Deeper Than the Grave Read Free Page B

another flash of memory—the rain, the lightning, the desperation—and felt light-headed again.
    â€œIt’s what happened in Savannah, isn’t it? For all your training and Special Ops smarts, it got to you too.”
    He exhaled heavily, then sat next to me, his back against the wall, our thighs touching. We made a pair of peculiar bookends, Trey and I, as he propped his arm on his bent knee. He leaned his head back against the wall, stared at the ceiling.
    â€œIt doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been in multiple threat scenarios; that’s what I trained for. And yet…Savannah was different.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI don’t know how to explain.”
    â€œCan you try?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œTalking about how I don’t know how to talk about it is not going to help.”
    He had a point. I leaned my head on his shoulder. He flinched again, and then forced himself to relax.
    â€œIs this who we are now?” I said. “The PTSD poster couple? I slump in a panicked stupor while you pull your weapon at the least provocation?”
    He shot me a sharp look. “I heard footsteps.”
    I didn’t feel like arguing anymore. I stood, a little wobbly, but on my own two feet. I held out my hand. He took it, eyeing me from top to bottom as he let me pull him to standing.
    â€œCome back with me to Buckhead,” he said.
    â€œI can’t. I’ve got—”
    â€œPlease.”
    Damn it. He had to go and use the p-word. “Fine. If it makes you happy.”
    â€œIt does. Go get your bag.” He held the door open for me. “I want to check the cameras one more times, video and audio, see if they caught something. And you really do need to talk to your neighbor about that dead zone in the alley. There’s absolutely no reason—”
    I let him gripe. It was forty-five minutes back to the steel and glass safety zone of his Buckhead apartment. One short elevator ride to the thirty-fifth floor, then the triple-lock system would engage, the deadbolts and the Schlage platinum keyswitch and the security alarms too, all the primary and secondary and tertiary systems. No more quickening panic. No more opportunity for everything to slide and crash.
    No more surprises, of any kind.

Chapter Four
    The next morning, the sky had the low ponderous weight of a mudslide. Yet there I was standing under that sky with an umbrella and a bag of pastries, the sideways rain and thick humidity playing havoc with my hair. The headquarters of Atlanta’s FBI Field Office loomed before me. Somewhere on the top floor of that graphite-glassed cube was the temporary office of Dan Garrity, Trey’s former partner and slightly estranged best friend, who had recently been promoted to the Atlanta Metro Major Offenders Task Force. Though still technically an Atlanta PD detective, Garrity’s main gig for the next two years would be here, with AMMO—assuming he didn’t go to prison, flee the state, or get shot down in his driveway like his three predecessors.
    I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder. When Garrity answered, I waved. “Look out your window, Secret Agent Man.”
    A few seconds’ silence. “Is that you under the umbrella?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œThere’s a tornado watch on, you know. Not the best idea, standing out there like a lightning rod.” A pause. “So what’s in the bag?”
    â€œDoughssants. Like croissants, only doughnutty. With brandied peaches on top.”
    â€œThat’s a real thing?”
    â€œSmells real. Wanna take a coffee break and find out?”
    ***
    Garrity met me in the lobby under the official FBI seal, with its corona of navy and gold flourishes and the stalwart motto: Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity . I sat on the bench with my knees together, raindrops beating against the window, stronger now. Not a single dark-suited agent spared me a second