Fractured Memory

“I want to go back to the question you were asking me before the doctor came in. They found a crack in the furnace at the safe house and the FBI is looking into the possibility that someone may have tampered with it.”

Blood roared in her ears. Could this assassin have found her that quickly?

“Julia...” His voice trailed, and he looked away. There was something he wanted to tell her but he seemed to question if whatever truth he held could be too much for her to take. Eli lifted his eyes. “Do you trust me?”

Unexpectedly, his question felt like a punch in her gut. In every relationship, there was an inherent amount of trust. Just based on her position as a nurse, she expected her patients and their families to trust her on some level in order for her to do her job. If a family didn’t have that basis of understanding, it made her care more difficult because the doubt they possessed clouded every action she took at the bedside. Did that nurse clean my child’s skin enough before she put the IV in? Is that why my child now has a blood infection three days later?

Eli locked her eyes with his. “I can’t do my job unless you trust me on some level.”

“Why do you think that I don’t?”

“I’m just putting myself in your shoes. I uprooted you from your life, and the first thing that happens is you almost—”

“Eli, I don’t blame you for the furnace. How could I?”

His body relaxed. “I’m relieved, but I also would understand if you’d want another agent to take my place.”

Julia found herself shaking her head before her mind registered a thought. If she was truthful, she would have to confess that she wondered if Eli could keep her safe, but there was also a feeling that she didn’t want to be separated from him. “I don’t want that. I don’t want to have to get to know another team. I want to stick with you and Ben.”

For now.

FIVE (#ulink_eef30194-3b5e-5ffd-92c1-ad8fa0f83553)

The next morning, Eli was hopeful for an uneventful day. Will and Jace reported there had been no overnight incidents at the hospital. Ben was well rested and relieved the two of them so they could sleep.

Eli was parking his car in the hospital lot when a call from Quentin redirected him to this location—the house of a murder victim. Quentin insisted Eli drive to the crime scene without seeing Julia first. Aurora police provided backup for Ben until Eli could get there.

No. This isn’t possible. This can’t be happening again.

The fact of the matter belied what Eli hoped. The woman was dressed in a sharp-looking turquoise and black pantsuit, her longer auburn hair covering the bulky rope around her neck that had claimed her life. Suicide? Homicide? One black, high-heeled shoe was on the floor below her. The other dangled from the tips of her toes.

Quentin Archer, Eli’s supervisor, waved him over. A tall black man, he stood nearly six foot five—a good three inches over Eli. His voice was James Earl Jones deep and he always presented a stabilizing force in any situation he was involved in—even when bullets were flying. Though he exuded polite calm and unflappability—the job had aged him beyond his fifty-four years. His hair was gray and the beard he wore fashionably clipped barely held the color of his youth.

Eli and Quentin stood off to the side as Aurora police detectives began to analyze the presumed crime scene. Eli waved to Nathan Long, a well-respected detective he’d had the honor of working with on occasion. Local law enforcement would handle the case, which added to Eli’s apprehension as to why Quentin called him to the scene.

“Quentin.”

“Eli, thanks for coming by.”

Eli motioned to the woman. “Not that you gave me a choice. What does this mean for Julia?”

“That’s what we’re here to discuss and why I wanted you to see the crime scene for yourself. You understand my concern?”

“I see a woman who may or may not have committed suicide.”

“Follow me.”

They rounded to the backside of the woman’s body. Quentin pointed to the noose. “What we know about the Hangman is he is very methodical in the way he dispatches his victims. Each noose had a device that was anchored into the ceiling. The rope—always yellow nylon. The noose was elaborate—far beyond what was needed to kill somebody. Decorative, you could say. The perpetrator would need to be skilled in tying knots.”

“Like the doctor currently on death row for the Hangman’s crimes. Have they found any blood?”

“The man who was convicted of being the Hangman, Dr. Heller, was a pediatric intensivist and doesn’t have the skill that, say, a surgeon would have with tying knots.” Quentin smoothed his hand over his mouth, his eyes narrow. “And no—so far they haven’t found any blood.”

Eli shrugged. “If it proves to be murder, perhaps we have a copycat at play. The Hangman’s trial was televised and heavily covered by the media. There was extensive forensic presentation of the materials he used to make the noose and how it was anchored.”

“Perhaps.” Though Quentin sounded far from convinced. “From looking at the scene right now, how could it possibly be suicide? There is nothing under her feet she could have stepped off of.”

That was problematic. Eli’s gut tightened. “Who is she?”

“Evelyn Roush was CEO of Medical Interventions International or MII. They’re a company based out of Colorado Springs.”

Eli fiddled with the coins in his pocket. That was concerning. All the Hangman’s victims had a connection to the health-care field. As of yet, they hadn’t determined if the medical angle was significant or just the killer’s preferred type.

“What does the company do?” Eli asked.

“From what I gather, they revolutionize life-support equipment. Recently, the company was in the news for getting FDA approval for a specialized type of ventilator. Evelyn just became infinitely richer than she was before—quadrupled her net worth.”

“I’m sure Aurora PD will look at all the usual suspects. Husband—”

“She wasn’t married. No kids. Early reports say she dedicated her life to her company and was also a big philanthropist.”

This woman’s death, on the surface, could be connected to Julia, but there wasn’t a logical straight line. If it was the hit man—why a hanging and not bullets? And if the real Hangman was free and not awaiting a state-sponsored injection to whatever was beyond this life—why didn’t he choose to kill Julia in the same manner as before?

Quentin sighed and nudged Eli from the room with his hand pressed against his back. He didn’t stop guiding Eli until they were in the front yard. Eli put his sunglasses on—in part to shield his eyes from the sun, but also to hide his feelings from his more experienced, astute supervisor.

“I know you were involved with the Hangman’s case. I know you were part of the responding team that found Julia barely alive. How did that come about?”

“What?”

“That you found Julia?”

“The hospital called and reported her missing after they tried to get a hold of her for two hours when she didn’t show up for work. I was in her neighborhood when Dispatch notified us of the need for the welfare check. It was the same day—”

“Of the high school shooting.”

“I wasn’t tasked on that case, and I knew it would be hours before a uniformed officer would be available, so I decided to stop by and help out. Get it off the call log.”

Eli turned away from Quentin. He could feel the emotion of that day building in his chest. What he thought was going to be a quick safety check had changed his life forever. When he’d gone up her steps, there was no answer at the door. When he peered through the side window—he saw her. Much in the same fashion he’d just seen Evelyn Roush.

“It’s good for Julia that you were so close.”

Eli squared his shoulders and turned back to Quentin. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“Should I?”

“Absolutely not.”

Quentin put a firm hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think you’re the Hangman. I am concerned you might be too emotionally connected to Julia—finding a victim that way, barely clinging to life, resuscitating her and perhaps developing feelings—”