The familiar fire roared down my throat. I closed my eyes. The heat spread from my belly to my chest, my brain. The trembling lessened.

I raised my lids. Ryan was studying my face. “Better?”

“Yes.” Dear God. It was.

“Now,” Ryan said. “Start over.”

“Ruben’s dead. Her body is in the woods behind the hotel.”

“Tabarnac!”

“The dog ran off.”

“The dog?”

“Tank. The little—”

“Forget the dog. Tell me what happened.”

“Ruben phoned me right around midnight. Said she wanted to meet.”

“How’d she get your number?”

“Probably from Snook.”

Ryan’s hand shot his hair. That meant he wasn’t happy.

“Ruben told me to come alone.”

“Jesus Christ, Brennan. If she’d told you to slice off a tit, would you have done that, too?”

“It was moi solo or no meet.” I was still wired, and Ryan’s reaction was pissing me off.

Ryan just stared at me.

“I phoned you. It’s not my fault the signal sucked.”

“You met her in the woods in the middle of the night.”

“Yes.”

“You had no business going off by yourself.” The Viking-blue eyes simmered with anger.

“I’m a big girl,” I snapped.

“You could have been killed!”

“I wasn’t!”

“But Ruben was!”

Ryan’s words felt like a slap.

I looked away. To hide the hurt. Mostly to hide the guilt. Because deep down, I knew he was right.

“I didn’t mean that.” Ryan’s voice was softer.

“Call it in,” I said curtly.

Ryan crossed to the bedside table, picked up and dialed his cell. He spoke with his back turned to me. When finished, he dug a sweatshirt from his carry-on and pulled it over his head. The static did not improve his hair situation.

“And?” I asked.

“They’re sending a unit.”

“We should tell Ollie.”

Ryan dialed again, spoke, disconnected. “He’s still at the Castain scene.”

“What did he say?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Ryan drew in a deep breath. Let it out. Then he made a comment that melted my resentment.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But at times you go with your heart, not your head. I worry that one day you will pay a price. I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you.”

I kept my face empty.

“It wasn’t your fault, Tempe.”

Yes, I thought. It was.

*  *  *

The unit was driven by Zeb Chalker. No crime scene truck. No hearse. Just Chalker. Apparently, the death of a hooker didn’t merit pulling personnel from a really cool murder.

Ryan and I met Chalker in the lobby. He did not look pleased to be there.

I described where I thought the shooter had been standing. Chalker called for another unit to check that sector of the woods and to drive the stretch of road closest to it.