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  Bancroft couldn’t speak, but Miranda could still hear the sound of his mad laughter from within the bag.

  Before she could process what had happened, the man who’d crashed into her jerked her out through the door and into a conference room on the other side of the interview room.

  She assessed him quickly, and judging from his black trench coat, his nice but generic black suit, and his redwing shoes shined to a high gloss, she assumed he was a Fed. His black hair was slicked back in a GQ style, with a wide forehead, chiseled granite cheekbones, and a hard jaw. He looked every inch a Dolce & Gabbana model slumming with the FBI. He was sexy as hell and probably used his looks to get what he wanted. Miranda didn’t fault him for that; they had to use whatever tools were in their arsenal. Even after what had happened, there was not one hair out of place. He looked as cool and smooth as if he were lounging poolside at a resort rather than inside a supermax prison that’d just lost its prime resident.

  “You okay, Garrick?”

  So he knew her name. “Yeah, you?” She straightened the collar on her blouse.

  “You sure?” He grabbed her hand and inspected her knuckles. They were swollen and bruised, already purple from where the back of the cuff slammed against them when she’d crushed the steel into Bancroft’s face. At his close inspection, his breath ghosted along the abused flesh, making her shiver.

  Miranda jerked her hand back. “I won’t be writing any reports anytime soon, but I think that’s a consequence I can live with.” Catching scum was her thing—report writing, not so much.

  “Was Bancroft right about your shampoo and conditioner?”

  “What does that matter?” She cocked her head to the side.

  “I like it.” His mouth curved in a devastating smile.

  Miranda refused to allow herself to be affected by his whiskey-smooth voice. She didn’t even know his name and definitely didn’t know his angle. Although she’d admit, with the adrenaline spiking through her blood, she wouldn’t mind finding out. A quick encounter to blow off a little steam wouldn’t be amiss. “Guess I need to rinse my hair longer if the scent is still so strong.”

  “I just have a sensitive nose.”

  “Don’t tell me, you work a K9 unit?”

  “Ah, no.” He flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Dogs and I don’t exactly get along. I’m with the FBI. Special Agent Aden Brewster.”

  “And you’re here to take over my case?” She scowled.

  “I was hoping we could work together. A little interagency cooperation? Sharing our resources?” He raised a brow, looking very innocent and boyish. She supposed that face worked on his mother and the women he dated, but he could save that for them.

  “That always turns into a pissing match about jurisdiction and headlines. I want to catch this fucker and throw away the key. There’s a reason I’m a marshal. I prefer to work alone.”

  “So does that mean you’re not going to check out the officers’ station and the trapdoor? Because that’s where I’m going.”

  “You can tag along, but I doubt you can keep up, Agent.”

  “I’ll match anything you’ve got.”

  Which led Miranda to wonder if he could match her everywhere. Especially the bedroom. Or the back of his government-issue, black Expedition. Maybe in this conference room, bent over the table . . . She’d like to see him try—oh yes, she would. From the way he carried himself and reacted to the situation, all the while keeping pace with witty banter, she could already tell he was competitive without being overbearing, confident without being cocky. Those traits made for good lovers.

  She looked up at him, and, for a moment, Miranda got the distinct impression he knew exactly what had gone through her mind. As if he could smell desire on her like she was some bitch in heat.

  He’d obviously taken the same courses on body language and micro-expressions she had. There was no magic there, no telepathy. He couldn’t smell her need on her. He was just a man who was more observant than most, and she just needed to get laid.

  She searched for some witty response, but the intensity on his face made her mouth go dry. Miranda moistened her lips, and his focus centered there, his scrutiny almost like a caress itself. Miranda found her voice because this had to be about the job instead of her pussy.

  “Then I suggest you prove it. The clock is ticking.”

  Chapter Two

  THE SWEET-SOUR STENCH of necrotic flesh, animal musk, and mildew struck Miranda with a physical force when they opened the hatch in the officers’ station. She wished she’d brought her Vick’s to dab under her nose.

  “There’s something dead down here,” Brewster commented before stepping down into the space. “Maybe a couple mice?”

  Miranda followed him down, surprised by how well lit it was and how new everything looked. Circuitry and wires were prevalent, but everything had a place, orderly and clean. The mechanism that controlled the cell doors sat against a far wall, neat as a pin.

  Upon first inspection, there was no visible reason for the smell.

  “If he dug a hole somehow, it would’ve been over multiple visits. These walls are concrete and steel.” Miranda scanned the small space again, her eyes lingering over every detail. Something caught her attention by the door mechanism—a strange set of grooves in the wall. They looked like claw marks. She pulled on her gloves and splayed her hands against the five furrows carved in the solid concrete. Miranda could fit two of her fingers in the space between each groove.

  “Amazing how belief affects our abilities, don’t you think?” Brewster asked her.

  “Meaning?”

  He splayed his hand as she had before across the furrows, the marks aligning with his digits when they were spread as wide as they could go.

  “Meaning, our boy has clinical lycanthropy, among other things. Like schizophrenia. He actually believes he’s a werewolf. Look at what he did to the wall with his bare hands. Forensics found these same marks in his cell.”

  She’d seen the marks in his cell and had read his file, but she snorted. “Jim Jones believed he was the messiah, and I don’t see any Coke morphing into Pepsi, or water into wine.”

  “Actually, Jones was an admitted atheist and has been quoted as saying that the best way to control people is through religion. So, he isn’t someone by which to measure that statement. But while there was no Coke into Pepsi at Jonestown, there was Kool Aid.” She could see the curve of his cheek as he smiled while he continued to inspect the grooves.

  “Actually,” she tossed back, “it was FlavorAid. Grape, to be precise.”

  “And the poison of choice?” he asked, as if it were a game show.

  “Cyanide.” As a certified monster hunter with degrees in criminal justice and clinical psychology, it would be a sad day if she didn’t know her case files. Especially about something like the Jonestown massacre, where a charismatic cult leader convinced nearly a thousand people to take their own lives.

  “You win.”

  “I always win,” Miranda informed him.

  “That’s what I’m counting on.” He felt along the back side of the wall but came back empty-handed. “Because right now, we’ve got nothing.”

  “I don’t think Bancroft was lying.” Miranda scanned the room again.

  “About Webster’s leaving through here or about wanting you dead?”

  “All of it. He believed every word he told me. There has to be something here. Especially since there are marks on the wall corresponding to those in Webster’s cell. He wanted us to know he was down here.” She shivered as a blast of cold swept over her. “This building is only two years old. It shouldn’t be drafty.”

  Their attention was simultaneously drawn to the door mechanism. It was four-by-four, large enough to conceal a hole for a man to fit through, but it was heavy. Webster wouldn’t have been able to move it by himself.

  Or so she thought. With an animalistic grunt, the FBI agent shoved it over about two feet and revealed a gaping hole in the f