Free Sleep Tight by Anne Frasier

bother trying to disguise her resentment.
    "Didn't anyone stop to think that you fit the victimology?" Mary had to work to keep her voice smooth, even though she was irritated by Wakefield's lack of judgment. She'd expected more from him.
    "I know I fit the victimology. I thought my going on the canvas was a good strategy."
    Had she really thought it out that thoroughly? Mary wondered. More than likely, it had come to her later, when Gillian was face-to-face with the suspect.
    "The last victim was also identified," Gillian said. "Justine Ramsey."
    "Had she been reported missing?"
    "No. Lived alone, no close friends."
    "Like the first girl."
    "Exactly." The conversation shifted. "How are you coming on the profiles?"
    "I'll have the preliminary paperwork ready to present to Detective Wakefield by early tomorrow. Hopefully I can get the Behavioral Science team to sign off on it in two or three days so the profile can be made official and the information gotten to the public."
    There was a pause, as if Gillian were weighing her next words. "You sound tired."
    Her concern took Mary by surprise. "I am," she admitted.
    "Try to get some sleep."
    "As soon as I wrap this up." Her voice was once again distantly polite.
    "I'll let you get back to work," Gillian said, sounding rebuffed.
    "Gillian?" Mary paused. "If Tate comes around, call the cops."
    "I am a cop."
    "You know what I mean. Don't try to deal with him by yourself. He could be dangerous." Mary disconnected.
    The ice in the plastic bag had turned to tepid water; Mary dropped it and the towel on the floor. Would Gillian follow her advice about Tate? Probably not. Mary shouldn't have said anything about her being careful around the guy. Gillian had a history of doing the opposite of whatever her sister suggested.
    For the next two hours Mary fine-tuned the killer and victim profile, adding the finishing touches before shutting off the computer and lying back in bed.
    She was almost asleep when the doorbell rang.
    She kept her eyes closed, trying to pretend she hadn't heard anything. The doorbell rang again. It was probably some sweet-faced kid selling something she didn't want to buy but would anyway. Dressed in navy-blue cotton pajamas, she made her way downstairs, leaning forward to peer through the peephole.
    Anthony Spence stood on her mother's front porch.
    She blinked. He was still there.
    She opened the door, the chain lock catching. She slammed the door, undid the chain, and opened it again.
    Instead of a greeting, he got directly to the point: "You look like hell."
    On the other hand, he looked great. But when didn't Anthony look great? He was dressed in the FBI black he was so fond of, complete with trench coat.
    "Nice to see you too."
    The pain was making her dizzy. She turned around and plopped down on the steps, wincing as she jarred her arm. "What are you doing here?"
    "Are you sick?" He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
    "A headache." It was the first thing that popped into her mind. It seemed childish and immature—always evading everyone—but she hated to be fussed over.
    Anthony put a hand to her forehead. She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the coolness.
    "You feel warm."
    "Think so?"
    "How's the shoulder?"
    "A little sore," she admitted reluctantly.
    "A little?" From his expression of disbelief, it was apparent she hadn't fooled him for a second. "I know your definition of 'a little.' Like the time you had a little pain in your side and ended up having an emergency appendectomy."
    She gave him a weak smile, then tried to steer the attention away from her. "What are you doing here?"
    "I thought you might need some help."
    "You should have told me you were coming. I'd have met you at the airport."
    "Let me see your shoulder."
    "No."
    "Come on."
    "For some reason, you seem to think you own me now. That you own my shoulder." She was uncomfortably aware that she was in pajamas while he was fully dressed.
    "Is that so unreasonable? I'm partially