all over the floor amidst dozens of loose photos and piles of books.
        Somebody had been looking for something, and Laurel was afraid she knew what it was. The question was, had they found it?
        "What are you doing here?" Cade said without turning around. "How'd you happen to turn up just in time?"
        He stood facing the back of the couch, looking down at the spot where Misty had lain. Laurel had her first fully lighted view of him.
        Her mouth went dry and her throat fluttered, just like in high school. Most of the girls in Dusty Springs would have given their eyeteeth for a smile from his brother James, but it was Cade who'd always been able to stop her heart.
        Now here she was ten years later, all grown up. But still totally crushed on Cade Dupree. She couldn't believe that he still affected her after all this time.
        He filled up the room, just like he always had. He'd never been as big or tall as James. And while James' sparkling personality and talent in sports made him the envy of every guy and the heartthrob of every girl in town, Laurel had always preferred Cade's quiet good looks and shy smile.
        She blinked, and the image of the boy turned into the reality of the man.
        He stood, legs hip-width apart. The gray sweatpants emphasized his perfect buttocks and muscled thighs. His fists were propped on his hips, which pulled the cotton of his Ole Miss T-shirt tight across his back. Under his baseball cap his brown hair was still dark with sweat from his run.
        He was surveying the crime scene, which was what she should be doing.
        She forced her gaze away from him and looked at the floor where Misty had lain.XXX Her brain queued up a stop-action movie of the crime, based on Misty's position, the blood spatter and the condition of the house.
        She put herself into the head of the attacker. I sneak up behind Misty and hit her while she's sitting on the couch.
        No. If Misty had been sitting, she'd have slumped over on the couch, not fallen on the floor in front of it.
        Cade turned his head and pinned her with his electric blue gaze. "My question wasn't rhetorical."
She forced herself not to look away. "I didn't think it was. What do you think about her position on the floor?"
        "I asked you first."
        "Fair enough." She stepped closer. "How did I get here just in time? I flew in to Memphis this afternoon for the reunion."
        "Flew in from where?"
        "D.C. I work at FBI Headquarters. The Division of Unsolved Mysteries. I'm a criminologist."
His gaze sharpened, but all he did was nod.
        "I came straight here from the airport. Misty had invited me to stay with her. I tried to call her several times, on her cell and her home phone, but she never answered, which was odd since she was the one that made me promise to call. I pulled into her driveway at 8:03 p.m. Rang her bell, knocked on the door, then drew my weapon and turned the knob. It was unlocked."
        Cade turned around and crossed his arms. "Unlocked? That's impossible. Misty is--"
        "Borderline agoraphobic. I know." She nodded. "Not to mention a tad obsessive-compulsive. Even in grade school she couldn't stand to be inside a house alone with the doors unlocked."
        "Which means either she let someone in or they picked the lock."
        "That lock's at least sixty years old. It could probably be opened with a credit card."
        "So you walked into a dark house that you knew shouldn't be unlocked, not knowing whether you'd find a burglar, a murderer or a rapist?"
        "Or my best friend from high school." Laurel kept her expression neutral, but it was an effort.         "I'm a trained agent with field and crime scene experience. I know how to enter a suspicious dwelling."
        His face darkened. "Without backup?"
        Laurel shrugged. She knew he was right, but she wasn't wrong either. Not totally. She let it drop.         "So what do you think about her position?"
        "Someone conked her from behind."
        "Where do you think she was?"
        He looked at the couch and at the floor. "Not sitting on the couch."
        "Right. She'd have slumped over."
        The images of what must have happened were playing in her head. "Picture this."
        She turned to look at the foyer door. "I come in the door. Either it's unlocked--doubtful--or I somehow unlock it without Misty hearing me." She stepped toward the couch and raised her hand. "I'm holding a blunt object. Did I bring it in or pick it up here?"
        Cade's arms were still crossed. He nodded toward the couch. "Shelton found a baseball bat. It had rolled partly under the couch. I'm thinking it was Misty's. It was probably near the front door--for protection."
        "A baseball bat?" She shuddered at the vision of someone swinging a bat at Misty's head. "There was blood on it?"
        "Yep. He took it to the station to try and lift prints."
        "A baseball bat," she murmured. "Okay. I'm holding a baseball bat. I raise my arm and swing--" She demonstrated.
        "What are you doing?"
        The scene in her head freeze-framed. She looked up at him. "Trying to get a picture of what happened."
        "You do realize you're talking as if you're the attacker?"
        "Oh. A lot of the time I work alone, looking at forensic evidence from photographs or video. I talk to myself."
        His brows drew down. "So you walk in the perp's shoes. I reckon I see the crime unfolding like a movie--it's how my dad always did it. I guess everybody's got their own way of doing things." He scrutinized her. "So Gillespie, if you're acting out what the attacker did, you need to use your other hand. The blow was to the left side of Misty's head."
        She felt her cheeks heat up. "You're right. That won't do. The attacker had to be left-handed."         She looked at her hands. "Wouldn't you think at least one perp would use the wrong hand, just to throw off the police?"
        Cade's mouth turned up at the corner and Laurel's pulse jumped at the hint of his killer smile.
        He shrugged. "Plus you've still got Misty sitting on the couch."
        "Okay. I'll start over." She started to turn back toward the door.
        "Hold it." Cade stopped her with a hand on her arm. A large, blunt-fingered, warm hand.
        Crime scene, she thought. Crime scene, not high school.
        "Are you planning to act out the entire thing?"
        "I like to when I can."
        He cocked his head to one side. "Okay, go ahead."
        She gave him a sheepish smile. "Why did Misty get up? Did she turn around and look at her attacker? Here. You be the attacker and I'll be Misty."
        Cade sent her a look. "Might as well. We don't have much else to go on. Shelton lifted prints off the dining table, but Misty had a reunion committee meeting here a couple of days ago, so there are going to be dozens of prints."
        "It was three days ago. You stand here, behind the couch." She moved to go around to the front but Cade caught her arm again.
        "Aren't you going to give me the blunt object?"
        "Ha-hah. Don't make fun of me unless you have a better idea."
        He shook his head.
        "Here's something else to think about. Look at the couch."
        "Yeah, I know. Blood spatter across the cushions. Proves she wasn't sitting."
        "Have you taken samples?"
        "Got a few. Don't forget that this isn't D.C. It's Dusty Springs, Mississippi. We're not equipped to handle a lot of lab work, and I can guarantee you that the state lab won't consider a minor breaking and entering, even with injuries, top priority."
        Laurel didn't comment. She knew she could use the FBI lab in D.C. but if she offered, Cade would want to know why she'd offer their resources for such a relatively insignificant crime. And she wasn't ready to explain the reason she'd violated her promise to herself never to set foot in Dusty Springs again. She knew the suspicion that had drawn her back here was flimsy at best. She needed to gain his confidence before she told him her theory.
        "Okay," she said. "I'm sitting on the couch, watching TV. I hear something. I get up and turn around. It would explain the blow to the left side of her head--"
        Cade swung the imaginary bat. "But not her position on the floor."
        "Use your left hand." Air stirred against her cheek as he feigned a blow to the left side of her head. "I crumple, into the exact position where she was found."
        "She had to be facing the TV."
        "So if she stood because she heard the intruder, why didn't she turn around?"
        "Her cell phone." Cade said it at the same time as Laurel spotted it on top of the TV.
        "She got up to answer her cell phone." Her stomach sank to the floor. "It was me. I called her from the airport at that very moment."
        "Your call may have saved her life."
        Laurel frowned at him.
        "If she'd been sitting on the couch, the attacker would have had a much better angle, and the blow would have struck much harder. It could have killed her."
        Laurel looked at the cell phone. "Have you got gloves?"
        He nodded and reached into his cargo pocket.
        She looked at the pocket and then up at him. "Those pants hold a lot." Oh no. Had she said that aloud?
        "You'd be surprised," he said as he held out a handful of exam gloves.
        She turned around to hide the bright red blush that heated her face.
        "Misty assured me she'd be at home. She always watches Secret Lives at six. At first I thought she didn't answer because she was engrossed in the show." She donned the gloves then picked up Misty's cell phone and accessed the incoming calls.
        "I called her at 6:25 when the plane landed. Then at 6:58, and 7:20." She looked at the muted TV. The logo in the corner of the screen identified the station that carried Secret Lives. "If she was watching the show, then she was attacked after it started but before it ended. So she was attacked between 6:00 and 6:30."
        As soon as she'd seen Misty's floor littered with photos and paper, she'd known what the attacker was after. But now she had to face her own responsibility for Misty's attack. Her mouth tasted like cotton. She couldn't delay any longer. No matter what Cade thought of her shaky theory, she had to come clean. She needed his help.
        "So you think my phone call kept her from being hurt even worse. I suppose that's some comfort, considering--" she stopped. This was as hard as she'd known it would be.
        His intense blue eyes held hers, lasering holes in her confidence. "Considering what?"
        She didn't know if he was reacting to the guilt that must be written all over her face or the sudden tension that tightened like springs through her entire body, but his demeanor changed.
        He uncrossed his arms and casually flexed his fingers near the pocket of his sweats. At the same time he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. He was poised and ready for anything. The transformation was an awesome and frightening sight.
        "Do you see what's all over the floor? Photos. Scrapbooks. Journals." She gestured toward the hardwood floor. "I know why Misty was attacked."
        Cade didn't speak, nor did he move his hand.
        "All this--" this time she included the bloodstain on the floor and the couch in her sweeping gesture, "--is my fault."