Colorado Crime Scene

Farther down the page were articles about his disappearance almost a year before: Top Nuclear Physicist Missing. Professor Mark Renfro Missing, Feared Dead.

Luke read through that article, though he’d long ago memorized the text.

Mark Renfro, professor of nuclear physics at the University of Colorado in Boulder, has been reported missing after failing to return from a hiking trip in Colorado’s remote Weminuche Wilderness area. Professor Renfro set out alone to hike to the top of Wilson Peak on Monday, and has not been seen since a pair of hikers reported passing him on the trail at about noon that day. Renfro was an experienced hiker who had reportedly been struggling with depression since the death of his wife in a car accident six months earlier. One colleague at the university, who wished to remain anonymous, stated he feared Renfro had arranged the hike with the intention of committing suicide.

Luke exited the screen, familiar anger rising up inside him. Mark had not committed suicide. Yes, he’d been devastated by Christy’s death in the accident, but he would never have left their four-year-old daughter, Mindy, alone. Something had happened to keep him from coming back to the girl. Luke was certain his brother was still alive, and he would give anything to bring him back.

He’d driven Mark to the trailhead that day and arranged to meet him back there in two days. Luke’s work schedule had prevented him from accompanying his brother on the hike, but Mark had taken these solo treks before. “I get some of my best ideas out there with no one else around,” he’d said. Far from being depressed, he’d been in good spirits that morning. In the early hours, the sky showing the first faint hint of light, only one other car had been at the trailhead. Luke had scarcely glanced at the two dark figures inside. He wasn’t working, and he didn’t need to clutter his mind with more strangers’ faces.

But what if he had taken the time to memorize those men? Were they the key to finding his brother and he’d missed his chance? He closed his eyes and tried again to picture the scene, but his mind came up blank. All he saw was Mark’s face, smiling, eager to set out. Not the face of a man who was walking to his death.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, aided by a sleeping pill and a half hour of yoga, Morgan was feeling calmer. She headed down to the hotel’s free breakfast buffet, her mind on her plans for the day. In addition to writing several articles for Road Bike Magazine, she’d been hired to blog about each day’s race stage for the popular Cycling Pro website. Today she had an interview with an Italian rider who was one of the top contenders to win the race, then a Skype meeting with one of the UCI officials to get his views on the race. The Union Cycliste Internationale oversaw every aspect of sanctioned modern bicycle road races. In the wake of the bombings that had rocked other races, they had a lot riding on the success of this Colorado event.

Thoughts of the bombings brought her back to Agent Luke Renfro. He obviously knew more about the attacks than he was telling her. Maybe she needed to find him and pump him for more information. He’d said he was going to be around for the race. Maybe she’d spot him tonight, at the banquet to kick off the race festivities, before the racers headed out to the starting point in Aspen tomorrow. Under the guise of making small talk, she could question him, and maybe get a better feel for whether or not he was as dangerous to her peace of mind as he’d felt last night.

She found a table at the back of the breakfast room and was slathering strawberry jam onto a piece of wheat toast when Luke Renfro pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

Her initial pleasure at seeing him again quickly gave way to nervousness. Her heart fluttered and she had to set aside the knife before she dropped it. “What are you doing here?” she asked, avoiding meeting his gaze.

He was dressed more casually today, in a blue pinstriped oxford shirt open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms lightly dusted with brown hair. He smelled of shaving cream—a clean, masculine scent that made her stomach flutter in rhythm with her racing heart.

“I had some more questions for you.” He unfolded a napkin across his lap, then picked up the mug of coffee he’d brought with him.

“You won’t tell me anything, so why should I share anything with you?”

“After I got back to the hotel last night, I went online and read some of your work. You’re very good. I’m curious why you’re a freelancer, and not on staff with one of the top cycling publications.”

She told herself it wasn’t creepy that he’d looked her up online. Everyone did it these days, whether they were checking out potential job applicants or prospective dates. So why did it make her so nervous that this particular man had been checking out her background? “Those staff jobs aren’t necessarily easy to come by,” she said. She sipped her coffee, her hands steady enough to drink it without spilling. “Anyway, I prefer the flexibility of freelancing.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you yesterday,” he said. “What, exactly, did I say that made you so afraid?”

“I wasn’t afraid.” Her voice squeaked on the last word and she looked away.

“You may be an excellent writer, but you’re a lousy liar.”

When she dared to look at him again he was smiling. His lack of hostility soothed her a little, and in that moment she made a decision. She pulled out her phone and thumbed to the picture library. She turned the screen toward him. “Is this the man you’re looking for?” Her voice quavered, and her heart pounded painfully, drowning out the clatter of cutlery and chatter of the diners around them.

She’d taken the photograph of Scott almost a year ago, on a hike in the Texas hill country, near their home in Austin. He stood with his slender frame leaning against a bent pine tree, a breeze blowing his blond hair across his face. He’d refused to smile for the camera or even to look directly at her. At the time, she’d thought he was merely being stubborn and moody; now she recognized the first signs that he wasn’t himself, that what he always referred to as “his demons” were getting the best of him.

“Who is this?” Agent Renfro asked, his expression giving away nothing.

“First, tell me if he’s your bombing suspect.” Even saying the words made her feel a little faint, but better to know the truth than to keep wondering.

“No.”

Relief flooded her, leaving her weak and shaky. She set aside the phone and sagged back against the chair. “Thank God,” she whispered, not even caring that he saw her so undone.

“But I’ve seen him before,” he said, his smile gone, his voice serious.

“Where?” she demanded. “When?” Was he all right? Was he safe? Was he in trouble?

“First, tell me who he is. And who he is to you.”

“He’s my brother. My older brother. Scott.”

Something—surprise?—flickered in Luke’s eyes. Followed by sympathy. He definitely didn’t look as threatening. “He was in London,” he said. “At the Tour of Britain.”

“Oh.” She put her fingers to her lips, too late to hold back the cry. To think that she’d been so close to him but hadn’t seen him.

“You’re looking for him, aren’t you?” Luke’s voice was gentle, his blue eyes full of understanding. “That’s why you freelance—so you can travel around and look for him.”

“Yes.” She swallowed, reining in her emotions. “He disappeared ten months ago. But before that, he was a bicycle racer. A really good one. He was part of the US Olympic team in London. Then the trouble started.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“He began disappearing. He claimed to hear voices—his devils, he called them. He tried to hurt himself. Doctors diagnosed schizophrenia. They put him on medication and he began to get better. But he had to give up racing. He continued to follow the races and found work as a photographer.”

“When I saw him on the surveillance videos, he had a camera.”

She closed her eyes, summoning an image of her brother with his camera. In the memory, he was taking pictures of her, laughing and joking around. This was the memory she wanted to keep, not the one of the troubled young man who had left their family so bereft and confused.

She opened her eyes again and found Luke watching her, calm and patient, waiting for more. “We thought everything would be all right,” she said. “The medication had side effects—he gained weight, he couldn’t sleep—but we thought he had accepted that. That he was building a new life for himself. And then one day he just...vanished.”

“No signs of foul play?”

She shook her head. “Later, when we put all the pieces together, I realized there were warning signs—things we ignored because we wanted so desperately for things to be all right. He was unhappy. He stopped socializing with friends. And then we learned he’d stopped seeing his doctors. He didn’t refill his medication. He lied to us and told us everything was fine, but we should have known better. We should have seen the signs...”

His hand covered hers, warm and strong, pulling her out of the mire of guilt she’d almost allowed herself to slip back into. “Beating yourself up won’t bring him back,” he said.

She nodded and gently pulled out of his grasp, though reluctantly. He was so calm and steady, not freaking out at the mention of mental illness and not pulling away from her. She didn’t normally associate law enforcement officers with such empathy. The police who had responded when they’d filed a missing persons report on Scott had been coldly suspicious and unhelpful. They didn’t have time to waste searching for a twenty-six-year-old who’d decided to drop out of society; especially a twenty-six-year-old who was crazy.

“I’m going to ask you a question that’s going to be hard for you to hear,” Luke said. “But I want you to answer honestly.”

She nodded. Hadn’t she already asked a million hard questions of her own over the months since Scott had left?

“Do you think it’s possible that your brother has had anything to do with the bombings at bike races?”

“No!”

“But when we spoke yesterday—when I said I was looking for the bomber—that’s what you were afraid of, wasn’t it? That’s why you showed me his picture this morning?”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “I thought you might believe it of him, but I don’t believe it,” she said. “Scott was never violent toward anyone else. Even when he was at his worst, he only tried to hurt himself, not others.”

“Mental illness can make people do things they wouldn’t otherwise do,” he said. “He may have a grudge against professional cycling since he’s no longer able to participate in a sport he loved.”

“But you only saw him at the one race, right? He wasn’t at the Paris Roubaix, where the first bomb exploded?”