Fatal Exposure - By Gail Barrett Page 0,16

parents have started a second family and don’t want them around. Or sometimes they’ve made a mistake—committed a crime or gotten pregnant—and they’re afraid their parents will go berserk. In Erin’s case, she used drugs.”

“Like Tommy.”

“Yes, like Tommy.” Sympathy softened her eyes. “They’re confused, angry, ashamed. They can’t control their feelings and don’t know how to repair the damage they’ve done. And they don’t think anyone will help.”

Guilt fisted in Parker’s throat. He shifted his gaze to the plate-glass window and stared unseeing at the afternoon rush-hour traffic whizzing past. He and Tommy hadn’t been close. The five-year gap in their ages had kept them apart. When he’d gone off to college, his brother had still been in junior high. But to think that Tommy preferred the violence of street life to asking him for help...

“I tried to help him,” Parker said, his voice low. “I took him to counselors, enrolled him in programs. But nothing worked.” Their battles had only grown more heated until his brother had split for good.

“It’s hard to reach an addict. The chemicals change how they think. I tried to help Erin, too. But in the end I only made things worse.”

“How do you figure that?”

Her eyes turned pained. “I convinced her to go to a shelter, a place I know for teenage girls. She was there for a couple of days, and then her parents picked her up. I thought I’d done the right thing. She told me she wanted to get clean. And her parents had the resources to help her. They got her into that expensive camp.”

“You don’t think you caused her death?”

A bleak look filled her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head. “Maybe not directly. But she’d probably be alive right now if I hadn’t persuaded her to go home.”

He could relate to that. How many times had he second-guessed himself, wishing he’d done something—anything—different with Tommy, something that might have saved his brother’s life?

His gaze stayed on hers. And something shifted inside him, like a long-locked door creaking open to admit the light. And he knew that she understood. She carried the same burden of guilt, the same unending remorse.

Suddenly, his mind flashed back to the image of that scrawny girl standing beside his brother, and he wondered again what had driven her from home.

He tamped down on the question hard. He didn’t need to know Brynn’s life story. He didn’t need to forge a connection with her. And he definitely couldn’t afford to desire her, not when she could be a suspect in his brother’s death.

Although he was beginning to have doubts about that.

Alarmed, he jerked his gaze back to the file. What was he thinking? He was breaking the fundamental rule of police work, letting her get to him. He had to keep his distance, hold on to his objectivity to find out the truth about Tommy’s death.

“Here’s the autopsy,” he said. Still appalled at the direction of his thoughts, he checked the diagnosis at the top. “She died of blunt force trauma, consistent with falling from that tower. The toxicology studies show she’d taken meth.”

Keeping his gaze fastened on the file, he skimmed the various sections of the report—the internal and external exams, the degree of rigor mortis, the evidence taken from the scene.

“Who did the autopsy?” Brynn asked.

“The State Medical Examiner in Baltimore. That’s standard procedure in a case like this.”

“I didn’t see anything about sexual activity.”

“She was twelve.”

“And she’d spent time on the streets.”

True enough. And runaways rarely stayed innocent for long. He flipped back to the internal exam, then checked the diagnosis again. “Here it is. She had scarring consistent with sexual activity. But there was nothing to suggest it was recent—no semen present, no abrasions or inflammation that would indicate a rape.”

He spread his hands. “The cause seems obvious. She was a drug user with meth in her system, and she either jumped or fell from that tower.”

But Brynn didn’t look convinced. “You mind if I look at the file again?”

“Go ahead.” He slid the folder her way. “But there’s no evidence to suggest foul play—no bruising on her neck, no signs of any force. No other footprints around the tower. The surveillance camera was down that night, but even so, the case looks cut-and-dried.”

“She swore she was getting off drugs.”

“So she had a relapse. It wouldn’t be the first time an addict did that.”

“I know. But I still have a feeling...” Pulling the folder closer, she began