A Righteous Kill by Kerrigan Byrne

pads, and paperwork. His laptop glowed to one side, and an almost finished box of Chinese food was discarded to the other. Though he’d abandoned his suit jacket, he still wore his work clothes and shoes, which were nice . His only concession to comfort was rolling up his shirtsleeves and loosening his tie.
    Hero liked how the creamy almost-white of his shirt contrasted with the light brown of his skin and shadowed his dark eyes with something a little sinister. She had to admit to herself that if she’d met him in a dark alley, she wouldn’t assume he was fighting for the good guys. Not because of his race, but because of the tension coiled in his muscles. Because of the simmering heat rolling beneath the smooth skin. Because every feminine instinct she had warned her of an approaching predator every time he was in the room.
    “Your dinner’s on the table.” He never looked up from the report he read.
    “Thanks.” She picked up the recyclable brown box—Thank you Mr. Huang—and grabbed some chopsticks before walking over and plopping herself, cross-legged, on the edge of his organized chaos.
    “What are you reading?” She popped a baby corn cob and some watercress into her mouth.
    Luca looked up from his report, but his eyes snagged on her lips closing over the chopsticks.
    She drew them out slowly. Just because. Then licked them.
    “Father Michael’s interview report.” He fixed his stare firmly back on the paper. “He left the country two days after your attack, the morning after we questioned him.”
    Defensiveness for Father Michael surged inside her. “He always goes to Rwanda for a few weeks before Christmas to take the money and donations from the Thanksgiving fundraiser. He wants to make sure they get to the women and orphans.”
    “How do you know that’s what he always does? This is only his second year with your church.” Luca challenged. “John the Baptist started killing almost a year to the day after Father Michael showed up in Portland.”
    “He’s taken this trip for two years straight.” Even to her, the argument sounded weak. “He brings back pictures and letters from the people he’s helped.”
    “We told him not to go anywhere . It makes him look suspicious. Besides, he’s the only one without an alibi for any of the nights John the Baptist struck.” Luca looked up and met her eyes this time. Snared them, was more like it. “Including yours. He was the last person to see you before you were attacked and, remind me again what he was wearing while you shared that glass of wine?”
    Hero looked at her food. “A black cassock… but all priests do.” She hated that he did this. He turned everyone that she loved and trusted into a potential serial killer. Who were they going to suspect next? The nuns? Her brothers? Her parents?
    “I’m just saying, don’t trust anybody, Hero. Not while you’re still in danger.”
    A small thrill went through her at sound of her name on his lips. “What about you? Can I trust you?”
    Luca shuffled some papers and picked up another folder. The silence screamed his answer.
    Hero munched quietly for a bit and watched him work. He set down the yellow legal pad he’d held in his lap and picked up another one. Each of the notepads spread around him had dates on the front pages. One of them had the date of her attack at the top.
    Father Michael’s name was scrawled beneath the date.
    Hero didn’t want to look at that one, so she picked up the folder right in front of her and flipped it open. A pair of soft green eyes looked out at her from a hard female face. Across a pair of ginormous fake breasts, a Portland PD sign tagged the picture as a mug shot. The name “Jensen, April” spelled out in white letters above the arrest date. Her haphazardly lined lips tilted into the kind of smile produced by illegal chemicals. Flaming red hair curled wildly around her equally wild eyes.
    Abandoning her dinner to the floor, Hero looked at the picture