Backblast by Candace Irving (brene brown rising strong .TXT) 📗

had been. "The shame of it. It is no wonder she committed suicide. In front of the family's final Christmas tree, no less. As a child of Allah, I sympathize with her. And you?" No tsk this time. Just the return of that chilly smile and his phony compassion. The latter of which was fairly oozing from the man now. "How do you bear the pain and the disgrace of both of them?"

Really? That was all he was going to lob at her?

While she wasn't thrilled with having this particular conversation with this particular man, let alone in this particular place with none other than the spook listening in, it wasn't nearly enough.

Not for what she needed.

She pushed forth a light shrug. "Oh, it's not as difficult as you'd think. And it does get easier with each case I work and every bastard I bag. Especially the intelligent ones and their equally challenging investigations, unlike you…and yours."

She waited for the explosion, but it didn't materialize. The faux serenity returned instead. Despite the creaking of pipes, the air nearly pulsed with it.

Impressive.

He followed it up with another one of those sage nods that would have made Freud himself proud. "Yes, that is understandable. Your passion for the difficult and the complicated. I suspect both are born of your childhood as well. The physical and emotional abuse from your grandfather. All those foster homes. Perhaps this is why you chose to repair your fractured relationship with the major, hmm? Your determination to see at least one through? But it won't work, I'm afraid. You are too damaged, Agent Chase. Profoundly defective, in fact. In your mind and in your body. " He paused with that, as if to assess how successful he'd been in landing those blows.

Considerably less than he believed.

Nor did she need this bastard ripping off the lifelong scabs that barely covered her innumerable insecurities so he could trowel in a fresh load of doubt.

It was already there.

And he'd made a mistake. A serious miscalculation.

She had no intention of letting him know. She needed him to continue. The more he said, the more he revealed…and the closer she would get.

To the most important of those names.

She pressed her lips together. Allowed her chin to tremble. Just barely.

It was enough.

He was certain he was getting to her. The fresh wave of oozing concern confirmed it, as did that soft, sympathetic sigh. "That man will never see you as an equal. Nor will a relationship with the major ever last. How can it? You put your career first, Agent Chase, and in doing so, you killed his child. Eventually, he will find someone else. Someone worthy. And he, too, will leave you. Deep down, you know this."

Mind fuck. She'd heard the term years ago.

This man defined it.

She had to give the doc credit. Psychologically speaking, he'd managed to make up for those less than stellar undergrad grades with bruising, real-world experience. Experience he'd honed and learned to inflict upon others. He was a damned site better at screwing with her head than she'd given him credit for. Though really, she shouldn't have been surprised. He'd had plenty of time to prepare for this round.

But where the hell had he gotten his intel?

Because it was solid. Extensive.

Even Riyad hadn't been able to unload as many armor-piercing rounds at her that afternoon in her stateroom. As much as she hated to admit it, this particular bastard had succeeded in piercing her painstakingly forged protective shell.

Her right hand had begun to shake.

She slipped it into her lap as nonchalantly as she could, but it was too late. Those dark eyes were fairly gleaming. Nor could he resist flaunting that shit-eating grin.

Bastard.

She met his glee with an insouciance she definitely didn't feel. "Thanks for the advice, Doc. I'll keep it in mind while I'm working on my intimate relationships in the years to come—and you're in prison, working on your own intimate relationship…with your eager brute of a cellmate." After all, even with that scar, he was so very pretty.

As for herself, Durrani might even be right, especially with regard to John.

Hell, he probably was.

It wasn't as though she hadn't already run through the possible scenarios on her own—and come up with the same, inevitable outcome for her and John.

But she couldn't afford to worry about that now.

She shifted her phone and the copy of the Qur'an to the side of the table, willing both to remain in place and not hit the deck as she opened the manila folder. Bypassing the creased photo she'd left with Durrani earlier, she drew a fresh copy from the file and laid it on the table between them. As she reached out to re-stack the phone and the Qur'an on top of the folder, she caught sight of Riyad just past the doctor's head.

The spook's posture had relaxed.

Even more curious, he deliberately avoided her stare as he stepped back into the outer compartment. She couldn't see him anymore.

A moment later she realized why, as the quick-acting watertight door to the outer compartment groaned in ferric protest and opened. She caught Chief Yrle's soft apology for the interruption, followed by a pair of boots moving quietly toward the door. She could still see the Marine's left profile, so…Riyad's boots.

Several more moments, and she caught a second groan as the door closed.

Had something happened to John?

She forced herself to push the burning personal question aside and concentrate on the equally searing professional one in her hands. The question she might actually be able to answer before she left this cell. Regan turned the image of the seventh, desecrated victim from the cave around so that it faced her killer square on and gently tapped the woman's bloodied hair.

"Who is she?"

Those dark, rising brows feigned ignorance. "You tell me."

Both she and this monster knew full well that she still couldn't.

But she had learned a few inescapable truths about their mystery woman—truths that pertained to her killer. Truths that were rapidly coming into