The Departed

happen, although she’d liked to think it wouldn’t. Nothing wrong with a fantasy life, right?
    There was another shout, a scream.
    She tensed and tried not to think about all the eyes on her. Seconds ticked by, turned into minutes, and she kept focused on her goal, on the destination. Dez had no idea how much time had passed when she realized the deafening noise was gone.
    The water was silent—somebody had turned it off and now there wasn’t a soul in the place that wasn’t watching her. She didn’t dare look away to check out her audience. She couldn’t think about them. It was time to tie off again.
    Her hands were shaking and her heart was racing—she hated heights. Nobody knew that, but she hated them with a passion. “Don’t think about how high you are,” she muttered. “Just don’t.”
    She dared one glance—almost there. Almost… almost …
    “What in the hell am I doing?” she whispered. “What the hell…?”
    * * *
     
    “WHAT the hell ?” Brendan came to a stop outside the water park and stared through the glass doors. What he saw had him ready to drive his fist into a wall. What in the fuck ?
    Had somebody told?
    Why else would there be cops here?
    Six of them, all in uniform, and all of them were staring up at the top of the water fort. The big, pseudo-wood structure wasn’t what held their attention, though, and for one brief second, terror and rage almost blinded him.
    For that brief second, he realized he was fucking terrified and he knew it, admitted it.
    But then he saw the woman.
    Walking on one of the exposed metal beams, like it was a fucking balance beam. As he stared at her, she stopped and knelt down, tying off like she was on some sort of caving expedition. At least that was what he thought she was doing. He wasn’t sure.
    She was so high up, but that was what it looked like.
    And that was how they—
    No. He knew he didn’t need to think about that now. They needed to get her down before she fucked up everything. Shoving his way inside, he went up to one of the police officers and said, “Hey.”
    It was Officer Lipscomb, one of his dad’s ass-kissing buddies—awesome. Lipscomb gave him a tight smile. “Brendan. You working today?”
    “Kinda sorta. We got the party tonight. What in the world is that girl doing and why are you all just staring at her?”
    Lipscomb gave him a pained expression. “We’re being careful. We go yelling at her and she falls…right now, all she’s doing is climbing. Doesn’t look like she has any weapons or anything.”
    “But you can’t tell ,” Brendan said. His mind raced and he blurted out, “For all you know, she’s got something stashed on her and she’s going to plant it in the bucket or something.”
    “We’re watching.” Lipscomb shrugged and shook his head. “Sorry, kid. We can’t just assume she’s anything other than crazy without proof.”
    “And if she is crazy and you had a chance to stop her?” Brendan snapped. “Shit, I’m calling my dad.”
    Lipscomb sighed. “And what will that do, kid?”
    “He’ll get the crazy bitch the fuck down.”
    “She’s not a crazy bitch,” somebody said from behind him.
    That voice, cool as ice and unfamiliar, sent a shiver down Brendan’s spine before he could stop it. But if he thought the voice was unsettling, it was nothing compared to what he felt when he looked up and met the coldest blue eyes he’d ever seen.
    “Who the fuck are you?” He tried to make it come out arrogant and cool, the way his father would have.
    But his voice cracked and he didn’t know why, but he had the weirdest damn feeling he was fucked. Completely and royally fucked. The desire to run hit him hard and fast—so fucking hard and fast.
    The man’s eyes flicked over him dismissively and then he looked at Lipscomb. “Special Agent in Charge Taylor Jones, with the FBI. You have one of my people on the grounds, a Desiree Lincoln.”
    * * *
     
    TAYLOR didn’t know what in the hell was going on, but he knew the sullen teenager in front of him had something to do with it. It was written all over him. Sullen, angry, with cold, dead eyes—those eyes bothered Taylor. A lot. He might have been even more disturbed, but he saw the fear lurking in that gaze as well. Cold and angry, this kid, but he could feel fear. That was a good thing. If he could be afraid, he wasn’t too far gone.
    Taylor hoped.
    Regardless, he didn’t have time for the boy’s attitude, though. Focusing on