Rowan had learned again and again that death was inequitable and brutal. It cut a path of misery in the hearts of everyone it touched. And death wasn’t blind. It saw the pain, the heartache, and grew stronger.

It had started when she was ten, and it seemed it would never end.

Michael Flynn followed the directions Annette O’Dell had given him to Rowan Smith’s house, but he didn’t need the house number to figure out which of the large beachfront homes was hers. Even now, a day after the story broke, a dozen cars, vans, and a single motorcycle-all sporting press credentials-lined the highway in front of number 25450.

He turned his black SUV down the steep driveway. The house looked deceptively small and nondescript from the front, but Malibu homes in this neighborhood were spacious inside and maximized their ocean view. Smith’s place was at the end of a secluded row of such homes that shared a rare private beach. If he wasn’t mistaken, several of these homes had been destroyed a few years back in a terrible storm. As evidence of the destruction, he noted that cement reinforcements lined the cliffs around the home to prevent the mudslides that were the primary culprit of coastal property damage.

He locked his vehicle on the chance a member of the predatory press was interested in his identity. They must have been warned about trespassing. Though they noticed him, they stayed on the street-and off Smith’s property.

He breathed deeply, relishing the sharp bite of the salt air. He could get used to a place like this.

Glancing around the outside of the house, he frowned. Beachfront property was hard to protect. There were no gates or fences between houses, making the dwelling accessible on all four sides. However, the far side of the Smith residence butted up against a steep cliff. It would be virtually impossible for anyone to access the house from that direction.

That left three sides unprotected.

A bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle practically flew into the driveway, screeching to a halt behind his truck. Michael winced at Tess’s erratic driving. He had been shocked when she’d passed her driver’s test on the first try. She jumped out of the car, laptop computer in hand, and ran to his side, her dark curly hair bouncing. He shook his head. His sister always seemed to have energy to spare.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, her wide grin revealing two dimples.

“You’re not late. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“What do you mean? I’m your partner.”

“I meet clients. You run the office.” The little he knew about this case troubled him. He would not endanger his sister’s life. She was a computer expert, after all, not a bodyguard.

She sighed melodramatically. “Not anymore, Mickey. John’s out of town, so you’re stuck with me.” She grinned and winked.

Michael couldn’t help but smile. Tess had done everything he and John commanded for the last two years, willing to take self-defense and gun-training classes, read every book they tossed her way, and put up with the spontaneous drills they created to help prepare her for fieldwork. But neither he nor John intended to allow their baby sister to work in the field, even as she’d become increasingly valuable to their team. In the office, that is.

“This time,” he said, a note of warning in his voice. “From what Annette said, I think we’ll need your computer wizardry.”

Tess patted her laptop and smiled brightly. “Let’s go.”

“Just remember who’s boss.”

“John is, but he’s in South America.”

“Tess,” Michael warned, eyes narrowed.

She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I won’t forget, boss.”

Rowan dropped the blinds in her den, cutting off the view of the two people talking on her driveway. This must be the security team Annette wanted to hire. Great. Her producer, now lurking somewhere outside Rowan’s den door, expected her to consent to protection from a guy who hadn’t seen a barber in months and his teenybopper wife or girlfriend or whoever, who drove a screaming yellow Bug, the model of discretion.

Rowan had locked herself in the den thirty minutes before because she’d finally had enough of listening to Annette treat her like a child. She looked down at the Glock now gripped with both hands.

Sometimes she wished she had died in the line of duty, because taking her life was not an option.

She’d gone round and round with her producer. Annette meant well but was so out of her element here, planting herself in the house yesterday and refusing to leave. She seemed almost excited by the whole thing, which turned Rowan completely off even though she knew it was simply Annette’s way. She’d even insisted on staying in the guest room, though the petite producer was woefully ill-prepared to defend anyone. Not that Rowan thought for a minute she needed defending.

Rowan didn’t know what she’d done to earn such a good friend, and she appreciated the sentiment. But Annette was driving her crazy.

Ultimately, the phone call the previous night from her ex-boss had resigned her to the fact that if she didn’t accept the security offered by the studio, the FBI would assign a team to her.

“Are you okay?” Roger had asked when she picked up the extension in her den.

She heard the fear in his voice, and her heart skipped a beat. She didn’t want to worry him. He’d been more than just a boss. He’d saved her life. “I’m fine, Roger.”

“You’re lying. How can you be fine?”

“You know the details?”

“Every last one. Had the Denver Police fax over a copy of the report. Four agents are assigned to review your old cases looking for anyone who might be capable of this, particularly male friends and relatives.”

“Good. I want a copy of all my files. Maybe something will jump out at me, something I missed, an interview, a relative-hell, I don’t know.” She took a deep breath, then slowly blew it out. “I can’t just sit around and do nothing.”

“I’ll contact the L.A. Bureau chief and they can download the files. You can pick them up by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thanks.” She cleared her throat. “Uh, you don’t think, I mean, there’s no way that my father could have-”

Roger interrupted her. “I called Bellevue. MacIntosh is in the same condition.”

“Thank you.” Her voice cracked and she closed her eyes. After all this time, I should have better control over my emotions.

She hadn’t expected that after twenty-three years her father would suddenly have regained his sanity, but ever since Detectives Jackson and Barlow left the previous day, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She was relieved he was still wrapped up in his own mind. She hoped he was living through hell.

“Gracie and I are worried about you. Come back to Washington. You always have a room here with us.”

“I know,” she whispered. She hated that Roger worried about her; she didn’t want to burden his heart. Not after everything he and Gracie had done for her. “But I can’t leave.”

“I’ll send out a team to protect you.”

“No,” she said, louder than she intended.

“Dammit, I read the reports. I think this guy is after you.”

She pictured Roger standing behind his big, dark, scuffed utilitarian desk, his square jaw set, his dark eyes narrowed, wrinkles of worry across his forehead.

“We don’t know that,” she countered. “Let the police continue their investigation. It could be completely unconnected to me.” She didn’t believe it, even though sometimes ex-boyfriends or violent husbands went to great lengths to cover up their crimes. Maybe that’s what had happened with Doreen Rodriguez.

“You’re obviously not thinking straight if you disagree. He’s playing you. I won’t rest until we find this bastard. I’m going to protect you whether you like it or not.”