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guy took a swing at her knee with a police baton.”
    Oh yeah. That rang a few distant bells. “I don’t remember the details. It happened two decades ago.”
    â€œI didn’t either, but Lisa filled me in. Despite classy videos like that one you had running”—he swung his mug toward the blank screen—“things are not all sweetness and light in the skating world. It’s as competitive and cutthroat as any other professional sport.” He sipped his coffee. Grimaced. “This is worse than SEAL sludge. Get dressed so we can go rustle up some decent java.”
    â€œI’ll be ready in five.”
    â€œYou said that ten minutes ago.”
    â€œThis time I mean it.”
    â€œYou never answered my question about your case. Any similarities?”
    â€œNot that I know of.”
    How could there be? Christy’s skating career had been over for years. She was no longer a competitive threat to anyone—and nothing short of an Olympic medal would be worth maiming or killing or kidnapping for.
    Yet as Lance headed down the hall to his bedroom and dug through the packing boxes of casual shirts and sweaters, the question he’d asked Christy about enemies resurfaced. She’d claimed neither she nor Ginny had any.
    But every instinct he’d honed during his Delta Force stint told him she was wrong.
    One of them did, indeed, have an enemy.
    A very formidable one who had gone to a great deal of trouble to wreak havoc in the lives of both sisters with a meticulously planned and executed crime.
    Lance buttoned his shirt. Pulled a sweater over his head. Savored the familiar adrenaline rush that kicked in whenever he was on the hunt.
    What a change from a few days ago, when he’d been a desk jockey drowning in the minutia of old files, wondering if he’d ever get to put any of his Quantico training to use, itching for a case to crack.
    Well, he had one now.
    And he had a feeling solving it was going to take every bit of his Academy training—along with a few of the tricks and techniques he’d picked up during his high-octane Delta Force days.

3
    L et’s try the axel once more before we call it a day, Lauren.” Christy glided over to the twelve-year-old as the girl bent to adjust one of her laces.
    The petite blonde straightened up and huffed out a breath. “I don’t know why I can’t nail that one.”
    â€œYou’re getting there. The harder jumps take longer to master. Try putting a little more speed into the approach, and snap your hip around as fast as you can on takeoff to start the rotation immediately. Stay pulled in longer and tighter too. Your muscle memory is kicking in from other jumps and telling you to release sooner, but remember, you have an extra half rotation with this one.”
    As Lauren moved off for the setup, Christy watched for strays who might wander into the center area reserved for figure skaters. Teaching during public sessions wasn’t ideal, but it was affordable for students who otherwise wouldn’t have the opportunity to learn some of the finer points of the sport. Like her, back in the early days when she’d skated for the sheer joy of it.
    No problem with wobbly interlopers or speedy games of tag today, though. Attendance at the Saturday morning session was sparse. The snow that had begun falling as she left the house—not to mention the forecast of significant accumulation—must be keeping most people home.
    Christy watched as Lauren began her approach . . . leaped into the air . . . and double-footed the landing.
    The youngster skated over, shoulders drooping, and Christy gave her arm a squeeze. “Don’t be discouraged. We’ll keep plugging away, and one of these days everything will click. Have you been practicing between lessons?”
    â€œYes. Mom brings me during the week.”
    â€œExcellent. The more ice time you clock, the quicker you’ll