Across the house, the water shut off, and he took out the xerox copies of the other letters and laid them side by side on the coffee table, checking to see if there was anything he’d missed. There wasn’t, and frustration tightened his forehead. Finding a clear connection would have been too damn easy. And nothing about the case had been easy. He flipped pages in his notebook until he turned to the interviews he’d done with employees at bookstores where all four victims had purchased books.

Bookstore receipts were just one link connecting all four victims. There were others, but the receipts were looking to be a bigger piece of the puzzle than Quinn had originally thought. If Breathless wasn’t communicating with men online, then she was probably meeting them in the bookstores. Trolling the aisles for victims.

Quinn didn’t have all the personal profiles from the Peacock ladies, and he didn’t know which, if any, worked in bookstores. A week ago he’d seen several of them in the Barnes and Noble where Lucy had been speaking to the mystery writers group. It was possible they knew he was a cop. Even if none of the Peacocks worked at bookstores, they were readers who hung out there and could not be excluded.

“Christ,” he cursed and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He was going around and around in circles. Each break in the case added as many questions as it answered. Each time he crossed off one suspect, it seemed like ten more were added. Breathless was on one of those lists, though. He knew it. If he kept whittling away, he’d find her. He had leads and suspects. It would take time to get through them all. Unfortunately, time was one thing he didn’t have. Once he turned over the latest letter, the sergeant would be more determined than ever to use Lucy as bait.

Hell, if this were happening to anyone but Lucy, Quinn would be the first person to want to use her to establish more communication with Breathless. Use the media to anger Breathless into doing something stupid like showing up at a staged event, or baiting her into a physical confrontation. But this wasn’t happening to anyone else, and the last thing he wanted to do was place Lucy in even more danger.

The thought of something happening to her twisted his insides into knots and burned a hole in his gut. He thought of Merry and the pink roses in his car. It was the thirtieth. He always put flowers on Merry’s grave on April thirtieth.

There was no way he was going to have the death of two women on his soul. No way in hell that he would let anything happen to Lucy. He didn’t care if he had to hog-tie her and shove her in a closet. His closet. The one in his bedroom was big enough.

Of course that was out of the question. Mitchell would have a fit. Besides, having her in his house would drive Quinn insane. He couldn’t have her, and he couldn’t keep his hands off her. Oh, he would have every intention of keeping his hands to himself, but something would happen and she’d be in his arms again, pressed up against him, and he’d be feeling for bra straps. Getting all hot and bothered and thinking about all the places on her body he wanted to put his mouth. At the same time knowing her feelings for him and that it was never going to happen.

He was thirty-six. A grown man. If he really put his mind to it, he could control his hands. The bigger problem was that he couldn’t seem to control his body, and the last thing he wanted was to walk around his own damn house with a constant hard-on.

Frankly, he just wasn’t up for that kind of abuse.

Chapter 13

Freefallin: Seeks Solid Place

to Land…

Lucy looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and brushed her wet hair. As much as she hated to admit it, Quinn made her feel safe. Safer than she’d felt in days. It bothered her that it took a man to make her feel safe, and not just any man. Quinn. What she’d told him earlier was the truth. She’d always thought she was strong and could cope with anything and everything head-on. Snake bite? No problem, she’d just apply a tourniquet, then suck the venom out herself. Shark attack? No sweat, she’d just punch the shark in the eye. Chased by killer bees? Too easy, jump in a lake or run indoors and get a can of Raid. Get a letter from a wack job? Cry like a baby and call a big strong man.

Lucy brushed her teeth, then tipped her head upside down and dried her hair. She wondered what Quinn was doing, and she thought of the lunch he’d cooked for her. There was no way anyone would confuse it for a culinary masterpiece, but it had been just what she’d needed. Warm and filling and full-on comfort food. It also had been a very nice thing for Quinn to do.

No, she wasn’t reading too much into his every gesture and action this time. She wasn’t going to read anything into the way he’d held her after she’d opened her front door earlier and flown into his arms. Nor in the way he’d touched her or pressed his lips to the side of her head. And she certainly wasn’t going to read anything into his offer to make her lunch or stay while she showered. He’d been doing his job, and reading more into it was a dangerous slope she wasn’t about to slide down any further.

Once her hair was dry, she walked into her bedroom and pulled on her white bra and blue-and-white-polka-dot panties. She dressed in jeans and a white blouse. She shoved her feet into her penguin footies, then made her way through the kitchen to the living room. She peeked around the corner and found Quinn sitting on the couch. His forearms rested on his thighs, and his hands hung between his knees. A notebook and papers were spread out across the coffee table and couch, and he was staring into the screen of his laptop.

He should have looked out of place, a big man parked on her sofa with his crap spread out on her antique coffee table. He didn’t. He looked like a secure place to land in a suddenly insecure world. Like he alone could keep her safe. Her heart swelled a little at the sight of him, letting her know that he was anything but safe. Not for her.

Quinn turned his head as if he suddenly sensed her, and his dark gaze met hers. He straightened, and a lock of his dark hair fell over his forehead. “Do you feel better?”

“Yes,” she answered and moved into the room.

His gaze followed her. “You look good.”

She reminded herself that Quinn had hurt and humiliated her, and if a wack job hadn’t decided to send her letters, he wouldn’t be sitting in her house now. Acting like he cared. He’d be off pretending interest in the next suspect. Kissing and touching her in the name of his job. She moved to the window and looked outside. On the sidewalk beyond, two girls rode past on pink bicycles with baby dolls shoved in the baskets. Today was Saturday. Her night to stay at her mother’s.

“Lucy?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

Quinn looked across the room at her for several long moments before he said, “We have to talk about the letter that came today. I know you said you didn’t want to read what’s in it, but you need to.”

She turned. “Is it bad?”

His dark gaze continued to stare into hers, and he held up a letter encased in clear plastic. “I think so.”

Lucy walked across the room and took the letter from his hand. As she read, she moved around the coffee table and sat on the couch. When she finished, she was glad she’d sat down. Her stomach pitched and got light at the same time. She was afraid she might get sick.

“Who has your home address?” Quinn asked as he looked at her across his broad shoulder.

“I don’t know. It’s not listed anywhere.” She thought for a moment and came up with several possibilities. “Maybe someone at the DMV or post office. It’s printed on my checks, so…who knows?” Lucy set the letter on her coffee table and rubbed her temples.

“How about bookstores?”

Bookstores? “Amazon does. I have books sent here all the time.”

He shook his head. “Local bookstores.”

“I don’t know.” She thought of all the bookstores and why they might have her address. “I have a Hastings card. I had to fill out an application, so I’m sure they have my address.”

He reached for a pen. “Which one?” She told him, and he wrote it down in bold capital letters. “Let’s talk about the Women of Mystery.”

“I told Detective Weber everything I know.”

“You probably know more than you think.” He picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to her. It was a Women of Mystery roster. “Does anyone on the roster stick out in your mind as behaving odd or perhaps being an over-the-top fan?”

“Well, several of these women are odd.” She pointed to a name on the list. “Betty has been writing and rewriting the same scene about killing off her father since I’ve known her, but I don’t think she’s a killer in real life.”

“Was she the woman with white hair and glasses who was at the meeting at Barnes and Noble on the twenty-third?”

Damn, the man remembered everything. Then again, he was a cop. “That was her.”

“Tell me about Cynthia Pool and Jan Bright.”

Lucy shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Jan’s the current president of the Women of Mystery, and she’s the events person at Barnes and Noble. I know Cynthia is a member of Women of Mystery, but I don’t know how serious either woman is about her writing or whether they’re just dabblers. All I really know about them is that they are both very supportive of local writers.”

“How supportive?”

“They make sure our books are always in stock. Stuff like that.”

“What’s a dabbler?”

“A person who talks about writing but never actually finishes more than a few chapters.”

He turned and looked into her eyes as he said, “We know from the Breathless letters to you that she is a wannabe writer. She reads mystery novels, especially yours.” He reached for the second letter and placed it on top. “What does this line mean, ‘You know what they say: write what you know’? Who is ‘they’?”