Explosive Attraction - By Lena Diaz Page 0,1

on a therapist. When things don’t work out, they naturally blame me. Understandable.” She reached for the large, padded manila envelope sitting on top.

Rafe grabbed her wrist in an iron hold.

She glanced up in question.

“The perp’s fingerprints might still be on the envelope,” he said.

“My prints are already on the envelope because I opened it. There’s some kind of watch inside, and a piece of paper. I didn’t pull either of them out, though, because as soon as I opened the envelope and saw what was printed on the paper, I put it down and called the police.” She expected he’d praise her for her quick thinking in preserving the evidence, but he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he picked up the envelope and peered inside. His entire body went rigid. “You saw the word boom written on the paper inside and didn’t mention it when you called the police?”

She stiffened at his incredulous tone. “It’s obvious there’s nothing dangerous in there. I didn’t want to raise alarms over a watch and a piece of paper.”

He shook his head as if in disbelief. “Lucky for you, I’m a bomb tech and can verify the envelope does not contain a bomb. But you shouldn’t have made that assumption. You should have reported exactly what you found and let the police handle it. If it had been a bomb, the person who responded to your call could have been killed if they weren’t wearing a bomb suit or using the proper equipment.”

Meaning he could have been killed. And of course, that she could have been killed when she’d first opened the envelope. Or even Mindy—a single parent with three small children—when she’d brought the mail in.

That thought had Darby swallowing hard against her suddenly tight throat. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think about it that way. I would never purposely put anyone in danger.”

His eyes widened at her apology. “No harm done,” he said, sounding as if the admission had been wrung from him.

She frowned, thinking about his earlier statement. “Why would the police send a bomb technician without me mentioning the word boom?” She cocked her head to the side. “For that matter, when did you stop being a detective?”

“They sent me because I was the closest detective when your call came in. The bomb-tech part of my job is part-time, as needed.” He reached into the envelope for the piece of paper.

“Makes sense, I suppose.” She watched him pull the paper out and hold it up toward the light. “Actually, in a city as small as St. Augustine, I wouldn’t expect we’d have a bomb squad at all. Doesn’t the St. Johns County sheriff’s office handle things like that?”

“We’re perfectly capable of handling most suspicious-package reports without their help,” he said, his tone sharp. “We just don’t have the money for all the fancy equipment they have.”

Sensing she’d stumbled onto a sensitive topic, she nodded and watched him examine the paper. But when he flipped it over, she quickly realized it wasn’t just a piece of paper. It was a five-by-seven photograph.

Even with heels on, Darby had to stand on her tiptoes for a good view of the picture. In the middle of a large, empty room, a man sat in a chair, his posture stiff and oddly strained. The low quality of the photograph reminded Darby of one of those cheap, do-it-yourself picture-printing machines found in drugstores. She squinted, wishing the exposure wasn’t so dark. “He looks familiar.”

“You know him?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

She reached for the picture but he pulled it back.

“Fingerprints,” he reminded her, holding the edges with his gloved fingers. When she lowered her hands, he held the picture in front of her.

She tapped her nails against her thigh. “Why would he have his picture taken sitting in the middle of an empty room?”

“That’s a concrete floor. And those are industrial-style windows across the back. Probably a warehouse.” His jaw tightened. “And he’s not sitting there because he wants to.” He pointed to the arms of the chair. “He’s tied up.”

She let out a gasp and leaned closer to get a better look. Recognition slammed into her, stealing her breath. Was this some kind of joke?

“You know him,” Rafe said, not a question this time. “Who is he?”

“An attorney, Victor Grant. He used to be in private practice, but he made assistant district attorney last week. I saw him at the courthouse just yesterday.”

He set the photograph down to reach for the envelope again. When he pulled