good at reading people. She got vibes off them. When she’d been at Quantico, she was sure one of the trainees was off. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it was as if she got an itch under her skin whenever the trainee was around. She was getting that same itch here, now. Something was off about Connelly’s death—she just hadn’t figured it out yet.
As a JAG, it was her job to assess situations, people, and either set up the best defense or go hard on the offense. Those skills had been baked in.
Tristan wasn’t happy, that was clear by the set of his face and his methodical movements, but she wasn’t here to please him. She was here to investigate a suspicious death.
“I know you think this is a waste of time, but if I can get any clue from going over everything more than once, it will be worth it.”
He speared the ski poles into the ground with more force than was necessary. “I was out of line, Amber. I’m not an investigator. I’m a Marine, and I teach these boys how to shoot at an angle and survive in the cold.”
Bemused, all those words delivered with a tightly clenched jaw, she stared at him for a moment, shocked at his answer. Damn, he was cute when he was grumpy, and she was beginning to believe there was a lot more to his belligerence than just being grumpy. Trouble was, she wanted to know why, but she was completely sure he had no intention of telling her.
For the first time in an adult situation with a man whom she really wanted to sleep with, she craved more. Okay, she wasn’t one to indulge in many one-night stands, but it had happened.
It didn’t feel like this.
Nothing felt like this, and she’d just met the man.
She smiled in the face of his grouch. “Ah, don’t beat yourself up too much, Michaels. I’m sure you’re good at what you do, or you wouldn’t be here.” She crouched down. Pulling out her phone, she brought up the crime scene photos. She studied them for a moment, then knelt in the snow, the cold permeating her winter pants and chilling her skin.
She sent her eyes over the area, and this time she didn’t have Garza and Mendez breathing down her neck and trying to feed her information about this being a friendly fire incident. She wasn’t going to come at it from any angle other than the facts.
She held up the camera, then pulled off her glove, digging into the snow with her finger until she’d inserted it all the way down to her knuckle.
Pulling it out, she got on her side and looked at the layering of blood in the snow. It hadn’t taken long for the biting cold to numb her finger. She slipped the glove back on. There was no pooling, no volume. No indication that copious amounts of blood had saturated this area. She got up, climbed around the tent and hiked up a few feet. She peered down at the resting place, then looked back up the hill.
“Tristan, could you please go stand where you were before you found his body?”
He nodded and took off, climbing a fair ways up the hill.
She looked up the hill, standing forward and then turning and standing with her back to Tristan. She looked down the hill and took a breath. It frosted the air. James Connelly would have seen the targets from here with the naked eye. He would have known where he was, and he would have realized he was in the line of fire. No doubt remained.
James wasn’t shot here.
She looked right and left and thought about in what direction someone would have approached to deposit his body. This person would also have to have known these mountains.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted for Tristan to come back.
As he loped down to her, the snow crunching beneath his boots, she said, “Are there signs posted that this is an area of live rounds?”
“Yes. We always post so that anyone approaching would be aware we’re conducting training exercises here.”
“That’s what I thought.” She shaded her eyes against the sun, the glare even more punishing off the blinding white snow. “If James had been standing here with his back to you, he would have seen the targets. He would have known where he was, and if he was facing you, he would also have seen you.”
“And,