“Better safe than sorry,” Tony replied. “We’re all tired. Anybody can make a mistake.”

“I blame all that wine you had with dinner,” Crane called up from somewhere below. He was joking, Charlie knew, because of course Kaminsky, like the rest of them, had not had a single alcoholic drink.

Kaminsky’s brows snapped together. It was clear from her expression that Crane’s joke had gone over like a lead balloon. “I’m going to bed,” she told Tony. Then, with another of those quick, mistrustful looks at Charlie, she turned and strode toward her room. “Hey, Buzz Cut, go soak your head,” she yelled down the stairs.

“Love you, too, Lean Cuisine,” Crane shot back.

“And on that totally professional note, I’ll say good-night,” Tony said with resignation. He looked beyond tired, with lines around his eyes and mouth that Charlie hadn’t noticed before, and shadows beneath his eyes. But he also looked determined and capable. The kind of man a woman wanted on her side when a serial killer might be hunting her.

“I’m sorry your work got interrupted,” Charlie said quietly.

He shook his head. “It was time to pack it in for the night anyway. We got a make and model off that surveillance shot Haney gave us, by the way. No license plate, though. At least, not yet.”

“That’s something.”

“Yeah.” He smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Charlie, we’ll keep you safe.”

“I know you will.” She smiled back at him. “Good-night, Tony.” Their eyes connected in a warm and friendly way that had overtones of something more. Then the naked serial killer ghost behind her made a rude noise, and she glanced in his direction automatically, breaking eye contact with Tony, and the moment was lost.

“ ’Night. Lock this door,” Tony told her as he pulled it shut.

Charlie did, then turned around to glare at the problem. Fortunately, enough furniture stood between them that she could only see him from approximately the navel up. Still, that much unclothed Garland was definitely something to see.

“Charlie. Tony,” he mocked. “You’re making progress, Doc. Keep it up, and pretty soon he’ll be asking to hold your hand.”

“Put on some pants,” she snapped, moving toward him with the intention of snatching her laptop, which was in front of him and thankfully in sleep mode, out of his reach.

“You got any ghost pants lying around?”

“Ghost pants?”

“Yeah, because real pants don’t work for me anymore. Neither do towels. I tried.”

She stopped walking, folded her arms over her chest, and regarded him quizzically. “What happened to your clothes?”

“I went for a walk on the beach. Then I decided to go swimming in the ocean. Flag’s up, but it doesn’t matter, because I sure as hell ain’t gonna drown. What did happen was that my clothes disappeared. I’m out there, bobbing along like a cork on the waves, since I apparently have no weight anymore, and I realize I’m naked. Why? Got me. What to do about it? Got me. You have any suggestions, I’m all ears.”

Charlie frowned. The problem of ghost wardrobe had never come up previously. “Where did you get the clothes in the first place?”

He shook his head. “One minute I’m in a prison uniform, next minute I’m wearing the clothes I wore when I got arrested. I’ve gained some muscle since then—not a whole lot to do in prison besides work out and read—but they fit fine. While I was in the water they vanished. I took off my boots before I went in. When I got out, they were gone, too.”

Charlie didn’t know what to make of that. “Hmm.”

He gave her a disgusted look. “ ‘Hmm’? That’s all you’ve got?”

“You know, I’ve never had a pet ghost before. I may not be totally up to speed on all the ins and outs of it.”

His eyes narrowed. “I ain’t no pet, Doc. If I were you, I’d keep that in mind.” He looked her over. “So are you gonna clue me in on why three FBI agents are guarding you like the Crown Jewels?”

Charlie thought back to their exchange in the car. “You said you weren’t interested in knowing.”

“I am now.”

Frowning, she considered for a moment.

“All right.” If he was going to be hanging around, it was time to lay it out for him. No more glossing over the aspects that he might find disturbing—or worse. “Trevor Mead and his parents were murdered, and his half sister, Bayley, was taken, by a serial killer. The same serial killer who slaughtered two other families and kidnapped and killed two other teenage girls within the last few weeks. This serial killer may or may not be the same one who butchered five families and kidnapped and murdered five teenage girls fifteen years ago. And the FBI is protecting me because I am of value to them, and I am of value to the FBI because I am, as you know, an expert on serial killers.”

Her tone had bite, and was in the end even accusatory, because after all he was one of them. But something in her expression must have been a little off, because Garland looked at her more closely.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re holed up in here under guard, like you’re a potential victim. Unless I’m missing something, this guy’s target is teenage girls. You’re not a teenage girl. So what’s up?”

Charlie’s lips pursed. Having been freshly reminded of what he was, she lost any inclination to spill her guts to him. If the human race was divided into sub-groups of predator and prey, she knew which group they each belonged in. The look she gave him was challenging. “I told you. I’m of value to the FBI.”

“Ye-eah.” The way he drew the word out left her in no doubt that he didn’t believe that was all there was to it. “You don’t want to tell me, that’s fine by me. But I’m in here with you, and your boyfriend and his pals are out there. If I were you, and I was in some kind of trouble, I’d be thinking of me as your last line of defense.”

“Defense?” She gave a scornful little laugh. “First, I’d have to be nuts to trust you to defend me, and second, you couldn’t even if you wanted to. You can’t even pick up a towel, remember?”

He was leaning over her computer again, like he’d lost interest in the conversation. But at that, he cast her a glinting look.

“You can trust me, all right, Doc. You know why? Because you’re my ticket to staying here. As for not being able to defend you, I admit, you’ve got a point. But I’m working on it.” He jabbed at the keyboard with a frustrated forefinger. To his obvious surprise—and hers, too—the screen began to glow. He’d managed to wake the thing up. “Look at that! I’m coming back.”

Obviously elated, he bent back over the laptop. Charlie was galvanized by the memory of what was on the screen: the sheet describing the killing of his stepfather. Even as she scooted over there and snatched her laptop from the table—“Give me that!”—she could tell by the way he straightened and looked at her that he had seen enough to know exactly what she’d been reading.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Checking up on me, Doc?” Garland’s eyes were hard.

Her chin came up. Shutting the laptop, she clutched it close. “Rereading your file. I didn’t pay all that much attention the first time. I wanted to verify … what you said.” She felt guilty. Why? Damn it, she refused to feel guilty for doing what was no more than her job. Or at least, what had been no more than her job. Probably the fact that he was no longer alive had taken the mandate to figure out what made him tick beyond the parameters of her grant.

He came out from behind the furniture and walked toward her, clearly not one whit bothered by the fact that he was naked. Muscles flexed. Sinews rippled. Other things … moved. Charlie resolutely kept her eyes on his face. It could have been carved from granite.

“You wanted to verify that I killed my stepfather when I was that poor kid’s age? I did.”

“I saw.”

“He deserved it.”

“I’m sure you think so.”

“If you’re looking at me like that thinking you’re going to see some of that remorse you were always asking me if I felt, you’re shit out of luck. I don’t feel any remorse. I’d blow that bastard away again right now.” Near enough so that an involuntary drop of her eyes gave her a real up-close-and-personal view of his chiseled chest, to the point where she could see the faint scar that still remained over his left nipple, he exuded magnetic energy.