Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

asphalt lot with the police cruisers parked between yellow lines or the building beyond the chain-link fence across the street. Daylight was fading, the sun hanging low on the horizon.
    The orange glow warmed her, and as she stared at it, she saw the hard angles of Bastian’s handsome face and his shimmering green eyes. Despite all the seesawing confusion, she wanted to go back to that place, when he’d held her and she’d felt safe. Right now, he was trapped inside Black Diamond—probably out of his mind with fear for her—but not for much longer.
    Propping her shoulder against the cinder block wall, Myst watched the sun sink lower and whispered, “Bastian, I’m right here. Please find me. Please… find me. ”
    She repeated the SOS, feeling selfish, knowing she had no right to expect a rescue, much less ask for one. Not after the way she’d treated him in the garage. God, the look on his face as she put the Denali in gear and…
    Myst closed her eyes.
    Yeah, he didn’t owe her a thing, but she asked anyway. Sent the distress signal over and over—hoping the connection they shared would bring him. Sent it until her temples throbbed and it became a running chant of desperate pleases inside her head.
    Which just pissed her off.
    She should be able to save herself, goddamn it. Relying on someone else to ride—or rather, fly—to her rescue seemed, well…old school. Totally medieval or something. The problem? She couldn’t see a way out of the mess. Out of the police station. Out from under the law’s thumb and away from two very determined detectives.
    The door clicked behind her.
    She drew a deep breath, preparing for confrontation as a spicy scent drifted into the small room. Men’s cologne. Detective MacCord was back.

    Compassion wasn’t high on the list of priorities for a suspect. At least, it shouldn’t be, but today? Angela found it hard not to wince as she stepped into IR two behind her partner. Myst Munroe looked ragged, and not just around the edges. Her exhaustion went deeper than that, beyond the physical to a place dominated by soul-deep weariness.
    Angela could relate.
    She felt a lot like that herself right now, her mind playing tricks, showing her pieces of the puzzle while hiding others behind a wall of impenetrable mental haze. The other cops thought she was hungover, a little off her game, fighting a post-binge headache. She wished it were true, then she wouldn’t have to face the real problem. Something had gone terribly wrong last night.
    The tip-off? She could see the holes in her memory. Actually, see them…pinpoint and isolate the lapses; was able to surround, but not touch them. Her brain had put the information inside a box and sealed it tight. And that R . It kept at her, sending her round and round on the mystery merry-go-round.
    God, she had a headache.
    Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she bypassed Mac and set her legal pad on the table. As intended, the paper made a slapping sound, echoing a little in the small room. Usually, that was enough to get a suspect’s attention. Myst didn’t even flinch. She was fixated, staring out the window, looking like she’d just gone ten rounds with a pair of mental boxing gloves.
    Compassion grabbed hold again. Angela slapped it back down. She didn’t have time to play nice. Not with a baby MIA.
    Her eyes narrowed, she studied the woman she suspected of cutting a baby from his mother’s womb for profit. Angela frowned. Myst didn’t fit the profile. From all accounts, she was kind, caring, willing to go the extra mile for her patients. The late-night phones calls, the home visits, and the conversations over coffee all supported those facts. So, what the hell happened out there? How had Caroline Van Owen ended up dead on her kitchen floor?
    Grabbing the back of a chair, Angela pulled it away from the edge of the table. The metal legs squawked against the tile floor. Mac made a face, but she got nothing from Myst. No reaction at all. Just quiet stillness, firm focus…like she was watching for something.
    “Ms. Munroe,” she said, raising her voice.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, her gaze fixed on the setting sun.
    Interesting. If this kept up, she and Mac would have a confession sewn up in five minutes flat. “For what?”
    Her brows drawn, Myst stepped away from the window. She rubbed her upper arms, and Angela clenched her teeth. Yeah, it was cold in the room. The interrogation tactic was one they used often: better to keep a