Chapter One

Charity Atkins peeled off a slender strip of loose floral wallpaper from the safe house kitchen wall, absently wrapping it around her index finger. If she had to guess, based on the yellow-and-orange daisies on puke-green print, she’d assume the room hadn’t been redecorated since the seventies. The entire one-story brick house was an aging eyesore, and the fact that she was rarely allowed to walk outside its walls did nothing to help her adapt to this supposed sanctuary.

Who knew dating some random boy in high school could end this badly?

Kyle Fletcher wasn’t random, though. Not in the big scheme of things. But Charity hadn’t received that memo until far too late.

As the son of a former Mafia boss, Kevin Fabbri—Kyle’s real name—was doomed from conception. Despite the federal government’s attempts to protect him and his orphaned siblings with new aliases, he couldn’t escape the “mob kid” status.

Even the passing of fifteen years hadn’t been enough to protect Kyle from all who sought vengeance against his family for the sins of his father.

“Charity.” Her mother’s voice snapped across the kitchen table as she swirled a scoop of mashed bananas from a tiny plastic jar. Diane Atkins was a mannerly, by the book forty-four-year-old woman who rarely let anything slide. “Don’t destroy the wallpaper, honey.”

Turning away from the wall, Charity couldn’t help but smile. Marisol, her one-year-old daughter, sat happily in her high chair, waiting for Grandma’s next spoonful of goopy goodness with a half-open mouth and slimy remnants on her round, rosy cheeks.

“Have you actually looked at this wallpaper?” Charity grinned as she grabbed a wipe from the table and gently swiped at Marisol’s messy face. “I think it gave up on life sometime last century.”

Expecting more chiding, she was delighted when a laugh escaped her mother’s lips instead.

“You might have a point there. It does sort of resemble a hate crime in floral form.”

Being stuck in a safe house with her nineteen-year-old daughter and one-year-old grandchild for over a month and a half had taken its toll on Charity’s kind and courteous mother. They needed humor now, more than ever.

Diane allowed herself a few more chuckles before frowning again. “But still. It’s the principle. Besides, Agent Hayne might arrest you if he catches wind of the property destruction.”

Hearing his name, the federal employee stuck his head around the corner from the living room. “Couldn’t care less, ma’am. Could not care less.”

Charity and her mother sputtered into laughter again. As far as 24-7 law enforcement agents doubling as babysitters went, they’d gotten lucky with Jason Hayne. At six-two, the thirtysomething had a formidable appearance while simultaneously possessing an unexpected playful streak and gentle nature.

Even the baby liked him.

And he’s not so bad to look at either. Those dimples.

Her face flushing hot, Charity focused on Marisol’s big brown eyes and avoided glancing in Agent Hayne’s direction. He was too old for her and too young for her mom—or so they told each other—but Charity had a feeling both Atkins ladies would have happily overlooked the age difference if his attention slid their way.

Though Mom would only admit to it over her own dead body.

The man was all about the job regardless, and given the situation, Charity appreciated his professionalism. Jason was a dedicated federal agent who tried to make the best of the mess he’d been left to guard. And she’d be forever grateful when all was said and done—assuming Kevin’s big sister, Alta Fabbri, ever gave up seeking her bloody revenge for the loss of her two brothers.

“I miss my brown hair.” She tugged at a bleached-blond lock and frowned at her mother. “And these contacts are driving me insane. Was giving me blue eyes really necessary?”

Charity’s eyes were naturally the same deep brown as Marisol’s, and she wondered if her daughter would get confused as to what Mommy really looked like. Was that possible for a one-year-old?

“I understand your frustration.” Her mother’s usual hoity-toity tone returned. “But the federal agents wouldn’t have placed us here and asked us to make these changes if it weren’t for our own safety.”

Charity studied her beautiful baby girl. “You don’t think dressing Marisol up as a boy is taking it a bit far?”

“Hey, now.” Agent Hayne strolled into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. “Everyone here knows Marisol is the resident princess.” He stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes, earning a delighted squeal from the baby.

“Yes.” Charity sighed and checked the oven timer. “We know. I guess that has to be good enough for now.”

She itched to see other human faces. Since they’d moved into the rural haven so graciously bestowed upon them by the federal government, they hadn’t even been allowed to take a trip into the nearby town of Hamel. Granted, the bustling metropolis boasted a whopping population of just over three thousand, and its main attraction—a run-down mom-and-pop grocery store—offered little by way of entertainment or inspiration, so they weren’t missing much.

I should be inspired by the fact that I’m still alive. Focus on the positive. Alta hasn’t killed me or my daughter. Yet.

“This won’t last forever, ma’am.” Agent Hayne had been told to call her Charity at least a million times, but he didn’t seem to be capable of that. “Alta Fabbri can’t hide indefinitely. Once they have eyes on her, it’s only a matter of time until you’re free to live your life the way you’d like.”

The timer beeped, prompting Charity to remove a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls. “Mom, you did really good this time. These look amazing.”

“So what you’re saying,” Diane jammed her fists on her hips, “is the last batch was unacceptable.” A playful wink followed.

Mom’s in such a great mood. Hope it lasts.

Charity tried to choke down her laughter but couldn’t. “Come on, Mom. Those weren’t cinnamon rolls. They were like…”

“Hockey pucks,” Agent Hayne finished the sentence for her. “With all due respect, ma’am, your daughter is just telling the truth. I’m sure that’s how you raised her. It’s commendable, really.”

Smiling, Diane popped the spoon into Marisol’s mouth. “Okay, okay. That’s fair. But if I can admit my last batch of cinnamon rolls was a culinary disaster, maybe Charity can admit that, as far as disguises go, she got off easy.”

Poor Mom. She’s not wrong about that.

Charity’s mother had been asked to bleach her dark hair not blond but white, cut it short, and perm it. Once she’d added the granny glasses to her new look, she could easily be mistaken for a sixty-something grandmother instead of the pretty mid-forties woman she was.

“Hey, you’re an adorable granny.” Charity pulled three plates from the cupboard and began dishing out the steaming-hot breakfast. “And technically you are a grandmother. There’s no shame in that, right?”

Expression softening, Diane leaned in and kissed Marisol’s forehead. “You’re right. She’s worth all of it.”

“Plus,” Agent Hayne’s light-brown eyes widened as Charity placed a giant roll in front of him, “we gotta look the part.”

“Right.” Charity rolled her eyes. “I’m the pathetic sixteen-and-pregnant dropout who had to move in with her decrepit grandmother in the sticks.”

“Decrepit?” Her mom leaned back as though she’d been struck. “Easy now…floozy.”

Charity’s jaw dropped. “Low blow. Jeez.”

“I’d just like to point out,” Agent Hayne chewed a large bite of cinnamon goodness, probably desperate to keep his charges from further verbal sparring, “that you two aren’t the only ones suffering. I have to pretend to be a doofy ole country boy who helps out around the property. No one understands the true evil nature of overalls until they’re forced to wear them for days on end. And I grew up in the Bronx, for crying out loud. But nothing prepared me for this.”

Another round of laughter raised Charity’s mood a little further despite the less-than-ideal situation. Being a murdered Mafia son’s baby mama was far from what she once envisioned for her life.

She wished she’d never even met Kevin Fabbri. The prick had been an asshole of a boyfriend and a complete no-show as a father. He hadn’t even claimed the baby as his own. Not once.

Yet without the guy…there’d be no Marisol.

As if she could hear her mother’s thoughts, her daughter let loose an adorable chorus of giggles. Charity’s heart warmed in her chest.

Things weren’t great. But they could’ve been worse.

As if on cue, the lights flickered overhead and, in a split second, went out. The oven’s neon-blue digital clock vanished, and the rumbly purr of the refrigerator yielded to silence.

Her mother’s brow knitted in concern. “What’s going on?”

“Mom.” Charity’s heart had skipped a beat or two, but she told herself it was a little too soon to jump to conclusions about what was probably a simple power outage. Probably. “The lights flicker every time it storms. Our electricity was bound to go out at some point.”

As Diane pointed at the sunlight streaming through the crack in the kitchen window blinds, her expression tightened. “It’s not even raining. The wind’s kicking up, but the meteorologist said sunny skies.”

“It could still storm.” Charity had planned to eat a second cinnamon roll, but her appetite had disappeared along with the electricity.

Agent Hayne headed for the coffeepot. “I wouldn’t worry, ma’am. The wiring in these rural parts can be a little faulty, sure, and out here in the country, this is just par for the course.”

“You’re from the Bronx, remember?” Diane wiped Marisol’s cheeks clean, her voice stern. “What do you know about the country?”

Agent Hayne finished pouring a mug of coffee but didn’t return to the table. Instead, he stationed himself at the kitchen entrance. “I could send you to the fallback room.” He glanced through the kitchen doorway down the narrow hall that connected all the rooms in the house. “But I don’t think that’s necessary yet.”

“Mom.” Charity attempted to soothe her despite her own uneasiness. “Everybody knows that about the country. Besides, like you said, it’s sunny today. We have plenty of natural light. You clean up my baby girl, and I’ll tidy up the kitchen. Then we can have some playtime in the living room before her nap. Let the locals sort out the power situation.”

Agent Hayne nodded approval as Diane let out a sigh of defeat. “Fine. But let’s not forget that the locals aren’t worried about some unhinged mobster woman coming after their daughter and grandchild.”

Even as Agent Hayne tried to comfort them, Charity noticed how stiff he’d become. How watchful.

She grabbed a sponge from the sink, ignoring the shiver running down her spine. “That’s fair.”

Within a few minutes, Marisol was squeaky clean and cradled in her grandmother’s arms while Agent Hayne stood fixed like a sentinel. Charity scrubbed the last dish and breathed a sigh of relief that her mother seemed to have momentarily forgotten the malfunctioning electricity.

See, Mom? No raving lunatics are charging the house. Still, I don’t wanna eat dinner by candlelight like the freaking pioneers, so—

The lights flickered again.

Posture tensing even more, Agent Hayne glanced at his phone. “Security cameras are down. Go. Now. Fallback room. Laundry closet, behind the units. Don’t ask questions.”

They froze as he turned toward them, his fierce gaze and hard-set jaw finally taking on the expression Charity had expected from a special agent with the FBI.

No smile, no dimples, no warmth.

The man went into defend-and-protect mode like someone had slapped his On button. “Fallback room. Go now. It won’t hold them forever, but it’ll buy you a few minutes.”

Charity felt like her feet were frozen in ice blocks, but Diane yanked her down the hallway toward the storage closet the Feds had repurposed as a fallback room. They crammed into the tiny space, and her mom locked and bolted the door as Charity crouched behind the out-of-order dryer, leaning back against the wood-paneled wall. Marisol’s eyes widened with the mirrored worry she must’ve seen on her mother’s and grandmother’s faces.

“This is just a precaution,” Charity whispered into her daughter’s sweet-smelling hair.

Climbing behind the steel appliances to join them, Diane hunched and threw an arm around Charity’s shoulders, pulling her in close. “Of course it is. Jason’s doing his job. Now hush.” She put a finger to her lips.

Hush. Because we both know it might not be a precaution.

He wouldn’t have caused them this degree of alarm if he wasn’t suspicious.

“Who’s there?” Agent Hayne’s shout tore through the house, jarring her from her thoughts. “Announce yourself!”

Gunshots were the only response.

Charity let out a yipe while her mother pushed her head low, right next to Marisol’s. “Stay down, honey. Don’t make a sound.”

As the gunfire continued, Charity’s insides turned cold. She couldn’t make out one gun from another, especially with how rapidly the shots came. Marisol cried into her chest, and Charity was thinking she might sob herself when the chaos came to an abrupt halt.

Silence.

She took a deep breath, kissing Marisol’s forehead repeatedly while staying tucked down in her mother’s lap. She couldn’t explain to a baby the absolute necessity of staying quiet, and the complete lack of sound coming from the living room did nothing to reassure her that the worst of the nightmare was over.

With so many shots fired, was it possible Agent Hayne could’ve made it through unscathed?

Please. Just give us the all clear. Please be okay.

Lifting her head, Charity exchanged a hopeful look with her mother, whose tear-streaked cheeks betrayed the horror of their current situation. Any second, Agent Hayne’s voice would carry down the hallway, and they’d find out who was responsible for the gun battle.

Charity’s heartbeat thumped in her ears as she strained to make out the sound of their protector’s voice. Of anything at all.

But the seconds ticked by in total silence.

Agent Hayne would’ve said something by now. He wouldn’t leave them suffering in suspense. He’d have assured them he was okay the second the gunfire stopped.

If he could.

“What if…what if he needs our help?” Charity tugged at her mother’s sleeve.

“No.” She shot her daughter an icy warning glare. “He said to wait. So we wait.”

Marisol sniffled, tangling her pudgy fingers in strands of Charity’s bleached hair. Charity chewed at her lip as each agonizing minute passed. “We’ve already waited. He could be injured. He could be dying. We can’t just sit here and let him die.”

Diane pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly torn between self-preservation and concern for the affable man who’d been charged with keeping them safe. “He. Said. Wait. We stay here with Marisol, no matter what. Understood? We follow his orders.”

Charity shivered at the thought of what might’ve happened to Agent Hayne but did as she was told. Her mother was right. He’d been very clear with his instructions, and they couldn’t afford to take any chances.

Three gunshots rang out, so loud that Charity’s ears screamed at the sound.

Marisol let out a wail. Charity’s hand flew up, pressing gently over her baby’s mouth, her other arm cocooning her close. “Shhh, baby, please.” But she couldn’t blame the child. She was close to crying too.

Listening hard, she tried to hear voices. Something.

Two more gunshots nearly loosened her bladder. Marisol wailed, and Charity could do nothing to calm her daughter.

At least the locks held, thank good—

Boom!

An explosion tore through the door. A concussive blast rocked the space as a slab of wood slammed into the washer and dryer with a crash that shook the floor. Steel groaned. Smoke and splinters choked the air, stinging Charity’s eyes.

But the machines held.

Shielded by the metal, she hunched over Marisol, praying the girl stayed quiet.

A shadow filled the doorway.

Charity’s entire body trembled as she realized the nightmare wasn’t over. It was just getting started.

Marisol began to wail even louder, and Diane screamed as none other than Alta Fabbri looked down at the trio, her dark eyes shining with glee as her mouth widened into a grotesque smile.

Alta stepped into the little room as if she’d been conjured by hell itself. With more strength than seemed human, she shoved the warped door and the heavy dryer aside like cardboard.

Back in the days when Charity had dated Kevin Fabbri, believing him to be just another normal high school guy named Kyle Fletcher, she’d found his older sister, Ann—Alta’s alias—intimidating and cold. Now, after the string of murders in Alexandria that had claimed the lives of both of Alta’s younger brothers…after the crucifixions…the woman looked like the devil incarnate.

“Well, if this isn’t the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” Alta stood before them, beautiful, fearsome, and soulless, with an assault rifle slung across her back and a handgun pointed directly at them. “Time to pay the piper, bitches. You’ve got something that’s mine.”

Charity instantly turned to shield Marisol. “Please don’t hurt us!”

But Diane rose with a roar. “You will not hurt my babies.” Dropping her shoulder, she charged at Alta, who merely stepped to the side and threw her onto the hallway floor.

“Oh, Ms. Atkins, you’re mistaken.” Alta trained the gun on the woman. “I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”

As Charity scrambled to her feet, Alta fired. The shot echoed off the narrow walls of the hallway and the low popcorn ceiling.

“Did you kill my…did you kill my…” Charity couldn’t choke out the words, her grip tightening around Marisol as her knees went weak at the sight of her mother face down on the hallway floor, a pool of blood spreading around her body.

She just killed my mom.

Alta aimed the gun at Charity. “Listen. I’m sure you can’t believe this is happening and whatever. But you need to keep your shit together right now and do exactly as I say, or you’ll end up just like mommy dearest. Got it?”

Charity’s eyes stayed locked on her mother’s body. “I-I-I—”

“Do you understand or not? You’re coming with me. Or I’ll kill you. Now tell me you understand.” Alta’s snarl demanded Charity’s attention.

Meeting Alta’s demonic glare, Charity believed she’d never understood the meaning of the word “evil” until this very moment. “I understand.” She instinctively bounced Marisol as the baby began to cry again. “I’ll do wh-what you say. Please don’t hurt my baby.”

“Don’t give me a reason to, Charity.” Alta’s smile returned. As she lowered her gun, her shoulders relaxed, and her long black hair fell over her shoulders. “Pack some stuff up for you and the kid. We’re going on a trip. Call it a family vacation.”

Chapter Two

Special Agent Autumn Trent stacked mini creamer cups on the wooden tabletop inside The Lyft while waiting patiently for her breakfast order to arrive. She and her best friend, Winter Black-Dalton, had spent many an hour together in the bar, discussing cases and colleagues, triumphs and heartache.

This morning, however, they sat in near silence, sipping fresh hot coffee. They had plenty to talk about, but both knew better than to open their mouths before they were sufficiently caffeinated.

When she graduated from college and started on her career path, Autumn had harbored a clear vision of what life had in store for her. Yet becoming a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation—specifically the Richmond, Virginia, Behavioral Analysis Unit—had offered Autumn the opportunity to take part in missions and cases she’d never dreamed of.

Despite the wealth of knowledge she’d brought to the team as a doctor of forensic psychology, she’d gained a trove of experience with the BAU, as well as…

Trauma. The word I’m looking for is trauma.

Had the one-eighty she’d taken when Supervisory Special Agent Aiden Parrish offered her a position on his team truly been the best decision? Was she even capable of taking a different path after all that had happened?

The real question is…do I want to?

Autumn bit her tongue, willing away the surge of emotions attempting to rise in her chest.

“Hello?” Winter waved a hand in front of Autumn’s face. “Earth to Agent Trent. You’re checking out on me here.”

“Sorry.” Autumn snapped to attention, managing the weakest of apologetic grins. “I’m just thinking about that conversation I had with Maury Fabbri a few days ago. How concerned he was for his granddaughter, Marisol, now that Alta’s gone rogue.”

Winter winced. “You really think Alta could kill a baby?”

“I think we need to find her before that’s even an option.” Autumn gripped her coffee cup until her knuckles turned white. “She doesn’t deserve to freely roam around after what she did to Aiden. And the fact that Maury even thought his daughter could take out her own infant niece confirms that she’s truly among the worst of monsters.”

“It does indeed.” Winter leaned back against the booth cushion. “No one’s arguing that.”

Autumn pressed her lips together. “Not finding Alta first could mean Marisol’s life.”

“Let’s just keep that at the forefront of our minds. We need to find Alta first to save a baby. Personal vengeance isn’t the motivation.” Winter gave Autumn a hard, penetrating look. “Right? That’s not what we do. That’s not who we are.”

“You’re still worried I’ll kill her.” Autumn read the concern like fine print across Winter’s face. “But I need you to believe me when I say I won’t. I would never. Not even…not even to avenge Aiden.”

Winter tilted her head, her silky black hair swishing to the side. “I do believe you.”

“Uh-huh. Remember, I can test that theory with one finger.”

Autumn had incurred a life-threatening injury at the hands of her biological father when she was almost eleven years old. He’d thrown her against a coffee table, and her head had slammed into the blunt corner. Without immediate brain surgery, she wouldn’t have survived.

But I did survive. And I woke up with freaky new abilities.

Simply touching another person instantly revealed their emotional temperature. The gift had seemed like more of a curse throughout Autumn’s teen years, which she’d spent with her loving adoptive parents, Kim and Ron Trent.

Winter knew about Autumn’s ability. It had been easy for Autumn to share her secret once she realized Winter had one of her own. Due to a violent attack on her family by a serial killer known as The Preacher, Winter had incurred her own traumatic brain injury and consequential surgery at thirteen.

With that accident had also come recurring headaches along with her new ability, usually preceded by nosebleeds, that often sent her into complete blackouts where cryptic but helpful visions awaited her.

The duo’s uncanny gifts had helped them on more than a few cases.

“Go ahead.” Winter reached her hand across the table, palm up. “Touch it. I said I believe you, and I meant it. You’re not a killer. It isn’t in you.”

Autumn shook her head, waving Winter away. “Nope. That’s cheating. And I believe that you believe me.”

Grinning, Winter took another sip of coffee. “Good. Now that we’ve established that we’re both honest, upstanding citizens, I want to tell you about something I saw that was a little…unbelievable.”

“Saw as in…?” Autumn’s heartbeat quickened.

“A red glow.” Winter glanced at the bar area. “Cassidy let me have a copy of Aiden’s case file. One of the pages was a map of the street, showing the three vehicles damaged in the explosion.”

Autumn steeled herself against the invading memories of fire and flying debris. “Damage is a bit of an understatement. Aiden’s car was closer to being incinerated, but please, continue.”

“You’re right. Incinerated. But the point is, the spot in front of where his car was parked and officially pinpointed by the Bureau,” Winter leaned across the table, lowering her voice, “glowed red on the map and when I looked at the actual street in front of your building. Not where Aiden’s vehicle was. The spot ahead of it. Something about that slab of pavement matters.”

“That whole section of street was paved over almost immediately.” Autumn tried to sort through the events of the first few days following Aiden’s death, all of which she’d spent in a fog of grief. “The street was taped off and the damage erased. I assumed someone had pulled strings to wipe out the horror of it for the people in the neighborhood and the reputation of the Bureau as quickly as possible.”

Winter tapped a finger against the tabletop. “What if someone did pull strings? But for different reasons.”

Her mouth going dry, Autumn considered the idea. “Federal agents aren’t going to mismark something that obvious. Unless…”

“They’re trying to keep something under wraps.” Winter finished the sentence for her. “It’s possible they’re knee-deep in figuring out a missing piece of the puzzle.”

Autumn ground her teeth together before locking eyes with Winter. “It’s also possible they don’t want anyone to know about that detail. What if they’re hiding something?”

Winter frowned, her nose wrinkling. “What’s there to hide? You saw it happen with your own eyes. We all know that Alta is out for blood and blames Aiden for the loss of her brothers.”

“I did see it.” Autumn cleared her throat and gently dropped a couple of the creamer cups back into their tiny metal basket. “And I still one-hundred-percent believe that Alta’s responsible. But what if Aiden wasn’t being protected for a reason? What if they allowed this to happen? Made Alta’s conquest a bit easier by just not getting in the way.”

That poison had been lacing her insides since Aiden’s car went up in flames. The Bureau had known the risk that Maury Fabbri’s demon-seed daughter posed, and they’d failed to protect him.

“‘They’ as in the Federal Bureau of Investigation? The organization sworn to protect this country and its people? The organization you work for and have dedicated your life to?” Winter crossed her arms, one eyebrow nearly shooting off her forehead. “I wish more preventative measures had been taken to keep Aiden safe too. But he was a highly valued agent. We both know that.”

Autumn snorted, attempting to rein in her bitterness. “So valued he was left to the wolves. Or wolf. Singular. They needed to find Alta Fabbri. To draw her out. What better way than to dangle her number-one target right in front of her? Maybe that was step one in picking up the scent of her trail.”

Rubbing her temples, Winter seemed to at least consider the idea. “I know you want answers, and I know you want Alta behind bars. But you need to be careful about where you let your suspicions roam. Grief is blinding, and yours is fresh. It’s not the right time to be conjuring conspiracy theories.”

“I know.” Autumn’s stomach growled, reminding her that an order of bacon and eggs was still on the way. “And you’re right. But the red glow doesn’t lie. Like you said…that slab of pavement means something.”

“It does.” Winter ran a finger around the rim of her nearly empty coffee cup. “And we’ll figure out just what that is. But let’s do it together. Methodically. Logical thinking only.”

Autumn sputtered out a few chuckles. “Says the woman who’s gathered private information about the case at hand through her unexplainable superpowers.”

Winter lifted her shoulders, a sly smile stretching across her face. “Okay. We’ll investigate it as logically as two sci-fi freaks can manage.”

Sadness stabbed Autumn’s chest. “Aiden knew about us. Well…he didn’t know everything, but he knew we were different.” She bit her trembling lip, willing the surge of despair away.

“You miss him a lot.” Winter’s sapphire gaze pierced directly into Autumn’s soul. “It’s okay, you know, to admit that. It hasn’t even been a month.”

“Close, though. Twenty-four days, eleven hours, and counting.” Autumn spit out the comment in a cool, emotionless tone she barely recognized. “Sorry. That was morbidly precise.”

Winter shook her head. “Stop apologizing. It’s me.”

Her friend had a point. As a former FBI agent herself, Winter had been right by Autumn’s side through a sea of darkness. Only when Winter and her husband, Special Agent Noah Dalton, moved to Texas had Autumn truly faced daily life alone.

Three entire months with my best friend halfway across the country. But she’s always been just a phone call away.

And in retrospect, Autumn hadn’t understood the meaning of alone until much more recently. One car bomb was all it took to clarify the true definition of the term.

After Aiden’s murder, Winter had returned to Richmond, determined to help Autumn track down her boyfriend’s killer.

But that wasn’t the only reason her best friend had come.

“Okay, I’ll stop apologizing if you stop obsessing over trying to protect me.” Autumn knocked what was left of her creamer cup tower over with the flick of a finger. “Alta Fabbri might’ve taken Aiden by surprise, but that tactic only works once. I’m ready for her.”

“One might say a little too ready.” Winter downed the last of her coffee. “According to Cassidy, you’re fixated on eliminating the threat.”

Autumn didn’t give a damn what Associate Deputy Director Ramirez said. “Yes, and according to Cassidy, we were all safe to begin with. I’m guessing Aiden’s ashes care to differ.”

Before Winter could respond, a familiar voice interrupted them. “Agent Trent?”

Autumn looked up, meeting the kind hazel eyes of Jewel Plath. “Dr. Plath. Nice to see you again. This is my friend, Winter Black-Dalton, P.I. Are you in the neighborhood to try The Lyft’s latest breakfast endeavors?”

Jewel pushed her long caramel-brown corkscrew curls away from her face. “No. Just coffee for me. This place is on the way to work, but I’ve never stopped in before. The coffee good?”

“It’s bold and hits the spot.” Autumn shoved the creamer cups aside. “My Aunt Leigh…well, my mother’s best friend Leigh, technically…owns the place. I used to work here. My sister works here now while she’s going to college.”

“Oh, so you’re regulars.” Jewel gave a polite nod, eyeing Winter cautiously. “Good to meet you.”

Autumn patted the seat next to her. “Sit with us for a minute or two. They’ll come take your coffee order.” She turned toward Winter. “Jewel’s a medical examiner. She was paramount in solving the tea party case.”

“Oh.” Winter sized up the petite physician. “Did your facility handle the corpses?”

“A little more intimate than that, unfortunately. I was at the tea party.” Jewel swallowed, taking a step backward. “I really should just grab my coffee and—”

But Autumn had been meaning to tell Winter the rest of the story. “Jewel was one of the hostages. She helped us resolve the situation. And she also provided information that led us to the body of one of the victims. A body we might’ve otherwise taken a while to find.”

Winter waved a hand at the booth. “Sit. Please. Interacting with a serial killer firsthand must’ve been one hell of a traumatizing experience. But then again, you’re a medical examiner. You come face-to-face with trauma all the time.”

Jewel lowered herself to the padded seat beside Autumn, who noted she was careful about her injured leg—Jewel had been shot while making a bid for freedom during the tea party. “True. But generally, the trauma I run into isn’t quite so…active. The leg’s pretty much better, though.” Biting her lip, the doctor seemed immediately embarrassed by the comment.

Holding in a chortle, Autumn opened her mouth to say something to make Jewel less self-conscious but closed it again as her phone buzzed on the table. She grabbed the device and read the incoming group text message.

Report to the office immediately.

In true Gil Mullen fashion, the SSA had managed to alarm his agents with zero explanation.

“I’m sorry, ladies.” Autumn shoved her phone into her purse. “The BAU calls.”

Jewel stood, and Autumn slid out of the booth and brushed past her as the doctor slid back in, picking up on some anxiety laced with curiosity.

“Any idea when you’ll be back?” Winter echoed Jewel’s curiosity, minus the nerves.

“Nope.” Autumn pointed toward the kitchen. “A decent breakfast spread’s due out of that kitchen any minute, Jewel. Go ahead and have mine. I’ll shoot you both a text and let you know if I can return.”

Jewel offered her a wide smile. “Oh, thanks, but I’m really not—”

“Oh, c’mon.” Winter waved Autumn away, facing Jewel. “Don’t make me eat alone. It’s not every day I get to have breakfast with a medical examiner. I’ve got enough questions to keep us busy until Trent gets her butt back here.”

Autumn hurried toward the exit, casting one final glance over her shoulder. “Enjoy yourselves. Winter, behave.”

Her best friend’s mischievous half grin was all the confirmation Autumn needed to know that Winter intended to do nothing of the sort.