Dark Hunger by Rita Herron Read Free Book Online Page A

trap.
    On the surface, the small cabin looked homey, with soft leather couches, braided rugs, a wedding photo on a pine sofa table, a crocheted afghan in blue and red, and a fire roaring in the stone fireplace. A shepherd mix stood up and growled then moved to Clarissa’s side as if to protect her.
    Before Clarissa or Vincent could quiet the dog, Quinton squatted down and held out his hand, soothing the animal’s fears with a silent command.
    Clarissa’s eyes widened as if impressed, but Vincent simply studied him with narrowed eyes. Quinton tried to tap into Vincent’s mind again, but suddenly a wall slid up, shutting him out.
    “His name is Wulf,” Clarissa said. “Let me take your coat.”
    She reached for his jacket, and Vincent strode to the bar in the corner and poured two drinks. Scotch, an expensive brand that Quinton often purchased himself.
    He accepted the highball glass, their gazes locking.
    “You’re going to need that,” Vincent said.
    “What I need is answers,” Quinton said. “And the truth about who you are and what I’m doing here.”
    Vincent gestured toward the sofa but Quinton shook his head. He moved to the fireplace and claimed the wing chair facing the door and window, his training kicking in. He never placed his back to the door, never in the line of attack.
    “You were in the military,” Vincent said. “And now you work with Homeland Security.”
    Quinton gave a clipped nod, then took a small sip of the scotch and let it slide down his throat, warming him as he assessed Vincent. “And you?”
    “FBI.” Vincent produced his identification, then handed him a folder.
    Vincent said nothing else, simply waited while Quinton examined the file. Detailed notes and photos of past cases Vincent had worked on for the government filled the folder. His heart hammered at the most recent story—the serial killer who’d stalked and killed several women in Eerie.
    Annabelle Armstrong had done a story on the case, although she hadn’t mentioned anyone by the name of Vincent Valtrez.
    He glanced up at Vincent. The files looked legit and would be easy to check. “I heard about that serial killer case,” he said, “but a deputy named Bluster solved it. Your name wasn’t mentioned.”
    “I don’t like the press.”
    Quinton chewed the inside of his cheek. “So you work for the FBI,” Quinton said. “That’s how you found me.” Meaning his cover was definitely blown, and the Ghost unit might have to be disbanded for safety’s sake. He wasn’t their only agent.
    Vincent nodded. “Trust me, your cover is safe. I didn’t call you about that.”
    “Then what?”
    “Like I said, we’re brothers.”
    Quinton forced his voice to be calm. “What makes you think that?”
    Vincent’s gaze remained steady. “My… our mother told me.”
    Quinton drained the scotch, set the glass on the table with a thud, and stood. “Now I know you’re lying. My mother is dead.”
    “I know,” Vincent said in a low voice. “But Clarissa is a medium, and she spoke with her from the grave.”
    Quinton hesitated, then pivoted to study Clarissa. So he had read her mind correctly—there had been lost spirits crying out in her head.
    Could she have communicated with his mother? And if so, was this man telling the truth—did he have a brother he’d never known about?
    Annabelle’s hands shook as she entered the police station. She had to report the text message. Although she wished the messenger had given her more information to go on.
    She’d tried to send a reply, but it bounced back. Apparently no address from the sender could be located.
    A twenty-something blonde receptionist smiled at her as she stepped up to her desk. “How can I help you?”
    “I need to speak to a detective.”
    “Just a sec.”
    She punched an intercom button, relayed the request, and five minutes later, a husky man in a baggy suit and flashy tie appeared through a steel door. He was scowling, his balding head shiny beneath