“Good news. I found an unopened box of peanut butter Oreos stashed under the bed.” He tossed the package a few inches into the air, then caught it. Her favorite guilty pleasure. Elliot pounded down the small set of stairs and rounded the corner into the main living space from the back of the cabin.
The color had left Waylynn’s cheeks, her knuckles white around the phone in her hand. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end at the sight of her. Forget the cookies. Tossing the package onto the counter, he pulled the weapon from his shoulder holster beneath his sweatshirt and clicked off the safety, ready for war. “Tell me whose ass I need to kick.”
“Somebody doesn’t just want to frame me for Alexis’s murder. They’re destroying my life.” Her voice barely reached across the small space. Confusion deepened the color in her ocean-blue gaze. “Elliot, my research… It’s gone. Everything I’ve worked for—for the past ten years, is gone.”
His gut tightened. Hell. That’d been her life’s work, her career. And it was gone? Elliot didn’t believe in coincidences. First, her assistant’s murder in Waylynn’s apartment. Now this. She was right. Whoever’d set her up to take the fall was ensuring she’d never get back up. He scanned the perimeter from the nearest window, then centered back on her, approaching slowly, and lowered the gun. Locking on the phone still clutched in her hand, he holstered his weapon. “Who was on the phone?”
“Dr. Stover. Someone broke in to the lab. There was a fire.” Her voice hollowed. She somehow went even paler. Her attention snapped up as he closed the distance between them and everything inside him heated. The delicate column of her throat flexed on a swallow. “The fire department thinks it was arson. There were traces of accelerant all over my desk. Chemicals we keep in the janitorial closets.”
He denied the urge to wrap her in his arms. While he hadn’t taken her on as an official client—yet—the same rules applied. No getting involved with clients. “Just yours?”
She nodded but refused to let go of that damn phone. “Yes. Someone burned it all. My handwritten notes, my digital files, a decade’s worth of studies and genetic testing… It was all in my desk or on my computer. What am I going to do?”
“What about a backup?” There had to be something salvageable.
“Genism doesn’t allow employees to have backups other than the company server, but Matt said that’s been tampered with, too.” She swiped at her face, shoulders rising on a deep inhale as though her emotional reservoir had run dry. “We can’t bring any foreign devices into the lab, take files out or save them to the cloud.”
Of course they couldn’t. That would make too much sense. And, suddenly, Elliot couldn’t keep his distance from her any longer. Reaching for her, he slid his fingers up her arms. Calluses caught on her smooth skin, the rush of the scent of geraniums was intoxicating. “Waylynn, I’m sorry. I know how much your work meant—means—to you.”
It was her entire life, her career. Her ticket out of a rough childhood, which he’d most recently learned included a murder accusation. She’d moved on from that life, had obviously worked hard for it. College, graduate school, becoming one of the foremost experts in the country on genetics. And in the flash of a flame, it was gone. Didn’t seem fair.
“Does this place have a shower?” she asked.
“Bathroom is past the kitchen on the right.” Elliot hiked a thumb over his shoulder and turned slightly to give her a line of sight. Despite the bloody tint to her blond hair, the smear of her eyeliner and mascara, and the fact she’d lost everything that mattered to her, Waylynn held her head high.
“Take your time. Clean towels are hanging behind the door,” he said.
A single nod was all he got in response as she pulled out of his grasp and headed toward the bathroom.
The lock clicked into place and he didn’t waste any time. Whoever’d framed her for murder had started the fire in her lab. He was sure of it. The timing. The opportunity. They both lined up. The SOB might be dangerous, but Elliot was worse. Because they’d never see him or his team coming.
Extracting his laptop from one of the black duffel bags on the couch, he flipped it open and took a seat at the counter. Framing Waylynn to cover up a murder was one thing. Alexis’s murder could’ve had nothing to do with Waylynn, but his next-door neighbor happened to make the perfect scapegoat with her sordid past. Coming after Waylynn’s research? That was personal. Someone was hunting her.
The unsub—unknown subject—had to know about her father’s murder accusation in order for the frame job to stick. Except those records had been sealed because Waylynn had been a minor at the time. Which meant the bastard was either connected to the case or had premeditated pinning the murder on Waylynn by looking for something incriminating. He couldn’t discount any possibility. Not when it came to keeping her alive.
Elliot glanced toward the bathroom at the sound of water hitting tile. It’d take a few minutes for her to wash off the blood. Focusing on the screen, he pulled up the internet browser and typed in her name. His finger hovered over the enter key. Of all the people he’d investigated, of all the chances he’d had to dig into her past, he’d kept Waylynn’s off-limits, respecting her privacy. He had an entire team of coworkers. Former SEALs and Rangers, an ex-National Security Agency consultant, a military investigator, Blackhawk Security’s forensics expert and a psychologist. He’d worked with them for over a year, trusted them with his life, but Waylynn was different. Special. Forbidden.
And yet someone was trying to hurt her.
He hit the button. The screen brightened as headlines filled the page. Top stories included the massive progress she’d made in the bioengineering community, but one stood out among the rest. “Rhinebeck, NY, fifteen-year-old acquitted of father’s murder.” Elliot read through the article. Waylynn had spent over three weeks in county lockup after her arrest on school grounds. Never gave a statement, never tried to blame the crime on someone else, or offered an alibi. Police had questioned her cancer-stricken mother at the time, but ultimately concluded Nora Hargraves didn’t have the strength to lift the missing handgun used to kill her husband in cold blood. Without the murder weapon, the prosecution had no other choice than to release the teen despite ample motive and opportunity. Her mother had died during the trial.
Hell. In the year they’d been neighbours, he’d known Waylynn had lost her mother when she was younger, and about the foster family who’d taken her in until she’d turned eighteen, but he hadn’t realized the circumstances. Elliot leaned back in his chair to break up the tightness in his throat. He’d been on his own since he was fourteen. Voluntarily. Waylynn had everyone taken from her in a three-week span. He glanced toward the bathroom.
But none of this narrowed down a suspect pool. Nathan Hargraves had been shot nine times and died from massive blood loss. The forensic pathologist who’d signed the death certificate hadn’t gone into more detail other than a final conclusion reading “homicide” and a note that reported a mere five dollars in cash had been found on the body at the time of the autopsy.
No other family. No friends who’d seemed too beat up about her father’s death. No reason for someone to come after Waylynn. He’d have to do some more digging, but if Alexis’s murder and the fire at the lab had anything to do with Waylynn’s past, he couldn’t see it. Which meant their suspect had learned about the trial, but only planned to use it to secure an arrest fifteen years later. Would’ve worked, too. If police had recovered the gun.
Elliot ran a hand through his hair, then rested his elbow against the counter. She hadn’t told him any of this. In the year they’d been neighbors, she’d never mentioned her parents, her hometown, the fact she’d been in the foster system at the age of fifteen. Then again, how often had he talked about his parents? His hometown?
“All right, Alexis Jacobs, show me what you’ve got.” He rolled back his right shoulder, working through the