Internal Affairs by Jessica Andersen Page A

in her life—and the fact that she’d promised Romo she would get an escort home—she dug out her cell phone and called Tucker’s cell.
    There was silence for a moment before he said, “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on yet?”
    Sara winced. “Cassie blabbed.”
    “We’re worried. This isn’t like you. If you’re…” The tough homicide detective, who’d been only slightly domesticated by his marriage to forensic reconstruction specialist Alyssa Wyatt, paused as if feeling his way through delicate territory. “If you’re trying to atone for something you think you should’ve done before, please don’t. Leave the cloak-and-dagger stuff for the professionals. Okay?”
    Sara’s throat closed a little on the show of friendship and trust—he knew she was up to something, but wouldn’t interfere directly. He just wanted her to know that he was there, that they all were, to help her. That was how it had been with Chelsea and Fax, she knew. The friends hadn’t agreed with all of Chelsea’s choices, but they’d been there when she’d needed them. Now they would do the same for Sara, the moment she asked. “Okay,” she said, her voice a bare whisper. “I’ll…okay.”
    “I’ll follow you home myself. Just give me a couple of minutes.” He hung up before she could respond to that, but he didn’t mean anything by the hang-up. That was just Tucker’s way.
    Five minutes later, he was in his unmarked sedan, following her home, making her feel safe—for the moment, at least.
     
    R OMO WOKE groggily at the sound of a key in the front door lock, found himself facedown on Sara’s couch, and cursed himself for the weakness that had come from his injuries. He’d hated lying low, hoping to hell she was okay. But he’d had no choice. His body needed to heal, so he’d been forced to trust her not to turn him in, and not to take unnecessary risks.
    He didn’t need all of his memory back to know that trust wasn’t something that came easily to him.
    Cautiously, he levered himself upright on the sofa and then to his feet. He thought of meeting her at the door, but then he stopped himself. She’d promised to have one of her cop friends get her a police escort home. Logic said that—assuming her protection was any good—the cop would want to come inside and look around, making sure the house was clear. Hell, for all he knew, she’d had too long to think about the situation, and had made the logical decision to turn him in. In a way, he wouldn’t blame her if she had.
    Okay, that was a lie. He’d blame her, and he’d feel betrayed. But he’d get over it. He’d somehow gotten over her, hadn’t he?
    Hearing a low, masculine voice outside, he stiffened,then ghosted down the hallway, toward the rear exit he’d scouted earlier. Granted, he could be in trouble if the house was surrounded. He had a feeling, though, that he could take care of a rear guard or two.
    Sara might’ve been hoping that the spatter analysis would suggest he’d been standing next to the blood donor when the blow was struck, but in his gut he knew he’d been the one to make the fatal cut. He didn’t know how he knew that, or how he knew it’d been a knife rather than a close-range gunshot. But he knew, damn it. Just as he knew Sara would be better off if he left now, if he just walked out the door and disappeared. Her friends would help keep her safe.
    But who would help him?
    The question had him pausing with his hand on the doorknob. Not because he was afraid of going off on his own—he had a feeling he was used to that. No, what had him hesitating was the knowledge that if Sara’s most optimistic hypothesis was the right one, and he’d been undercover somehow, working for al-Jihad, then him disappearing was exactly the wrong move to make. If he’d been undercover, they needed to figure out his mission, who he’d been reporting to, and find a way to get back into the loop. He could have important information inside his