Backblast by Candace Irving (miss read books TXT) 📕

duffel she'd dumped on the lower of the bunkbeds upon her arrival that morning.

She reached into the void exposed by the desk flap and switched on the significantly softer, dimmer glow within.

It was still too much.

She could clearly see the blood staining her entire left hand as she tossed her keys onto the bottom mattress beside her duffel, then reached for her SIG Sauer.

Her pride took another knock as she attempted to slide the 9mm from its holster—and failed. She pulled her air and her determination in deep and tried again.

Relief seared in with her admittedly wobbly success.

The 9mm followed the keys to the mattress. By the time she'd managed to remove her holster and retrieve her CID credentials, and set those on the bed as well, the duty petty officer was heading out of the stateroom, the door closing behind her.

Chief Yrle moved up to the desk flap and readied her gloves and gear. She snapped several photos of Regan while she stood quietly beside the desk, fighting the urge to reach out and use the flap for support.

Photographic documentation complete, the chief tucked her phone in her pocket. "Would you like me to remove your boots?"

As awkward and embarrassing as that was bound to be, "Please."

She'd clearly taxed her hand and shredded nerves enough, because the former was now shaking so hard, the tremors had spread into her upper arm.

Regan sank into the chair she'd used to interview Brandt and Vetter and closed her eyes against the shame of it all as Yrle knelt to deal with the laces of her boots before removing both with a steady swiftness she envied. "Thank you, Chief."

The woman stood. Nodded.

Regan came to her feet and allowed Yrle to assist her in peeling away her ACU top and trousers, as well as the bloodstained tee shirt and bra beneath. She was left standing in her socks and underwear and trying to shield her scarlet-smeared breasts as the chief finished placing her clothing in separate evidence bags, then sealed them.

"Ma'am? Would you like me to remain for a bit? At least until you've showered?"

The request was gentle, and for once, the pity simmering within those soft green eyes didn't piss her off. Possibly because it was genuine and coming from another woman. But more likely, it was because she simply needed it.

Either way, Regan shook her head. Then wished she hadn't. The sharp motion had affected the roiling in her gut.

Damned if the spook wasn't right. She should've skipped dinner.

For a blinding moment, the coffee, eggs and toast appeared bent on returning from whence they'd come. Fortunately, the moment—and urge—passed.

"Thank you, but no. I need you bird-dogging Agent Riyad. Watch that man, Chief, every second. Tell him I ordered you to assist him. I need to know if anything unusual occurs during the investigation or with his procedures. Anything."

The woman didn't bat an eye.

"You don't seem surprised."

"Nope."

"Why?" There. Nice and open ended. And with the tremors that had overtaken her entire arm and the numbness that had settled in everywhere else—including her sluggish brain—it was also all she could manage. But she needed an answer.

She needed to know if she could trust the chief.

"Ma'am, Agent Riyad's hiding something."

So Yrle felt it, too. More importantly, given that clear gaze and supporting micro-expressions, the chief was telling the truth.

"What?"

Frustration furrowed Yrle's brow. "I can't put my finger on it. But it's there. And it's big."

Agreed. But dare she risk doing so out loud?

Regan was prevented from making a decision when a round of quiet raps reverberated from the other side of the stateroom door.

A low voice penetrated the metal. "Agent Chase? Are you in there?"

Mantia.

She couldn't face another doctor. Not now. She doubted she'd have been able to face Gil tonight, let alone a physician who had the ear of the Griffith's captain. Not with her entire arm haphazardly jolting under its own stubborn steam.

Worse, her father's DNA had failed her for the first time in a long time. The proof was in that fresh round of compassion swimming through those sharp green eyes.

The compassion and the green disappeared as the chief turned toward the tiny connected shower and toilet area, and stepped inside. A moment later, the shower's spray kicked in. The chief stepped out and headed across the short end of the stateroom, stopping behind the door's hinges and in front of Regan as she cracked the portal open just far enough for her to hook her short crop of inky curls and face through the opening. "She's fine, Doc. Just stepped in the shower. But I could use your help carrying a few things, if you don't mind. I need to get back to the scene."

"Absolutely. I must return, too. But I wanted to make sure I wasn't needed here."

"The agent's good to go. Just a sec, please." Yrle closed the door, pressing a silent index finger into her lips as she headed down the length of the stateroom. She paused beside the bunkbeds and unzipped the duffel. The woman evidently found what she was looking for—the shower kit—because she opened it as she stood, then traded the kit for the evidence bags she'd left on the desk.

Yrle returned to the door and passed the bagged clothing through to the doc, then went to the desk to retrieve the crime scene kit the duty master-at-arms had left behind. Kit in hand the chief caught Regan's eye and murmured, "You have my office and stateroom extensions. Please feel free to use them. Anytime."

"I will." But she wouldn't, and they both knew it. "Five, four, six, two. That's the passcode on my phone. You'll need it to access the voice recording from tonight's…session."

Those numbers would be used, however, which they both also knew.

The chief offered a crisp nod and left.

Cognizant of that running, potable water, a commodity that was surely in rationed supply aboard a warship, Regan retrieved her opened shower kit and headed for the small sink just outside the bathroom. With her