by Skye Warren
A large boom rocked the earth.
She tripped from the shock, crashing against the white-hot pavement. For a moment, she lay there stunned. Had she been hit by a car? In degrees, her hearing returned, bringing with it the shouts and screams of people as bewildered as her. She levered herself up, lurching unsteadily as she looked back and found the source of the blast.
The bottom right corner of the Daily’s building was gone, unveiling burnt metal servers that opaque windows and concrete cornices had once blocked from view. Melted metal and exposed rubble formed a grotesque sculpture.
Andre. Remy.
She ran toward the building, the laptop bag flapping painfully against her hip. Yanking it off her neck, she let it fall onto the sidewalk and kept running.
People were fleeing from the building, a current too strong to fight through. From ten feet away, she stood, jostled by terrified survivors exiting the building and horrified to realize there was nothing she could do. There was a human wall blocking her entrance, and even if she could get past it, what then? The sounds of sirens in the air spurred her to action. Farther down, a side door opened, and a handful of shock-blind people tumbled out. She ran for it, yanking open the metal door.
Someone caught her arm and pulled her back. “You can’t go in there.”
“My friends.” She struggled with him, tugging at her arm until he caught her up in a binding bear hug. He was a stranger to her. Barely human—just a flash of wide brown eyes and the white squiggly letters of a Keep Austin Weird shirt, but she melted against him for a second as he squeezed her tight. He was only trying to keep her safe. They were both helpless here, fallen leaves buffeted by the wind and snagged on each other for a moment’s consolation.
She pushed back with a hoarse, angry cry. Anger toward the nameless, faceless people who’d done this, because she didn’t believe for a second that an explosion in Austin’s newspaper was an accident. Anger at herself for not being able to help. And anger at her terrible, selfish relief. I was almost inside. Almost.
Two police cars screeched their way to a stop in front of the building. The cops began forcing everyone back, away from the building. Like an animal to slaughter, she bumped against the people around her but ultimately moved where directed. Everyone was talking—to their neighbor, to themselves—but it all filtered through the sludge that was her brain.
She was trembling, inside and out, chilled in places she’d barely been aware of. Only a few seconds had passed, minutes maybe, but everything had changed. She was hypersensitive now, wincing from a slight breeze and stumbling over every crack in the sidewalk tiles.
If she hadn’t gotten the phone call, if Andre hadn’t told her to go, she would be crushed beneath rubble, burning, dying… Oh God, her friends. It looked like the blast had happened in the data center—maybe a loose wire had triggered the explosion. Although she suspected something more sinister.
She didn’t know the extent of the damage, couldn’t know how the structure of the old building would hold up. Andre might want her to take pictures. To pull out her camera, her laptop, anything, and start recording. Give the Daily the scoop on its own downfall.
She couldn’t do that, not even for Andre, even though he deserved her loyalty, because one thought stayed with her: she could be dead right now.
And she couldn’t shake the feeling that she might still be in danger.
In this business, twenty-four years old was more than old enough to be jaded—and suspicious. There were a million reasons to explain why the Daily’s offices were just blown to bits, hundreds of high-profile stories, so many of her colleagues inside. It probably had nothing to do with her or her story, but it might.
Don’t make assumptions. She still held out hope that her friends would be fine, that the firemen piling out of trucks would pull them from harm. Her stomach turned over. She couldn’t help them now, whether they were injured, in the capable hands of the doctors. This would be her promise to Andre, to fulfill her obligation to her story.
Breaking free of the pack, she backtracked to where her messenger bag lay askew on the sidewalk. The laptop had slid out, exposed, but the blast must have distracted any would-be thief from picking it up and walking away with it. If she hung around until the cops sorted everything out, her electronics would be confiscated. She would be held and questioned. It would all take months to sort out, if ever, giving Moreland time to cover any tracks that were left.
Wait, she didn’t know that Moreland was responsible for this. Another hunch, useless without evidence or corroboration. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she slipped around the corner. She needed to regroup. To catch her breath. At the next corner, another bus lurched forward, preparing to enter the stream of traffic. She ran right in front of it, waving wildly at the driver, who frowned and jerked the bus to a halt.
She pounded on the door. After a moment’s hesitation, the heavyset driver swung the lever.
“We’re not taking on any more passengers,” he said. “There’s been an incident.”
An incident. That was one word for it.
“Please. I just need to go a few blocks. I need to get home.”
After a brief pause, he nodded. She hopped up the tall steps and fell into the first empty seat as the bus lurched forward. The seats were mostly empty. Only an older woman in one of the rows and a young man with spiky hair in the backseat. Neither seemed interested in her or upset at all. They probably didn’t even know about the explosion yet.
Her entire axis had shifted, but these people had only heard thunder.
She studied the colorful route lines on the placards above the seats. This wasn’t her usual route, so it was going to take her farther away before circling back near her apartment. Her hands trembled as she smoothed her black pencil skirt. Her white button-down shirt and patent pumps were a little more formal than what Remy or the other guys at the office wore, but Sofia had always had a thing about professionalism. Ambition, Nate had called it, and it hadn’t been a compliment.
She’d missed him over the past few months, but right now it felt deeper, sharper, as if a scab had been ripped off, her old wounds open and raw. She could have been dead, never to see him again, never to hear his voice.
Fumbling in the pockets of the bag, she pulled out her cell phone. His number was still there. She’d never brought herself to deleting it.
The phone rang and rang.
“Pick up,” she muttered. “Where are you, Nate?”
She was sure she’d hit voice mail and even thought she heard the little click as it transferred, but then his voice came on the line, as rough and deep as it was in her dreams.
“Sofia?”
“Nate,” she breathed. Just hearing his voice warmed her, and she was so very cold.
“Why are you calling?”
Abrupt, maybe even annoyed. Even that couldn’t dispel the comfort she took from him. Though it did remind her that they hadn’t parted on good terms four months ago. Why was she calling? Because I almost died. Because you would have been my last thought.
“I missed you,” she said.
He made a rough sound. “You were the one who told me to take a hike.”
She hadn’t meant it that way. They’d argued about his job, about hers. He’d wanted her to step back, stop taking everything so seriously, and she’d wanted him to start giving a damn. She’d wanted him to stop hiding. Except now he’d removed himself from her life, so far hidden she’d probably never see him again. She’d spent the last four months pretending it was for the best.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did. I don’t…I don’t know what happened to you over there.” In Afghanistan or wherever other need-to-know places he’d been. “I can’t fix it, Nate. I thought I could, but I can’t.”
She was stripped bare, the words tumbling forth before she’d had time to analyze them. They were an apology, a confession, and a plea all wrapped into one. Considering what had just happened, this wasn’t the most importan
t thing to talk about. Then again, maybe it was. All the things she couldn’t say before. Last words to a man she’d loved. The man she still loved.
There was a rustling sound, and she imagined him pushing aside papers on his desk, maybe running his fingers through his hair.
“It was wrong of me to expect you to fix it,” he said. “I think I’m just too broken for a relationship. You deserve better, anyway.”
She almost laughed. Something caught in her throat, but she was afraid it was a sob instead. Well, what had she expected, calling him after something like that? It was like drunk dialing, only instead of liquor, she was hopped up on fear.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
“Sofia?” His voice had a new edge. “Is something going on?”
He would hear about the explosion on the news. Would he have worried about her? Yes. She knew that with certainty. They’d had their share of problems, but when he’d looked into her eyes, when he’d been buried deep inside her body and soul, she’d never doubted how much he cared. At least now that she’d called, he wouldn’t have to worry.
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” she said.
He was quiet, and when he spoke, his voice had gone husky. “I missed you too, Sofia.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. She’d wasted the past few months, so anxious about the future that she’d lost the present. Now it was too late. She couldn’t involve him in this, whatever it was.
He was Special Forces, whispered a traitorous voice in her mind. And a private investigator now. He had access to resources. Hell, he was a resource. But this was dangerous—obviously, considering what had just happened—and she couldn’t live with herself if she got him hurt. Besides, he’d made his disdain for her causes very clear. She was on her own.
“I’ll see you around,” she forced out. “Take care.”
“Wait. Sofia—”
She hung up, shutting her eyes against the impulse to call him back, to tell him everything and beg for his help. He was probably cursing her at the other end. Ring and run, that was what she’d just done. Starting something she couldn’t finish. But she couldn’t regret it. It had been really nice to hear his voice.
I’ve missed you too, Sofia, and the way he spoke her name reminded her of a hundred summer nights, his raw voice repeating it with every thrust, Sofia, Sofia, Sofia. They’d been wild and unstoppable then, with nothing covering their bodies but sweat and the scent of sex. He’d worshipped her, and she’d soaked up his feral passion, and everything had been wonderful and perfect until it wasn’t anymore.
This bus route circled half of downtown before stopping a block from her apartment building. There was no sidewalk here, just a smooth black gravel street that faded into the grassy ditch on either side. She walked the uneven edge of the pavement, trying to formulate a plan in her head.
A shower sounded tempting. The explosion hadn’t touched her, but she felt tainted—dirty. Hot, scalding water sounded like heaven right about now. She’d make it quick, then load up her laptop and check her usual sources for news about the explosion. See if some terrorist group had claimed the attack. It would almost be a relief if someone did, because then she would know. But if the attacker was still unknown, she could look for connections, see if anything led back to Moreland. And if it did? It would mean a solid lead for her story and the sickening confirmation that her friends’ injuries—maybe even their deaths—were on her hands.
The houses in this neighborhood were small, three and four bedrooms crammed into a thousand square feet. She’d toured a few of them when they came up for rent, but they cost five times what she paid. Her apartment building only had three units. The bottom floor was occupied by Ernie, who’d inherited the building from his parents. She rented one of the top-floor units, and the other one had been empty since the bachelor had gotten married and bought a house in Round Rock.
The whole thing felt surreal. The day was bright, warm with a slight breeze. A few houses down, a flag hanging by the front door waved in the wind. So goddamned normal, just like this morning, right before the explosion.
She stepped in the small foyer, which contained the main stairwell for the units. Ernie’s door was off to the right. So often it opened right as she started up the stairs, and she had to conclude that he watched for her out the window. But today it was already open, revealing the small table in his foyer piled high with mail. Then she remembered the phone call, the one that might have saved her life, even if that had been unintentional. For that reason alone, she should be nicer to Ernie, but she wasn’t sure she had the energy to deal with him after what had happened. Still, he’d called for some reason.
Rapping on the door, she tilted her head to see inside. “Ernie? You there?”
Her laptop was calling her name, those files that might somehow explain what had happened this morning. And when Ernie got on a roll, he could spend twenty minutes telling her about his day before she could extricate herself.
Something kept her from going upstairs. A sense of urgency in his voice on the phone. The strangeness of his door being left open like this. Or maybe those were excuses and what she really needed was human contact, validation that she was really alive.
As she nudged the door open and tentatively stepped inside, the irony assailed her. She and Remy had accused him of practically stalking her, but here she was entering his home uninvited. The reminder of Remy sent a fresh slice of pain through her belly.
She peeked into the living room, recognizing the brown leather couches, the large-screen TV from the few times she’d been here before. “Ernie?”
No sign of him.
Damn. Well, she’d tried, and she wasn’t comfortable snooping any farther into his apartment. She turned to leave when something caught her eye. Through the kitchen door, she saw a shoe. An old Converse sneaker that she’d seen plenty of times on Ernie’s feet. Only this time, it was pointing up.
Dread snaked down her spine. On lead feet, she crossed the small dining room. Ernie was lying on the kitchen floor, his eyes closed and a dark stain spread across his gray T-shirt.
A small cry escaped her as she knelt to check his pulse. Nothing. She fumbled for her phone, about to dial 9-1-1 when she heard the creak. She stilled, frozen with horror. Then another one, this one directly above her. Someone was inside her apartment.
Chapter Three
Nathaniel Gaines rubbed the two-day-old scruff he hadn’t realized he’d accumulated. This client e-mail was killing him. He’d never been one for diplomacy, but his filter seemed to be getting worse. Certainly, he couldn’t write what was in his head:
I’m sorry your wife is cheating on you with her personal trainer. And hairstylist. I’m sorry you bust your ass at work while she shows the tits you bought her to other men. I’m sorry that, from what I can tell, you’re a coldhearted bastard, which is why she looks elsewhere for a little affection. And most of all, I’m sorry I picked the lamest job I could find and still use my godforsaken training, but it turns out that private detectives are really just the worst marriage counselors in the world.
Maybe he should carry business cards for a divorce lawyer. Or maybe he should lie and keep them blissfully unaware, if he gave a damn about his clients. Luckily, he didn’t give a damn about much. Joining the military had hardened him. Leaving had turned him to fucking stone.
Except when it came to Sofia. He couldn’t lie to himself about her.
He really fucking cared about her. And that phone call. What was that about? As he’d so rudely pointed out, she’d been the one to break things off.
Nah, that was bullshit. The truth was, she’d pushed him, wanting more, wanting things he could barely name, much less deliver, and he’d let her walk, because that’s what he did. The soldier, who put his work before his own fucking life.
He had no business messing with Sofia; he couldn’t promise her the future she deserved, couldn’t even be honest with her about where he spent his nights. But she’d called and he was h
elpless to resist the pull. If she wanted to start things up again…hell, to hook up for just a night…he’d be at her front door with fucking bells on.
Dishonorable, but the God’s honest truth.
Of course, she hadn’t asked him out or propositioned him. I’ll see you around, she’d said. And her voice had been strange. He couldn’t put his finger on how she’d sounded.
Nervous, maybe? Shaky.
Scared.
He didn’t like it. He liked the confident Sofia, the one who went down on him with a wicked smile, who called his bullshit when she thought he should care more. He’d only seen the scared Sofia a few times before, when he first touched her. When she thought he would hurt her.
Fuck.
The thought of swinging by to check on her wouldn’t let him go. He’d done a lot of stupid shit in his life; he really didn’t want to add stalking his ex to the list. Still, he could just drive by. He wouldn’t have to actually talk to her. Make sure she was okay, that no asshole other than him was hassling her.
He’d heard the ding of the Austin Metro service in the background. Why was she on the bus at this time of day? The whole time they’d been together, she’d put in long hours at the paper, then come home and worked some more. At first it had been fine. A workaholic—convenient, because she didn’t question his crazy hours.
As they’d grown closer, they’d made up for the long hours at work by staying up late together, sweating and panting and talking until the sky turned pale blue. But she kept wanting him to give a fuck, and he’d lost all his fucks in that godforsaken desert, so here they were.
It wouldn’t be stalking. Okay, it would be, but he was officially a private detective, after all. That was basically a professional stalker. His secret job, his real profession, wasn’t much better.
He’d just see if she’d made it home okay.
If they started talking and she invited him inside…hey, it could happen. Showing up empty-handed might be awkward. Maybe he could pick up flowers on the way.