Her eyes narrowed. The girl? What was with these guys? Were they deliberately trying not to see Chloe as a real person? Maybe cops had to do that, because keeping an emotional distance was healthy for them, but she didn’t like it. “So you’d arrest him if she says the man had brown hair and brown eyes, and that matches the camera footage. Even though half the men in Sadler meet that description.”
More silence. There were undoubtedly things he wasn’t telling her, but...
“From what I understand, you didn’t recover any weapons or meaningful trace evidence.”
“No weapons, but we have a wealth of fingerprints and hairs we can match to the killer once we have him.”
Usually he said “or killers.” Had he become enamored of the idea of the wandering nutjob? And unless, say, they’d found a hair in the blood, she wasn’t convinced. The Keifs probably entertained. Chloe’s six-year-old brother had undoubtedly had friends in and out, the friends’ parents there to pick them up and drop them off. Maybe in the kitchen to have a cup of coffee. However tidy the house, there were bound to be hairs or fingerprints or whatever that didn’t belong to family members.
But investigating was up to the two detectives. Her obligation was to protect Chloe.
“I’m sorry,” she said firmly. “She’s not ready. I wanted you aware that she has begun to speak, that’s all. When I’m sure she can handle it, I’ll let you know.”
They sparred some more, with her the winner—although she wasn’t so sure she would have been if either investigator knew how to lay his hands on Chloe while Trina was tied up with her patients.
* * *
TRINA AWAKENED WITH a start. Her phone must be ringing, she thought blearily as she reached out to grope for it on the bedside table. If that annoying Detective Risvold was calling again—
Except...did she smell smoke? With returning consciousness, she realized the shrill scream wasn’t the phone. A fire alarm downstairs had been set off, and suddenly the one in the hall up here began to squeal, too.
Trina shot up to a sitting position, fear punching her in the belly. Her eyes watered, and when she inhaled again, she bent forward coughing. There was a sharp undertone to the smell that she knew she ought to recognize.
Chloe!
Trina grabbed her phone and dropped to the floor. She crawled faster than she’d known she could to the door and into the hall. Even in the dark, she could tell the smoke was thicker here, and she heard the roar of fire. Heat radiated from the staircase, and when she turned her head, she saw flame burning up the wall.
No escape that way.
She crawled into Chloe’s room and kicked the door shut behind her. Block the crack at the bottom. She’d read that advice before. A door could slow the flames.
Nothing she could use lay in easy reach. Like Trina, Chloe seemed to be obsessively tidy by nature, which meant no dirty clothes strewed the floor. Trina gave it up temporarily and pushed herself up. Heart beating wildly, she hit the light switch, but nothing happened. Then she ran to the bed and shook the small figure that formed a lump beneath the covers.
“Chloe! Wake up!”
A snuffling sound was her only answer—and if anything Chloe drew herself into a tighter ball.
Trina yanked back the bedcovers. “The house is on fire.” Somehow she kept her voice calm. “We have to get out.”
The three-year-old sat up. “I don’t know how to get out,” she whispered, and then jerked. “Look!”
Trina turned to see the orange glow already beneath the door. How could the fire move so fast? She yanked the comforter off Chloe’s bed and hurried to cram it against the base of the door. Then she said, “We have to go out the window.”
Nothing to it, she thought semihysterically. She unlocked and lifted the sash window, peering down at lawn that in early April was still winter brown and probably rock hard. She could scream for help...but what if men who had set the fire came instead of neighbors?
Gasoline, that’s what she smelled. This fire hadn’t started with a spark in the wiring or a frayed electrical cord.
After shoving the window screen until it popped out and fell, she said, “Come here, sweetie.”
Chloe obeyed, thank goodness. Trina rushed to the bed for the two pillows and, leaning out the window, dropped them to the ground. They looked puny below. What were the odds they’d help break a fall? But she couldn’t think what else to do. Remembering her phone, she picked it up and dropped it, too. It bounced off one of the pillows onto the dark ground.
A sheet. She snatched it from the bed, horrified to see that the door glowed fiery orange and was dissolving before her eyes.
Twisting the sheet into an impromptu rope, she tied one end around Chloe’s waist. Then she cupped the child’s face with her hands. “I’m going to dangle you as far as I can with the sheet, but then I’ll have to drop you. Just let yourself roll, okay?”
“No!” Chloe flung her arms around one of Trina’s legs and held on frantically. “I don’t wanna! Please! Don’t make me!”
Throat tight, chest hurting, Trina said, “We don’t have any choice.” She wrenched a squirming, fighting Chloe away. Maneuvering her out the window was a nightmare, with the sobbing child flailing and trying to grab hold of her again. Finally, she was able to start lowering her.
The sheet ran out sooner than she’d hoped. Heat seared her back. She was out of time. I have to drop her.
But somebody ran across her yard and positioned himself below the window. “Let her go. I’ve got her.”
Trina recognized the voice of a brawny young guy who still lived with his parents on the block. With a whimper, she released the sheet and saw him catch Chloe.
The fire behind her had become so intense she didn’t hesitate. She climbed out, turned and grasped the edge of the window frame...and let go.
* * *
ACHING, STILL FILTHY, grateful for the pain meds that kept her from fully feeling the burns and bruises, Trina sat holding an armful of little girl. Her position was awkward, rocked to one side so that most of her weight was almost on her hip. Her back and butt had been slathered with ointment and covered with gauze before nurses helped her put on scrubs to replace her ruined T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms.
“There’s some blistering,” the doctor had told her. “Minimal, but you had a close call.”
No kidding.
“It’s going to hurt,” he’d continued, “but if you have someone who can reapply the ointment, and if you take the pain medication as prescribed instead of trying to tough it out, I won’t insist you be admitted.”
He hadn’t asked if she had anywhere to go to, given that her house had just burned to the ground, but she’d called one of the two partners in her counseling practice. Josh Doughten and his wife, Vicky, had become good friends. Good enough to be a logical choice for her to call in the middle of the night. Plus, their two daughters were both away at college, so Trina knew they had empty bedrooms. Josh hadn’t even hesitated; he said he would get dressed and come immediately for her and Chloe.
But they wouldn’t be able to stay with the Doughtens long. She couldn’t endanger Josh and Vicky. What Trina wanted to do was jump—okay, climb slowly and carefully—into her car and drive away. Far away.
Two problems with that. Her car had been in the attached garage and was presumably part of the “total loss” the fire captain had described. Problem two? So was everything in the house, from her clothes to her purse, wallet and credit cards. The only thing she’d salvaged was her cell phone. Until she visited the Department of Motor Vehicles and the bank, she couldn’t even pay for a motel. Assuming anyone would rent a room to a crazy-looking woman with bare feet, wearing scrubs and carrying a kid who didn’t look any better than she did.
The police would probably offer her and Chloe protection, but it would come at a price. After all her effort to hold t
hem off, they’d have the access to Chloe they’d been so desperate to get. In phone messages left in the last day and a half, initial begging had progressed to pestering and finally threatening. They didn’t understand the damage they could do to a fragile young child by trying to dig out answers too soon. And yes, Trina sympathized, but the murder victims were dead. Arresting the killers wouldn’t bring Chloe’s family back. But she was alive, and protecting and healing her had become Trina’s mission.
As if she’d conjured them, the two men entered the cubicle where she waited. Risvold was middle-aged and softening around the middle, his blond hair graying. His partner, in contrast, had to be over six feet and was strongly built. His skin was bronzed, whether from sun or genetics, and he had black hair and dark eyes.
His eyes as well as Risvold’s latched on to Chloe with an intensity that made Trina want to shrink back. Her arms tightened protectively.
“I already talked to the arson investigator,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll give you his report.”
Detective Risvold slid one of the plastic chairs to face hers, and sat down with a sigh. Deperro hung back. Good cop, bad cop?
“I’m sure he will, but his job has a different focus than ours,” Risvold said. “So I’d like you to tell us what you saw and heard.”
“Just a minute.” She stood up with Chloe in her arms and left the cubicle. Several people glanced up from where they sat at the nurses’ station. “Excuse me. The police are here to talk to me. Is there any chance someone could hold Chloe for a few minutes so she doesn’t have to be there?”
A motherly looking nurse leaped up and volunteered.
“You won’t take your eyes off her for a second?”
“Promise.”
Fortunately, the little girl was still asleep, a deadweight when Trina transferred her to the other woman’s arms.
Then she returned to the cubicle, where she repeated her story briefly.
“You hadn’t seen anyone hanging around?” Risvold asked. “No car parked on your block that didn’t look familiar? Think hard, Ms. Marr.”
She was really tempted to remind him that she was actually Dr. Marr. Not something she usually insisted on, but this man’s condescension raised her hackles. “The answer is no. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
“The faster we’re able to hear what, er, Chloe saw, the sooner you’ll both be safe.”
Hurting, scared and mad, Trina said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t make her your focus right now. For one thing, it’s obvious your wandering crazy is off the table as a suspect.”
“What do you mean?” Gee, Detective Deperro spoke.
“I mean, would he have it together enough to understand that a small child might be able to identify him? And know where she was staying? Oh, and set the fire without a soul seeing him?”
Deperro’s jaw tightened.
She leaned toward them. “Try looking at your own department, why don’t you? It’s been nearly a month since the murders. Chloe and I have been fine. The day before yesterday, I told you she’d begun to speak, that I thought it wouldn’t be long before we could try asking her questions. Then tonight someone set my house on fire when the two of us were asleep inside. How many people knew what I told you? Who did they talk to?”
“Miss Marr... Katrina.” To his credit, Detective Deperro looked worried. “What about her day care? Is there anyone there who would have talked?”
“No,” she said flatly. “And since even you don’t know where she is, how would the killer have known who to cozy up to for news about Chloe?”
“I’m authorized to give you twenty-four-hour protection,” Risvold offered.
Even without a plan, Trina said, “Thank you, but no.”
He frowned. “But where will you go?”
Long-term? The correct answer was I have no idea. But she only shook her head.
Chapter Two
Not two minutes after the cops had left her alone, Trina knew what she to do.
Call her brother. Three years older than her, Joseph had never let her down, any more than she would him if he ever needed her. He’d be mad if she didn’t turn to him.
Unfortunately, he’d take at least a day to reach her, but she and Chloe could surely stay with the Doughtens that long. Trina went out to check on Chloe, but the nurse smiled and rocked gently. “If you need to do anything else, she’s fine,” she whispered.
“Then I’ll make a call,” she said gratefully, and returned to her cubicle.
Her brother’s phone rang once, twice, three times. It wouldn’t be the middle of the night for him, or even the crack of dawn. Georgia was three hours ahead, which made it...eight o’clock there.
“Trina?” he said sharply.
She started to cry. She hadn’t yet but couldn’t seem to help herself now. Lifting the hem of the faded blue scrub top to wipe damp cheeks, she said, “Joseph? My house burned down.”
“What? How?”
“It was—” She had to breathe deeply to be able to finish. “Arson. It was arson.”
He swore. “Do the cops think it’s random? There’s no reason you’d be a target, is there?”
She took a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”
“Tell me,” Joseph demanded.
The story didn’t take all that long, after all. He had already known that she was now a foster mom, although she hadn’t explained the background. Now she did.
At the end, she said tentatively, “I don’t know what to do. I was hoping...” She hesitated.
“I’d come?”
The tension she heard told her the answer would be no.
“You know I want to be on the next flight to the West Coast. But I don’t see how I can. We’re wheels up tonight, Trina.”
He was the one who’d shortened her name, to their parents’ frustration. They’d been determined she would be Katrina, but ultimately even they had started dropping the first syllable.
She could call them...but she couldn’t put them in danger, either. Joseph... Joseph was different. He could handle any threat.
“I’ll wire you some money,” her brother said.
“Thanks, but... I have money. I just have to get some ID so I can claim it.”
“Okay.” He was silent long enough that she was about to open her mouth when he said in a distracted way, “I’m thinking. I can ask for an emergency leave.”
“You’d have said that in the first place if it was so easy.”
“Yeah, it’s not. We’ve been training and studying intel on this op for the last month. The major won’t be happy.”
He wasn’t supposed to have told her as much as he had. Her heart sank, but she knew what she had to say. “Then...then I’ll think of something else. I could hire a bodyguard.” From Bodyguards ’R Us? Feeling semihysterical, she wondered whether that was a subject heading in the Yellow Pages. Craigslist? The bulletin board at the hardware store that was covered with business cards? How was someone as inexperienced as she supposed to judge the competency of some beefy guy who claimed he could protect her?
That’s why she’d turned to her brother. She knew he could.
“Wait,” he said, relief in his voice. “I’m not using my head. One of my buddies is half an hour or less from you. I’d have tried to hook you two up, except...we’re not good marriage prospects.”
Despite the fact that she was desperate and in pain, Trina rolled her eyes. “I can find my own dates, thank you.” Bodyguards, not so much. “Why is this guy in rural Oregon instead of at Fort Benning?” Or in some war-torn part of the world?
“IED.” So casual. “Had his stays in the hospital and rehab, but he still needs some time to come back all the way. He and another friend of mine bought a ranch out there in Oregon. I think Boyd was from the area.”
“They bought a ranch.”
“Yeah, thinking of the future. You know? At best, we’ll all age out.”
She shuddered. Usually, she didn’t know when Joseph dropped from the radar, which was fortunate. She worried enough as it was. He’d had regular deployments, but more often conducted raids in hostile territory, the kind of place where Americans were not welcome. She knew he’d been involved in international hostage rescues.
Perfect training for protecting her and Chloe, Trina couldn’t help thinking. “So, do you have this Boyd’s phone number?”
“No, this guy’s name is Gabe. Gabe Decker. Boyd retired a couple of years ago. He might be getting soft. Gabe is deadly.”
“But if he’s injured...”
“He’s on his feet. Even riding, he said last time we talked. Listen, I’ll call him. Where are you?”
She explained that she was still at the hospital, but her practice partner was taking her home temporarily. She told him the address.
“I want you in hiding now,” Joseph said, with the cold certainty of a man to whom her current troubles were everyday. “Keep your phone on, but don’t be surprised if he just shows up. Be ready to go.”
Okay. But wasn’t that what she wanted? Well, yes, but this Gabe Decker was a stranger. Was she willing to trust him? Follow his orders, if he was anywhere near as dictatorial as Joseph could be?
Her inner debate lasted about ten seconds. Because, really, what other option did she have?
The police.
All she had to do was picture Chloe’s sweet face, her freckled nose natural with her red-gold hair. No, Trina didn’t trust the detectives, one of whom must have a big mouth or been careless in some other way with dangerous information.
“I’ll be expecting him,” she said, and offered the Doughtens’ address. Only after she’d let him go did she wish she’d thought to ask what this Gabe Decker looked like.
* * *
GABE’S PLEASURE AT seeing his friend’s number on the screen of his phone took a nosedive as soon as he heard what Joseph wanted. Sticking him in close quarters with a clingy woman and whiny kid, right when he felt especially unsociable. Even so, he didn’t hesitate.
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