He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

crime scene and now hurried over to give them his assessment. His constant FBI shadow was there, too—only Riley thought the man was there to assist him. Instead, he was there to keep an eye on Riley.
    “What are we looking at here?” Logan asked as he ducked under the tape.
    “The vic has short blonde hair, hazel eyes. She was killed here, not killed somewhere else and dumped. The only similarities between her and O’Donnell are that both bodies were found in the park and both vics were holding a red rose.”
    “What about the thorns? Was the stem stripped?” Logan held a low-hanging pine branch up for the other two men to walk beneath.
    “No,” Riley said. “It had all its thorns.”
    “COD?” Pierce asked.
    “Gunshot wound. One bullet through the chest, close range. The perp tried to mask the bullet wound by stabbing her post-mortem.”
    “Copycat,” Logan said.
    “Yep,” Riley agreed. “Not a very good one either.”
    Logan frowned. Had Riley’s voice sounded boastful? Or was he just imagining that slight inflection? “Did the vic have a boyfriend?”
    “Husband. Detective Reid is interviewing him at the station. No alibi, fidgety, not too broken up about his wife’s tragic death. Reid’s sure he’ll crack soon.”
    Logan sighed in relief that another woman hadn’t been brutally tortured like Carolyn O’Donnell, although if she had, it would have been quick proof of Riley’s innocence. He’d been under surveillance since leaving the boxcar scene earlier today.
    But regardless of whether this woman was killed by a stranger or by a supposed loved one, she deserved the same professionalism and attention to detail the O’Donnell case was getting.
    He glanced at the lights his officers had rigged. “We’ll need more lights, better lights, to comb a scene like this at night.” Six months as chief of police hadn’t given him enough time to squeeze city hall for a better budget and better equipment.
    “Already on it,” Riley said. “Department of Transportation is bringing some lights. They might have to halt construction somewhere for one night, but they didn’t give me any grief over it.”
    “Good thinking. Let’s get those reporters further back. I don’t want any shots of the vic on the evening news.”
    “You got it.” Riley headed toward the reporters lining the street in front of the park’s main entrance.
    Logan mentally prepared himself for the gruesome scene.
    “Ready?” Pierce asked.
    “As I’ll ever be.”

 
     
    Chapter Eight
     
    A manda bolted upright in bed, panic shooting through her at the unfamiliar furnishings in the room, the unfamiliar smells wafting in from the hallway. Was that coffee? She didn’t drink coffee. Wait, last night, the reporters. She’d had to leave her house.
    Officer Karen Bingham and two FBI agents had escorted her here last night, to Logan’s house, in unmarked cars. Karen was an old family friend and had been in Logan’s house before. She knew where everything was and had insisted on settling Amanda into the master suite.
    In Logan’s bed.
    If Logan came home last night, Amanda hadn’t heard him, and she didn’t know which of the other bedrooms he’d slept in.
    She lingered on the massive four-poster bed, smoothing her fingers across the luxurious, mocha-brown comforter, enjoying the faint scent of soap and aftershave that clung to the silky, rich fabric. The room was decorated in muted golds and browns, entirely masculine, like its owner.
    A glance at the bedside clock told her it was half past seven, an obscenely early hour for her, but she imagined the local police chief would leave for work soon, if he hadn’t already. The ominous words he’d spoken to her last night ran through her head, there’s been another murder .
    She threw the covers back and hopped out of bed, heading toward the master bath. Hopefully she could still catch Logan before he left, so he could tell her what had happened. After a quick shower, she threw on a pair of shorts and a teal blue t-shirt from the suitcase she’d packed last night, and headed downstairs.
    She automatically started to pull her hair forward, but Logan’s admonitions to stop worrying about her scar echoed through her mind. If he didn’t mind her scar, she’d try not to mind either. She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and hurried down the last few steps. Turning toward her right, she followed the smell of coffee to the back of the house where she and Karen had