Both Ramsey and she studied this man. The night Jennifer Brown had last been seen in the bar, Mr. Baseball Cap had appeared briefly, and again he had been careful not to show his face.

Melina dispatched several local detectives to canvass the surrounding retail outlets to see if they had cameras. Mr. Baseball Cap might have been careful in Red’s, but sooner or later he would have to let his guard down.

For now, she was glad to be home and have a few hours of much-needed sleep. She locked the door behind her and then placed her keys and backpack on the kitchen counter.

As she laid her weapon on the counter, a tremor slithered along her spine. Instead of releasing the grip, she held on tight and turned on all the lights.

The town house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the whoosh of the air-conditioning. She walked into the living room and noted the three magazines were as she’d left them on the coffee table. Same for the red pillows and the channel selectors. So why, then, did she feel as if something were off?

She flipped on the entryway light and, moving slowly, glanced toward the sliding glass door that fed onto a small patio. Listening, she paused and then followed the hallway toward the bedrooms.

The spare bedroom housed her two bikes and camping equipment. She opened the closet and searched it. Everything appeared in order.

She continued her methodical search into her bedroom and bathroom.

Nothing was out of place. All as she had left it.

And still she felt the very strong sensation that something was definitely not right.

She was more paranoid than the average guy, but she was not average. She was a cop, and the best cops embraced those unexplained feelings they could not shake. Better cautious than dead.

The goal was always to go home at night. And now she was home and still jumpy.

She doubled-checked the patio door one last time, and the security lights her father had installed kicked on as Wild Kitty strolled out of the bushes.

Smiling, Melina holstered her weapon and opened a can of tuna before she exited the door. She set the can on the patio table. The cat jumped up, meowing.

“I know, I’m late.” She petted the cat, taking extra time to rub between her ears. It was her favorite spot. Finally, satisfied she had been properly acknowledged, she ate.

Melina stood in the warm night air and stared up at the stars in the sky. “My best friend is a cat.”

It was not lost on her that the longest relationship she had ever had, outside her parents, was with a feline that did not even belong to her.

She closed the sliding door behind her, locked it, and wedged the security bar in place. Slowly, she released the grip on her gun, and tossing one more glance around the fully illuminated town house, she returned to the kitchen.

From the freezer she grabbed a double-stuffed-crust pizza and popped it in the oven. She never had the patience to preheat the oven, which meant she was not giving the frozen disc its culinary due.

In her bedroom, she turned on the hot water, stripped, and then stepped into the shower. The liquid heat pushed against her skin, chasing away some of the chill that had settled in her bones. As she dipped her head under the hot spray, her thoughts trailed to Ramsey. Had he collapsed into his bed, exhausted? Or was he reading one of those half dozen case files? Her money was on the files.

She tried to imagine the touch of his hands on her skin and the sensation of his body pressed against hers. Maybe when this case was over, she would ask him up for a drink or, better yet, sex. It had been a long dry spell, and good sex with an interesting man was welcome.

Her phone rang. She shut off the water and grabbed a towel and dried off her hands as she hurried to her bed. She picked up the phone on the fourth ring. She glanced at a number she did not recognize, but that was par for the course when she was running an investigation. “Agent Shepard.”

Silence settled on the line. Irritated, she shoved back a lock of thick wet hair. “Is this Sonny?”

More silence and the line went dead.

She tossed the phone on her bed. “Damn it,” she muttered as she hurried back to the tiled floor and dried off. Minutes later she was wearing sweats and a T-shirt. Wet hair coiled up, she snatched up the phone. No voicemail.

It could have been a wrong number or a robocall. She rarely got either, but it was possible. She tucked the phone in her waistband. The smell of processed pepperoni and cheese lured her into the kitchen, and after grabbing a hot mitt, she removed the pizza. She divided it into quarters and dragged two hot pieces onto a plate.

Sitting at the small dining table, she took a bite and glanced at her phone. She took several more bites until she had polished off the second slice. Good enough to fill her belly but not tasty enough for the other half.

Melina went to her computer and searched the number in a reverse phone directory. It came back as a burner. Not the kind of news she wanted.

She ran her fingers over her damp hair, heart pulsing in her neck. Whatever hope she had of sleeping tonight had evaporated. The idea of watching television or reading a book had no appeal.

“What to do?” she muttered.

In her bedroom, she changed into jeans, a button-down shirt, and boots. Her gun back on her hip, she was out the door two minutes later.

Ramsey was sitting on his hotel bed, a cold convenience store beer in hand, and watching a rerun of a sitcom that was not nearly as funny as he recalled from twenty years ago. Maybe times had changed. He sure as hell had. Either way, the dated costumes and humor were irritating.

As he reached for the remote, his phone rang. It was Shepard. He tossed the remote aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“Shepard,” he said.

“What are you doing?”

“Watching a bad show.”

“Want a beer?”

He glanced at the half-consumed beer. “Sure.”

“I can be there in five minutes.”

“Great.” He hung up and poured his beer down the sink and stashed the other five in the small minifridge. As he tucked in his shirt, there was a knock on his door.

Habit had him reaching for his weapon on the nightstand and peering out the peephole. Shepard was staring directly at the door as if she knew he was checking out his late-night visitor. She held up the six-pack and grinned.

A smile tipped the edges of his lips and he opened the door. He did not speak as he stepped aside and nodded for her to enter. Her damp hair smelled of roses or lavender, and her skin looked dewy and moist. His mind jerked to her standing naked in a shower.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

He shut the door. “Why?”

Her shoulders rose in what he now saw as a nervous habit. “Dead prostitutes. Severed fingers. Two killers who haven’t been stopped. You pick.” She handed him a beer and then twisted off the top of another.

“Do you often have trouble sleeping?” he asked.

“You don’t?” She took a pull, and his gaze was drawn to the slim line of her neck.

“I’ve never slept well.”

She dug her finger along the label of her beer bottle. “I had the sensation someone had been in my town house. I searched it top to bottom. Nothing. Then I received a phone call with no one on the other end. It was from a burner phone.”

“It upset you.”

“More like pissed me off. But after my encounter with the Key Killer, I’ve been a little touchy.” She set her beer down by the television. “And gauging your reaction, I might be a tad paranoid.”

“I don’t get amped up.”

“Oh, really?” She paused, as if choosing her next words carefully. “I’d rather not be alone tonight.”

He understood the need to connect, to feel not alone all the time. He set his beer down and crossed to her. “What do you have in mind, Agent?”

His deep tone sparked heat in her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

“Say it,” he said.

“I want to have sex with you.”

His gaze darkened. “Are you sure?”

“Oddly, yes. Very. What about you?”

“This moment has crossed my mind once or twice.”

That coaxed a smile. “Really? You were thinking about me?”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

Instead of answering, he reached for the clip holding her hair up and tugged it free. The damp curls framed her face and brushed her shoulders. He ran his fingers through her hair. “It’s as soft as it looks.”

“Is that all you thought about doing?” Her voice had grown husky.

“Not all.”

“What about this?” She reached for the top button of her blouse and slowly undid two.

As she reached for the third button, he took her hand and pulled her toward him. “Are you in a rush?”

“Depends.”

“We’re not going to rush this.” It was not a request. He was practical enough to know life was going to pull them apart soon enough. He wanted to savor her. He cupped her face and kissed her on the lips.