Free Cold Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 3) by Alexandra Sokoloff Page B

glass.
    Without changing position, he reached for his dangling phone with one hand and brought it to his face. “Tell me,” he said into the phone, hoping she could hear.
    He could see her chest rise and fall as she fought with something inside herself. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and hoarse. He could barely hear her through the dropped phone.
    “Help her.”
    He felt his heart contract with longing . . . and dread. She had asked him for help once before. By the end of that night he had killed two men.
    He felt himself nodding. “Where do I find her?”
    “Stanyan Park Hotel.”
    He felt a touch of surprise, and something more concerning. The Victorian inn was in Haight Ashbury, just a few blocks from Rachel’s shelter on Belvedere—and it looked out on the park where Cara had killed Danny Ramirez.
    “I’ll go. I’ll see her.”
    She dropped her arms and now stepped back, standing with her head down, her hair hiding her face.
    “Is there something else?” he asked, his mouth against the phone. “You have to tell me.”
    She looked up then. “Erin,” she said.
    So he nodded.
    She held his eyes with hers. Then she put a hand flat on the glass barrier. Roarke reached out and put his hand on the cool, transparent wall, against the slim, small shape of hers.

    Back at the office, between dodging phone calls from reporters and surfing the Internet and Bureau files for information on the group called Bitch, Roarke reached at least five times for the phone to call Rachel. Each time he stopped himself from dialing.By the sixth timehe knew he had to see her in person.
    Epps and Jones were buried in the mountains of paperwork Cara’s case had generated, and Roarke was able to escape the office without notice. He texted Singh he was following up with Rachel on schools that might recognize Jade. He even told himself it was logical to check, as it was their best avenue so far to find out who the girl really was.
    Lies. All lies.
    Once out on Market Street he peered through the windshield of the fleet car, staring through the twilight fog. He felt a disquiet about heading back to the Haight. San Francisco was a small city, but the coincidence of locale gave him a twinge that he couldn’t put a name to.
    Erin was young, still a student . . . it was a natural enough choice for her to stay in the Haight. It couldn’t have anything to do with Rachel, or with Jade, or with Danny Ramirez . . .
    Could it?
    He shook his head and focused on the traffic.
    It was dark by the time he’d crossed town. Fog shrouded Belvedere Street, rolling like slow, gray ocean waves off the steep, green hill of Buena Vista Park. He parked and pulled his coat closed around him as he climbed the steps of the House. He buzzed the intercom by the door. Rachel’s wary voice answered.
    “It’s Roarke,” he said, and waited, his stomach in knots. There was only silence on the other side.
    He was debating buzzing again, or using the phone to try to explain himself, when he saw a light go on inside. The front door opened and Rachel stood in the shadowed hall. She did not move to open the outer gate, but looked out at him through the metal bars.
    “Forget something?” she asked, her voice dry and unwelcoming.
    “I need a favor,” he said.
    Her eyes widened slightly. “You really are incredible.”
    He knew he deserved that, but it didn’t stop him. “It’s a girl in trouble, Rachel. A young woman. She’s—I don’t know. In danger, in distress. She needs someone to talk to. Not for me. For her. Please.”
    She glanced behind her. “Now?”
    “She’s just a few blocks away. I can take you over.”
    After a long moment she said, “Half an hour. That’s all you get.” She didn’t look at him as she opened the gate between them.
    Inside the House, she pointed him down the hall to her office. “Stay there. Don’t move.”
    As she climbed the stairs, something perverse in him rebelled. Instead of stepping into the office, he