Page 137 of Beat of Love
To pull.
And pull.
And pull until he’d wrung every last breath from her diseased, evil soul.
It turned his stomach to know he’d once had his dick in that vile body.
“Who is the woman?” the sheriff asked.
The bright light of the room burned behind his eyelids, and Rafferty forced himself to blink. Slowly, methodically, he shoved the all-consuming hatred back into its battered sarcophagus. He’d pry it open later, when the time came to deal with the poison it held.
“When was the photo taken?” he rasped, ignoring the sheriff question.
The sheriff’s voice answered like a hammer strike. “A couple of hours before Sarah’s accident.”
Rafferty opened his hand and saw he’d crumpled the photo into a tight ball.
“Again, who is the woman?”
He dropped it onto the table, pushed it away with a flick of his fingers. “Kamila Carvalho,” he said, surprising even himself with the clarity of his voice. “I need to make a call,” he gritted out, reaching into his jacket’s inner pocket for his cellphone.
“Put it on speaker.”
He frowned at the sheriff, instinctively ready to push back, then shrugged. What the hell. Stirling deserved—
No.
The manneededto know what was at stake here.
He had a community to protect, and by killing Selena, Kamila had kicked off a deadly game. She wouldn’t stop. Not until she found her prey.
Him.
The ringtone pierced the stillness. One. Two. Three. Four rings.
It was answered. “Hannigan.”
“Rafferty Lawson here, sir. You’re on speaker. With me is Sheriff Stirling from Nebraska.”
A beat of silence stretched before Hannigan spoke. “What mess have you landed yourself in now?”
Rafferty didn’t waste time, mindful of the unsecured setting. “Did you get confirmation on the DNA results from the body we ID’d?”
“Not yet,” Hannigan replied, followed by a sigh. “Do I want to know why you’re asking?”
“I’m staring at a photo of the subject. Taken four days ago.”
Silence. He couldhearthe man go still over the line. “Where did you say you were, Lawson?”
“Clearbrook, Nebraska,” Sheriff Stirling cut in, his gaze locked on Rafferty. “Who am I speaking with?”
“Hannigan. DEA Country Attaché. Brazil.”
The sheriff blinked, surprise flickering across his face. “DEA,” he echoed, turning his full stare on Rafferty. “This … subject of yours is implicated in a fatal shooting. If she’s a further danger to anyone in my county, I need to know about it.”
“Fatal shooting?” Hannigan snapped. “Who was shot?”
“Sarah Robertson,” Stirling answered.
