The Departed

standing at the door of the house, staring at Dez with desperate eyes, her mouth open in a silent scream.
    “He’s got a child in there, Taylor, and if you all move on him like you’re planning, he’s going to kill her,” Dez said, her voice strained.
    Colby swore. “We don’t have time for this, Jones. The fucker’s slipped away from us before—he’s not doing it again.”
    Taylor looked from Colby to Dez, and Dez stared into Taylor’s eyes.
    “Colby, give me one minute.”
    Taylor saw the frustration simmer in the other man’s eyes, but the agent gave a terse nod and retreated, falling back a few steps as Taylor reached out and caught Dez’s arm. He tried to ignore the soft, silken warm skin of said arm, just as he’d tried to ignore the way his heart had skipped a beat when she had moved to stand beside him earlier.
    He hadn’t even seen her, and he’d known it was her.
    Felt it, somewhere deep inside.
    Guiding her away from the crush of bodies, he said, “You can explain what you’re doing here later. But for now, tell me why you think there’s a kid in there when all my intel is saying otherwise.”
    Dez flicked a look past his shoulder. “Something woke me up and I just knew I needed to be somewhere. Here . So I got up, got dressed, and headed out. Ended up here—I didn’t even know you had a team here, by the way.”
    For a period of about five heartbeats, all thought stopped. Taylor could think of nothing else but those words— got dressed . Meaning…what? Had she been sleeping in pajamas? Something slinky and silky? Something sensible, practical? Or had she been naked, that sleek, warm brown body bare?
    Blood drained out of his head and he clenched his jaw, jerked his attention away from her, and stared at the house until he could remember what he was doing, why he was here.
    What he was about. He didn’t have time to be thinking about Desiree Lincoln and her sleeping attire—or lack thereof. He had a job to do.
    A mission. The mission. It was all that mattered. All that could matter.
    But his body didn’t want to listen to reason and he had to dredge up dark, ugly memories.
    All of it necessary to ground himself, something he had to do around her, more and more.
    He needed distance between them, a great deal of distance. But somehow, he didn’t think she’d like it if he suggested she quit. And as his unit was rather unique, if she didn’t, the only way he could get distance was if one of them requested a transfer.
    Dez would never do it. She’d joined the FBI specifically to come work for him—she needed it.
    Her dark brown eyes moved past him once again, lingering on the porch, and there was an expression in them that he had seen all too often. Haunted, angry, and determined. That haunted look appeared in her eyes for one reason and one reason only.
    She had a ghost riding her.
    Shit . He might have intel on the outside, but it looked like Dez had intel on the inside , and if she did, he couldn’t risk a child…
    “What do you see?” he asked, his voice flat and cold.
    * * *
     
    HER name was Richelle. In life, she had been a petite, pretty little angel, one who had probably driven her mom and dad insane, one they had probably loved dearly. Her death would have left a hole in their hearts and Dez wondered if they were the open sort…the kind of people she could sit down and talk to.
    Could she tell them what she was? What she did? That she’d seen Richelle, spoken with her? Would it help them? Hurt them?
    Could she tell them that Richelle had helped her save another child?
    That’s assuming you do save her, she thought grimly as she followed Richelle’s wavering form down the hallway. Taylor was at her back, shadowing her every move.
    It was just the two of them, and it had taken every persuasive argument she had in her arsenal to get him to do this. If there was a child in the house, they needed to get her out. Dez had eyes—the ghost would help her, she knew it, clear down to her bones, and she’d been right.
    Richelle was doing just that. A petite, avenging angel. She was hauntingly lovely, and death had made her ethereal.
    And angry.
    Right now, her killer was ensconced in the front of the house, staring entranced out the front window and mumbling to himself.
    Richelle insisted he had a girl with him, but Colby had spent the past twenty minutes saying otherwise. Hell, he was probably still out there trying to convince the rest of the team Dez was