Darkness at the Edge of Town (Iris Ballard #2)(3)
The press descended on Grafton, North Carolina, my adopted town, before I’d even checked out of the hospital. Every major network, newspaper, and blogger swarmed my house, the college I worked at, even my students’ dorms. I could understand why. I was the infamous, disgraced former FBI profiler who’d fought to the death with the Woodsman and won. Add to that, the serial killer was a famous self-help guru who nobody—even the FBI—believed could be a murderer…up until he broke into my home and tried to kill me. It was kind of hard for people not to believe he had homicidal tendencies after that. And I killed the bastard myself. Callous, I know, but he deserved it. Not just for raping, torturing, and strangling five innocent women but because I had no other choice. The bastard shot my dog, knocked me out, chained me up in my basement, and proceeded to torture me as well. If anyone ever had it coming, it was Jeremy Shepherd.
Not that I could take all the credit. He would have killed me too if not for my best friend and ex-partner, Luke. Special Agent Luke Hudson, who once again rode in and saved my sorry ass, getting shot in the process, a fact I hadn’t heard the end of. When we talked on the phone, which was about every other day, and I said something catty, he just countered with, “Well, you wouldn’t even be alive to have an opinion if I hadn’t come when I did. I got shot for you, so I’m right always and forever. The end.”
Okay, he never really said that, but I knew he was thinking it.
I dipped the last of my steak into the sauce and swallowed it down. Melted just like butter on a hot griddle. I had to say, the best part of being a media sensation in demand by every network, publisher, Hollywood producer, and newspaper had to be the income. Along with the movie and book deal, CBNN had unofficially offered me a position as an on-call expert when crime stories cropped up, and I had a formal interview the next morning. If I could work out of their Charlotte, North Carolina, affiliate, I had every intention of taking the job. I had no plans to return to teaching at Grafton College. I had no illusions about my teaching skills. I’d never liked my job and with the money I was raking in, if I was smart about investing, I could live off that for years. My house would get paid off, with a new roof to boot, and I could probably even take a cruise. Growing up dirt poor, I’d learned you couldn’t always get what you needed, let alone what you wanted. Hell, I was lucky to get a new pair of shoes once a year. I was definitely looking forward to not worrying about money every other week. And all I had to do was almost die a horrible, painful death to get there.
As I pushed the room service cart into the hallway, my new iPhone rang. I groaned and shut the door. Only four people had the new number, and I was sure it was Miranda calling to tell me all the things I’d done wrong that day. I told too many jokes, I shouldn’t have shaken the publisher’s hand so hard; on and on and on she’d go. When I actually accepted the call, I was already tense and ready to fight.
“Hello, Miranda,” I said.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” a familiar male’s voice said, “but it’s not Miranda.”
A wide smile crossed my face at the sound of his voice, as I’m told it always did. To quote Marilyn Monroe, “I got goose-pimply all over” whenever I heard his voice. It wasn’t a sexual thing—or at least that’s what I told myself—it was more excitement. It had been two days since our last call, and I had so much to tell him.
“Oh, it’s you,” I said, feigning annoyance. There was just something about Luke’s voice that brought out the teenager in me. “What do you want? I am far too busy and important now for those who knew me when.”
His warm chuckle on the other end made my smile grow wider, if possible. “Oh, so sorry to bother you, your highness, but I just wanted to see how Shelly Monroe and the meeting with the publisher went.”
I fell back into my chair and threw my legs over the armrest. “Shelly went great. She did mention she was upset you declined her request for an interview. I told her the FBI is a harsh mistress who doesn’t like it when active agents splash themselves across the television.”
“So I assume I came up in the interview. Again,” he said with a tinge of annoyance.
I’d never known him to be annoyed by anyone but me. I did give him a plethora of reasons, so I never blamed him. “Of course, but I only said good things. You know what a great liar I am.”
“Well, I’m sure I’ll hear about it many, many times in the next few days. Every time you go on one of those shows, I get a play-by-play of everything you say about me. I’m getting sick of my own face on TV. People stop me on the street and start interrogating me about you, about things that are nobody’s business.”
“Come on, you must enjoy being the top cop in America a little? You’re the most famous, heroic FBI agent since Eliot Ness. You told me the last time we spoke Reggie was making noises about promoting you.”
“Well, the fact that reporters are camped out in front of the building and flooding the phones with questions about me can’t be helping my chances. Not to mention the guys are getting resentful. You know what someone emailed everyone? A picture of you and me in wedding clothes, except I’m the one in the dress.”
“Cute,” I said. “Did the dress show off your legs?”
“Not funny.”
“Yes, it is,” I insisted. “It’s a joke—you’re supposed to laugh. If you don’t, then they’ll know they’re getting to you, and it’ll never stop. Didn’t you learn any of this in high school?”