Miguel nodded and peered at the photos of Patricia Oliver that his team had gathered from the DMV and news articles published during Richard Green’s trial. She’d been a beautiful woman and it was obvious where Maisy got her looks. But the last photo of her from the DMV showed the ravages of illness and the difficult times she and Maisy must have suffered after escaping to Seattle.

  The photos of a young Maisy were as telling. The teen had clearly been overwhelmed by all that had happened during the trial. She’d been sad and fearful based on her face and body language in the photos.

  “What do you read from all this?” he asked his team.

  “Your mother’s profile and physical evidence gathered at various locations led to his capture at the landscaping business. Green didn’t put up a fight when the agents showed up to arrest him, maybe because he was clearly guilty. No doubt about that, but he refused to cooperate about whether anyone else in the Forest Conservation League had assisted in any way,” Madeline said.

  “I doubt he acted alone, although he could have. Being in the landscaping business, he had access to everything he needed to build his bombs. Fertilizer. Fuel. That was his MO and that’s nothing like what we have here,” Nicholas said.

  “If you’re wondering about Maisy and her mother, they seem to have been terrorized by the press, neighbors and possibly even Green,” Madeline added.

  Miguel quirked a brow and closed the folders. “If I’m hearing you right, you don’t think Maisy had any role in the bombing. Is that correct, Madeline?”

  Madeline tipped her head and glanced at Nicholas, who likewise nodded and said, “I concur. If anything, Maisy and her mother were suffering from a form of PTSD based on what I see in the file. They’ve been doing all they can to avoid anything to do with the trauma. They changed their names and basically hid from the world. Now Maisy has suffered another trauma very reminiscent of the crimes her father committed. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has nightmares or hypervigilance after that event.”

  Relief slammed into Miguel that his two profilers felt Maisy wasn’t involved with the bomber, but he worried about the possible trauma that both his father and Maisy had suffered that day. And he also worried that the bomber wasn’t done, which meant they had to work quickly to assist the local PD with a profile and anything that might help identify the bomber. Hopefully TEDAC could provide additional details once they’d examined the bomb remnants.

  “Have you got anything on the profile for the bomber?” he asked.

  Madeline and Nicholas shared an uneasy look before Nicholas quipped, “Besides that he likes ham sandwiches?”

  Miguel had to chuckle. “Besides that. Although looking on the bright side, that likely eliminates Islamic extremists.”

  “It likely does. Plus, they would have claimed the attack already,” Madeline said.

  Miguel nodded and gingerly rose from his chair. His leg was throbbing, and other parts of his body were starting to chirp with pain from the bomb blast. “Excellent work on Green and Maisy. Keep digging to see if Green has any connection to this. Also, Maisy mentioned to me that she hadn’t heard from her father for some time, but in the year since her mother passed, he’s been terrorizing her with almost weekly letters and calls. Let’s find out how he got Maisy’s new name and info and see where that leads.”

  “Got it, boss,” Nicholas confirmed.

  “We’ve got this,” Madeline added.

  Satisfied that Nicholas and Madeline would glean additional information, he headed to the office area and over to Liam to see if he’d made any progress. As he neared, he noticed that Liam’s attention was distracted for a moment as Lorelai offered a good-night to the group, almost glaring at Liam as she did so.

  It had been a touchy situation in the office ever since the couple had called off their engagement, but Miguel couldn’t let that interfere with this investigation.

  “Liam, could I see you for a moment?” he said and tilted his head in the direction of his office.

  Liam frowned, but nodded and hopped to his feet. As he entered the office, Miguel closed the door behind the young man, who took a seat in a chair in front of Miguel’s desk. Miguel settled himself in his executive leather chair and stretched out his leg to ease the low throbbing there.

  “You okay, boss?” Liam asked.

  “Fine, and you, Liam? I imagine today must have been tough for you,” he said, hoping to get the young man to open up.

  “Not as tough a day as yours,” Liam said, but then looked away and plowed on. “I nearly lost it when we heard from Lorelai that she was at the station. All I could think about was whether she was safe. Whether I’d see her again.”

  “Seems to me you still have feelings for her,” Miguel said, leaning his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepling his hands before his mouth. He gazed at Liam intently, trying to gauge what the young man was thinking.

  “I do, but you know my family has a bad track record. I got cold feet and now... I promise I won’t let this interfere with the investigation. If anything, I have lots more reason to find the bastard so that we can shut down any danger to the public or the team.”

  Miguel hesitated, carefully weighing Liam’s words and tone. Satisfied that he was serious, he said, “Do you have anything for me?”

  Liam nodded. “We constructed an image of his face that we’re running against DMV and other agencies. David was able to pull a photo of him from a video, but also masked. Dash is working with those images using the facial recognition software he tweaked.”

  A knock came at the door and Miguel spied Dash there. As the top tech person, he oversaw Liam and David and so Miguel waved him in.

  Dash’s eyebrows issued a question he didn’t ask, and Liam quickly said, “I just filled the SSA in on what we had so far. May I go back to work?”

  Miguel nodded and Liam hurried back to his desk. Dash took Liam’s spot and arched a brow. “Should my nose get out of joint that you went to Liam for a report?”

  Miguel held his hands up in surrender. “No offense meant. I needed to make sure the Lorelai situation isn’t out of control. I don’t think it is, do you?”

  Seemingly accepting the unspoken apology, Dash said, “It isn’t. If anything, I’m betting we’ll still be attending a wedding. How much did Liam tell you about our progress?”

  With a heavy sigh, Miguel said, “That you have images you’re running against various resources. I’ve sent you some photos that Maisy took. Don’t know how helpful those will be.”

  “Quite. One of them contained a partial facial view. Part of the chin,” Dash explained and used his hands to pinpoint the area that had been revealed by Maisy’s photo.

  “That’s good news. When do you think we’ll have a sketch to send to local PD, ABS and the other agents in our office?” Miguel asked.

  “We should have a 3D rendering of the suspect’s face as well as general physical characteristics by the morning. In the meantime, we’re running what we have for now just in case we get a hit.”

  “Good work. Send me everything as soon as you can. I’m going back to my apartment to review everything Nicholas and Madeline dug up, plus the surveillance videos of the bombing. Something’s off and I need to put my finger on what,” he said and stood.

  “Will do, Miguel,” Dash said.

  Miguel took only a moment to make sure his team had loaded all their work to their network and, satisfied he had everything he needed, he headed to his apartment a few floors down from the BAU offices. As the elevator opened, he caught sight of the FBI agent guarding the door.

  When he neared, he said, “We’re good for the night. Get some rest and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The agent nodded and walked off, leaving Miguel staring at the door to his home.

  Not that it felt much like a home, as Maisy had clearly seen. It was just a place to lay his head for some rest. A place to work when he needed the solitude he couldn’t get in the BAU offices.

  Not a home, but he had to admit that with Maisy there it felt different. It felt more domestic, especially as he entered and she was curled up on the couch, watching a television program.

  “Hi,” she said, her voice slightly husky. Eyes half-closed, sleepy, until she saw him and beamed him a smile.

  “Watching anything interesting?” he asked and walked over. He couldn’t fail to notice it was a show about counterterrorism.

  “It is. Scary as well when you think about how many plots you’ve stopped,” she said and patted the space beside her.

  He slipped off his suit jacket, folded it and laid it on a nearby chair. He sat down beside her, loosened his tie and undid his top two buttons of his shirt. Staring at the screen, he recognized the case that the show was highlighting—a German operation where it had seemed like a lone-wolf attack until additional ties to Al-Qaeda had been revealed. He explained to her and she listened intently, asking questions and shutting off the program to focus on him.

  As he finished, she said, “That’s fascinating. So what the FBI, NSA and CIA communicated to the Germans was able to stop a bigger attack?”

  “It was. Much like we’ve gotten critical information from others, like the British police advising us about a possible transatlantic aircraft plot. It created a number of immediate security measures regarding liquids on flights and eventually we caught the terrorists before they could hurt anyone.”

  “It’s why you’re so married to what you do,” Maisy said.

  He’d never thought of it that way, but it was very similar to being married. To being committed to that one thing and not anything else. Not even a family.

  “It’s why my focus is on that and nothing else,” he confirmed.

  A long pause followed before Maisy cupped his jaw and gently urged him to face her. “It must be lonely. Being married to the job. Your mother wasn’t that way.”

  “No, she wasn’t. She was gone a lot, but she was also always there for me,” he admitted.

  Maisy stroked her thumb across his cheek, her touch soothing. Comforting. “I want to thank you for being here for me. I don’t know what I would have done today after the bombing.”

  But he knew, because she’d shown him her true colors today and not just during the hostage situation. She’d shown him later with his dad and now, when she’d finally made his apartment feel like a home. When he’d shared his work with her, something he’d never done before with anyone.

  “But I know. You’d have been strong the way you were today. The way you were when you and your mom built new lives for yourselves. You’re a strong woman. A caring woman,” he said and covered her hand with his. Stroked it to reciprocate the soothing and comfort she’d given him.

  “Thank you. I only wish I was as strong as you, but promise me one thing,” she said and paused until he nodded. “Promise me you’ll stay safe. ¡Cuídate!”

  Somehow the promise took on new meaning with her. A challenging meaning because he could already imagine hearing that from her every morning. Could imagine coming home to Maisy.

  And that was possibly more risky than the bomber who was on the loose.

  “I promise,” he said and rose from the sofa carefully, mindful of the stitches in his leg. He had stopped using the cane because the pain had lessened and the doctor had said to only use it when he felt he needed support. “Time for rest. I’ll take the couch.”

  She shook her head and said, “You take the bed.” She paused then and stared around the spacious studio apartment. “There is a bed, right?”

  He gestured to the wall at one side of the room, opposite a small dining room table and chairs. “Murphy bed. Are you sure?”

  “You’re a big man,” she said and bright color flooded her cheeks. She hid it, rather unsuccessfully, by covering them with her delicate hands.

  “You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he said, smiled and playfully tapped her nose.

  She mimicked the gesture. “And you’re kind of handsome when you smile.”

  Heat filled his cheeks and he stopped himself from taking the flirting—whoa, flirting—to another level. “Good night, Maisy. Feel free to use the bathroom to change.”

  “Thanks,” she said, grabbed her bag and hurried to the bathroom, but even as she did so, he couldn’t stop smiling.

  Armed with that smile, he rounded up a pillow, sheets and a blanket for Maisy. Yanked down the Murphy bed for himself. As he did so, he calculated the distance from the bed to the couch. Barely a few feet away. Too close and yet not close enough because it was too easy to picture her slipping into bed with him.

  He suddenly wished that he had opted for a one bedroom instead of the studio because even those few feet would have lessened the temptation of having Maisy close by. In just a day she had touched his heart in ways no one had in a long time. He had to guard against that because he couldn’t afford any distractions during this investigation.

  The only damage the bomber had done so far had been to a building. Miguel intended to keep it that way. When Maisy came out, looking fresh-faced in her cotton pajamas, he bid her a terse good-night and escaped to the bathroom, determined to get his guard up.

  When he exited, she was tucked beneath the blanket on the couch, all the lights off except for one under-cabinet light in the kitchen she’d thoughtfully snapped on.

  He rushed to the bed and eased beneath the covers. Grabbing his laptop from a nearby table, he pulled up the files for the information they had so far. But his mind was only half on the work. The other half was on Maisy’s gentle breathing until it lengthened and grew more regular, confirming that she had finally fallen asleep.

  It was only then that he could focus on the investigation. His one hope was that they would catch the bomber quickly to avoid any more damage to the people and city of Seattle. No, make that two hopes: the second was that Maisy would be out of his life before he got any more attached to her.

  Chapter Six

  Maisy had lingered on the couch, feigning sleep, when Miguel had risen from bed with the first rays of the sun coloring the dawn. She’d heard him padding around in bare feet, opening drawers and a closet before heading to the bathroom, where the hiss of water in the pipes said he was showering. She told herself not to think about what he might look like dripping wet in the shower because this time together was limited and could go nowhere. They each had their own path to take and they would never meet again.

  Determined to avoid those thoughts, she dressed, folded the sheet and blanket, and made a pot of coffee. The first drips of earthy brown java were filling the carafe when Miguel’s phone started chirping angrily. It stopped for a second, but then started up again, warning her that something important was up.

  Her instincts were confirmed when Miguel raced out of the bathroom, hair wet, dress shirt and pants unbuttoned, displaying the lean and toned muscles of his chest and midsection.

  She looked away and busied herself with pouring a cup of coffee as he snatched up his phone and answered.

  “SSA Peters,” he said as he dragged a hand through his wet hair to smooth the longer strands at the top of his head.

  The muffled words coming across the phone dragged a muttered curse from him and he grabbed the remote for the television and snapped it on. A “Breaking News” chyron in bright red and white scrolled across the screen.

  “An explosion rocked a vacant apartment building in West Seattle this morning. Firefighters are at the location tending to a small blaze ignited by the blast. We’re waiting for additional information as to the cause of the explosion and whether it has any connection to yesterday’s terrorist bombing in King Street Station,” the female newscaster reported as video of the firefighters tackling the fire flashed across the screen along with police officers securing the location.

  “You’re saying that the bomber sent a communication to us at the same time as the blast?” Miguel asked, his gaze focused on the news report as he listened to what one of his team members was reporting. He nodded at whatever they said and advised, “I’ll be there in five. Start tracing who sent the email and get on social media. I have no doubt he’ll be rubbing our faces in it on there as well.”

  He swiped to end the call and glanced at her as she said, “Is it him? The bomber from yesterday?”

  He nodded again and said, “He’s calling himself the Seattle Crusader. He says government isn’t doing enough for the people of Seattle and so he’s decided to help move things along. His first demand is that the minimum wage be increased to twenty dollars per hour. If we don’t meet that demand, he’ll keep blowing up parts of the city.”

  Maisy shook her head in disbelief. “But that’s not even something that anyone can do right away.”

  “It isn’t, but at least it’s something. Not like what we had yesterday. Hopefully the team can trace the email so we can pinpoint where he might be. I need to get to work,” he said and snapped off the television. “I’ll send an agent down—”

  “I’m going with you,” she said and set aside the cup of coffee she had just poured.

  “No way, Maisy. We’ll be way too busy—”

  “But you promised you’d be the one to safeguard me. And maybe I can help out somehow. Maybe I can remember something more about the bomber or what I remember of my dad, his trial and stuff,” she said and tilted her chin up, almost daring him to refuse her request again.

  A half smile slipped onto his lips. “Stuff, huh? I guess I’ll be able to focus better if you’re with me, even if I know any of my agents could protect you capably.”