It was Jessica all over again. And worse, Michael couldn’t see it.

John fixed himself a sandwich, eating it more out of habit than because he liked the taste.

If his instincts were right, Rowan had been assigned to the Franklin case and resigned after visiting the scene. She’d probably been forced to take a leave of absence before her resignation was accepted, in the hope that she’d change her mind. John knew agents who worked hard cases often needed mental health time; otherwise they’d burn out.

Rowan Smith, classic burnout. But instead of joining some small police force as John knew others did, or working as a private consultant, or taking a desk job, Rowan had begun a second, very successful career writing crime fiction. Her books detailed the evil man could do to man, something she would have seen on a regular basis, particularly with the cases she worked.

Maybe she wasn’t a classic burnout.

John heard a creak on the deck outside and paused, sandwich halfway to his mouth. His body tensed, alert. His ears practically twitched as he listened for a prowler.

Creak creak creak creak.

Someone was on the back stairs, leading from the beach.

Soundless, John put his plate down and withdrew his gun. His sneakers made no sound on the tile floor as he walked to the side door. He silently jogged down the stairs, then turned toward the beach.

Careful to keep out of sight from the intruder by hugging the support pillars of the deck, he scooted along until he reached the back stairs. He’d checked them out when he first arrived and knew that keeping to the outside of the stairs minimized the squeak the boards made.

He paused a dozen stairs from the top and peered over the railing. Intruder. The man was young, about twenty-one, tall and skinny with dark hair. He carried a huge bouquet of flowers. Had he come to the front door, John wouldn’t have thought twice about him.

The boy knocked on the back door and cupped his hand to peer inside. He tried the door carefully.

Stealthily, John walked up behind him and said, “Don’t move. I have a gun. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The kid turned abruptly, eyes darting left and right. “I-I-I’m looking f-f-for R-Rowan.” His eyes widened at the sight of John’s gun and he clutched the flowers tighter.

“Who are you?”

“Adam. Adam. Um, Adam Williams. Four-four-five West Toluca Boulevard Unit B.”

John sensed the kid was legit. There was something off about him. But the best of criminals played the game well. He kept his voice stern. “How do you know Rowan?”

“She, uh, she got me my job. I’m her number-one fan. I read all her books. She got me my job. I work for Barry at the studio. Barry is really nice but Barry got mad at me about the joke I played on Marcy, and Rowan got mad too and I said I was sorry but I thought Rowan would like flowers because she’s a girl and my mama said all girls like flowers, stupid.”

John holstered his gun, confident the kid was who he said. “Adam, I’m John Flynn. I’m a friend of Rowan’s, too.”

Adam narrowed his eyes. “How do I know you’re not lying? Rowan said there was a bad man hurting people.” He stepped back.

John put his hands palms up to show he wasn’t an enemy. “We can call her. Do you want to call her?”

Adam nodded vigorously, then stopped and shook his head just as hard. “No, no, it could be a trap. You could be trapping her. No, she should stay away. She has a bodyguard, you know.”

“I know. He’s my brother, Michael. Have you met him?”

Recognition crossed Adam’s face, but he was still wary. “Maybe,” he said like a defiant kid.

John reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cell phone. “I’m going to call Rowan and she’ll come home and talk to you, okay?” When the kid still looked undecided, John said, “You can talk to her, too. She’ll tell you I’m okay, then we’ll go into the house and wait.”

“Okay,” Adam said in a small voice.

John dialed Michael’s cell, mentally hitting himself that he didn’t have Rowan’s direct line. “Mickey, it’s John. Let me speak to Rowan.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a delicate situation here that I need her help with.”

“Tell me.”

Damn him. He wanted to play tough guy. “Adam Williams stopped by to say hello and he isn’t sure I’m not the bad guy Rowan warned him about. I’d like her to talk to him.”

“Adam? The retarded kid?”

John winced and hoped Adam hadn’t heard that. “Yes, Rowan’s number-one fan.”

“I suspected he was up to something. Keep him there. I’ll call the police and-”

“No, Michael,” John said, harsher than he intended. “Would you just-”

“Listen, John, I’ve been working this case a lot longer than you and-” he stopped, and John could hear Rowan’s voice in the background, but not what she was saying. Muffled, he heard Michael’s voice say, “But you don’t know he’s safe. Why don’t we have the police talk to him?”

“Absolutely not!” Rowan exclaimed loud enough for John to hear. Another mumble, and then Rowan got on the phone.

“John?”

“It’s me.”

“Let me talk to Adam.”

John couldn’t help but smile, but a glance at Adam’s scared face sobered him up. He was strangling the poor lilies in both hands. “Adam, Rowan would like to speak to you.”

Hand shaking, Adam reached for the phone. “H-hello?”

John watched as Adam’s expression turned from scared to worried to calm. Then worried again. “I-I didn’t ask Barry. I-I watched him enough, I thought I could do it. I didn’t hurt his truck, I promise!” It took several minutes, but whatever Rowan was saying seemed to appease Adam. “Can I wait for you?” The answer must have been yes, because Adam smiled broadly and handed the phone back to John. “Rowan wants to talk to you.”

“Rowan?”

“John, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I told Adam he could wait for me. I’m going to have to get him back to Burbank. He doesn’t have a driver’s license.”

“I’ll take him.”

She paused. “You’d do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

What did she think he was, an asshole? Obviously, Adam was a bit slow. He also worshipped Rowan. He didn’t mean her any harm, and he probably didn’t get a lot of breaks in the city.

“I-all right. Thank you.”

She hung up, and John stared at the phone for a minute. Rowan Smith was not a trusting soul, which didn’t bug him, except that she didn’t seem to trust him.

Then again, he’d deliberately invaded her space, asking her tough questions-most of which she hadn’t answered yet. And he found her captivating.

What was it about her? Sure, she was good-looking. Her white-blonde hair appeared soft and silky, something he would love to run his fingers through. She smelled fresh and natural. And her eyes-those blue-gray eyes showed him her feelings, so much better than her words and mannerisms.

She was trying so hard to figure out what she’d done to deserve the attention of this maniac. He admired her focus, her determination, her past career. He didn’t understand why she’d quit, but obviously something about the Franklin murders got to her. Burnout? It was unexpected from her personality-at least the strong, independent persona she showed to the world.

But Rowan was closed and private, kept information from him that she might not think was important, but damn well could be. John didn’t like deception, intended or not, and expected everyone he worked with to be on the up-and-up. To trust him. That code of honor was necessary in the jungles of South America, on the streets of Mexico, and in every drug port along the American coastline. If he couldn’t trust her, what did he have?

And if she didn’t trust him, how could he get closer?

He wanted to. He wanted to find out what made her tick. Like her friend Adam. Mentally slow, but Rowan had shown him some attention when it was obvious the kid had received few breaks in his life. Another facet of her complex personality.