The Departed

son gave his statement—why you were reading all of the statements. If the FBI isn’t involved, why are you poking your nose in?”
    “I was there because one of my people was involved in rescuing the victim,” Taylor replied, his voice cool. “I have an interest in it. This shouldn’t surprise you. And, for the record, I never claimed to be here representing anybody. If your police force makes that assumption—that’s on them.”
    Joshua scowled. “Shit.”
    Once more, he came out of his seat. Had a hard time being still when he was nervous, Dez decided. He shot her a look and even before he said anything, she knew what he was going to say—no psychic skills required.
    “I know about you, you know,” he said softly. He stopped in the middle of the floor, legs spread apart, shoulders set. He had his hands in his pockets, head tipped slightly back. A guy braced for a fight, she decided.
    “Do you?” She studied him, eased her shields open a bit, trying to pick something up from him. It was vague—just another one of those insubstantial little brushes against her shields, too vague for her to even define. “I’m curious about whatever it is you think you know.”
    He snorted. “Why don’t you read my mind? Then we can discuss it.”
    “Buddy, if you think that’s even close to original, you need to think again.” She sighed and leaned back, stretching her legs out in front of her. She crossed her ankles and rested her head against the plushly cushioned couch. “I can’t even recall how old I was the first time I heard something along those lines. Maybe seven or eight.”
    His bark of disbelieving laughter didn’t grate on her nerves. Dez was used to skeptics—honestly, they were easier to deal with. They didn’t expect anything from her.
    “Look—I don’t care if you think it’s true, if maybe it is true—”
    “Maybe?” She smirked. Rising from the couch, she hooked her thumbs in her front pockets and shook her head. “There’s either a yes or a no to it. There’s not a maybe. Either I had some sort of psychic talent that let me keep a girl from dying a grisly death in your charming little town or I didn’t.”
    “Or, the third option, you’re involved,” Joshua said, his eyes cold now.
    Behind her, she heard Taylor moving but when he would have gone past her, she caught his arm. “Don’t,” she said quietly. “Not worth it.”
    “Oh, you’re so very wrong.” He brushed her hand aside. “Watch where you go with this, Moore. Watch very carefully.”
    “Now, don’t get your boxers in a twist,” Joshua said, a bright, sharp smile on his face. “I never said she was involved. I said it was another option.”
    “And I said watch where you go with this.” Taylor glanced at Dez, his eyes unreadable.
    Damn it, she’d gone and turned this into a clusterfuck. Brooding, Dez stared at Joshua. What in the hell was she supposed to do now? Why had she blurted that out? Was she hoping he’d feel some pressing need to open up to her and then show her the kid’s room and…and…what?
    Blood roared in her ears. She needed to get up to that kid’s room, damn it. Her heart pounded. Cold crept in, snaking around her.
    Shit —
    Abruptly, she realized just why she was cold. The front door of the house was open. Wide open. Turning her head, she found herself staring into Brendan Moore’s wide, angry eyes. He looked at her, looked at his dad, then looked at Taylor. Then, just like that, he took off running, his feet pounding on the steps.
    “What the hell…” Joshua muttered.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    “WHAT the fuck is this shit?” Brendan jerked his mattress up and tore down the zipper. It had been a bitch to put that thing on but he’d wanted a secure place to put his shit, and this was secure. Wasn’t like Jacqueline was ever going to come in and flip his mattress or anything, right? The maid, all she did was change his sheets and text her boyfriend.
    He shoved his hand in and jerked out the journal, ignoring the other stuff. The condoms, the weed, all of that, that was small shit. The journal, though, it could cause problems.
    Hearing the footsteps, he felt something cold twist in his gut— fear —
    No. He wasn’t fucking scared. He was just tired of people fucking with him, tired of people fucking things up for him, and he was tired of that crazy bitch…
    “Brendan.” His dad knocked on the door.
    “What?” He looked down at the journal, glanced at his bathroom. Needed