I'm Watching You

by Karen Rose

  Because even through her bravado, the woman he held in his arms had been both hurt and scared. Terrified. He thought about the look in her eyes that morning. Had it just been that morning that they’d sat outside the Restons’ home?

  Impossible to believe, but true. She’d said victims never, ever forget. And he’d suspected she’d been one. Was still one. Now, he knew for sure. How that made him feel was something he wasn’t ready to analyze. He was still too pissed off by the here and now to even think about the past.

  “I need to turn off the alarm,” she murmured. So he set her down long enough to punch the buttons on the console, then guided her to the overstuffed sofa in her living room, stretched out her legs, and slipped a pillow under her knees.

  He unbuttoned the top button of her coat and her hands sprang to his. “No.” She looked up, her eyes carefully blank in the darkness of the room.

  “Okay.” He switched on the overhead light and they both blinked. “I’m going to make you some tea.” He hoped she had tea bags, because he had no idea of how much loose tea to put in her china teapot with the big roses. “Stay here.”

  She did have tea bags and he completed the task with reasonable competence while he placed calls to Spinnelli, Mia, and his physician sister-in-law Ruth, his voice steady. But when he picked up the cup of tea his hands trembled.

  Abe turned, leaning against her ancient refrigerator, her fragile teacup clenched in his hands, his stomach churning. And once again he was back there, with Debra the day she’d been shot, stuck in the scene he’d replayed in his mind too many times to count. It had been cold, a late-spring storm dumping five inches of snow the night before. The sidewalks were still icy, and he’d worried she’d slip and fall. Hurt herself or their unborn child. How ironic.

  “I’ll drop you off in front of the store,” he’d said, worried that the walk from the parking lot to the baby store would be too much for Debra, round in her eighth month.

  She’d laughed, that husky sound that he’d found so incredibly sexy. “Don’t be such a daddy,” she’d said, playfully reproachful. “I’m pregnant, not disabled. The exercise is good for me. Ruth said so.” So he’d driven on to find an empty metered space on the street two blocks from the baby boutique on Michigan Avenue. The gift certificate she’d received at her baby shower the night before was burning a hole in her pocket, she’d said, and jumped from the car before he’d had a chance to come around and open her door.

  And then everything happened so fast. The shot, the way Debra’s body just crumpled to the ground, the look of surprised disgust on the face of the teenaged gunman before he ran to his waiting car. The sound of squealing tires as he escaped.

  Then everything moved so slowly. The way her blood pooled in the gutter, a bystander calling for help, his own futile attempts to stop the blood spilling from the hole in the side of her head, his own voice, pleading. “Debra. Please, baby, open your eyes.” Again and again.

  But she didn’t. Not then, not ever again. The doctors delivered the baby at the hospital an hour later, still and lifeless. Never in his life had he felt so helpless.

  Until tonight. Driving up to two wrecked cars, knowing Kristen was locked inside one of them, knowing two blood-thirsty gang punks had threatened her for something she’d had no part in causing.

  But she’s all right. She took care of herself.

  He huffed a mirthless chuckle. With a pathetic can of pepper spray. And thank God she had it, that she had the guts to use it. That she hadn’t frozen, helplessly.

  “Abe.”

  He looked up to find her standing in the arched doorway, her brow creased in concern. She’d called him Abe. “You shouldn’t be up,” he said.

  She limped across the tired old linoleum and took the cup from his hands. “I’m not hurt. I’m all right.”

  She was better, he could see right away. Her eyes were sharper, her face less pale. But she wasn’t all right, not by a long shot. “Right. That’s why you haven’t taken off your coat in your own house.” His voice was harsher than he’d intended, but she just quietly removed her coat, revealing a charcoal suit with a bright fuchsia blouse that should have clashed with her hair, but somehow did not.

  “Is this my tea?” she asked.

  “Unless it tastes bad, then it’s mine.”

  She sipped. “It’s fine. Can I get you something? You look worse than I do.”

  He supposed he might at that. “Do you have anything stronger than tea?”

  “I don’t drink, but I might have something.” She searched a cupboard and brought out an unopened bottle of scotch, a really good brand. “I won the door prize at John’s office Christmas party last year. If it’s no good, blame him.”

  He followed her to the kitchen table, taking the seat across from her. “It is good,” he said after the first sip. Alden had good taste. “Why don’t you drink?”

  She blinked at him over her teacup. “You are a nosy man.”

  He sipped at the scotch, feeling it warm his belly, settling the residual nerves still buzzing from his stroll down memory lane. “It’s a job requirement.”

  She acknowledged the point with a wry nod. “My sister was killed in a drunk-driving accident when I was sixteen. I’ve never touched the stuff.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  They said nothing more after that, just sat drinking their beverage of choice. It was not an uncomfortable silence, Kristen thought, watching Reagan watch her from across the table. Actually she’d become accustomed to seeing him in her kitchen after the last few nights. It had an air of intimacy that she savored even though she knew it was a product of her own imagination. And fruitless wishing.

  The front doorbell rang and Reagan stood up. “That’ll be Officer McIntyre. He’ll want your statement.”

  “Have him come in here if you don’t mind.”

  Kristen heard him open the door, greet McIntyre. Then curse loudly and she knew what he’d be holding before he came back into the kitchen, a plain brown box in his hands.

  “Sonofabitch,” Reagan snarled. “At least we’ll have him on tape this time.”

  Kristen stared at the box, utter exhaustion making her limbs heavy. “We knew it would happen sooner or later. You want to open it here or down at the station?”

  Reagan flipped out his phone. “I’ll let Spinnelli decide.” He walked out of the kitchen, leaving her with the box and an agitated Officer McIntyre.

  “This is a really bad time, Miss Mayhew,” McIntyre said, and she couldn’t say why, but the young man’s earnest words struck her as incredibly funny and the laughter just rolled. She laughed and laughed, slumping down in the chair when her breath simply gave out. McIntyre was eyeing her teacup suspiciously.

  “It’s just old-fashioned Earl Grey, Officer,” she said when her gasps had refilled her lungs. “The scotch is Reagan’s.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Could I take your statement now?”

  Kristen pulled out a chair and gestured him into it. “Go right ahead. I’m not under the influence, Officer McIntyre, just damn tired and worried sick.” She straightened in her chair. “You just delivered the punch line to a very bad day.”

  He looked sympathetic as he took out his notepad. “I’ll make this quick.”

  And he was true to his word, not asking stupid questions or making her repeat anything. He’d slipped his notepad back in his pocket when Reagan came back.

  “Got everything you need, McIntyre?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know that we’ll catch anybody, but we’ll send some men into the neighborhood tomorrow. Maybe somebody heard somebody bragging. We’ll see.”

  Reagan grimaced. “They’ll try again.”

  Kristen’s stomach rolled over. “Wonderful.”

  Reagan gently squeezed her uninjured shoulder. “Try not to worry.” He removed his hand before she gave in to the temptation to lean into him. “Spinnelli and Jack are coming here. McIntyre, you’ll need to confirm the location of the
box on the front porch.”

  McIntyre snugged his hat on his head. “No problem, Detective. Miss Mayhew, I’ll call you if there’s anything more.”

  Reagan walked him out, but she could hear him welcoming someone else and opened her eyes wide when a thirty-something woman with light brown hair and a black bag appeared at his side. Her house had seen more visitors in the last hour than in the last two years. Reagan shot her a cautious look. “This is my sister-in-law, Ruth.”

  The pediatrician. Kristen pursed her lips. “I told you I wasn’t hurt.”

  “And you’re probably right, Miss Mayhew,” the woman said. “Let’s check it out, and we can both go to sleep.”

  “Please call me Kristen.” She glared at Reagan, who looked not a whit apologetic. “I’m sorry Reagan dragged you away from your house, but there’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “It’s her shoulder and knee,” Reagan said, ignoring her. Kristen exhaled in frustration, but Ruth just looked amused.

  “Call me Ruth or Dr. Reagan, but don’t call me Dr. Ruth, that’s all I ask. Abe, scram.” She waited until he’d obeyed, then smiled. “Slip off your jacket and your hose if you can.”

  The jacket was painful enough, but manageable. The hose, however, were a different matter. Annoyed, Kristen acknowledged defeat. “It’s a good thing you came by, I guess. I can’t imagine sleeping in these things.”

  Ruth grinned and knelt by her chair. “I can’t imagine wearing them at all. Like being stuffed into sausage casings. Let me help.” A few tugs and Kristen sat bare-legged, her skirt hiked above her knees. Ruth poked gently for a few minutes, then sat back on her haunches. “You’ve probably twisted your knee and strained your shoulder socket. Neither one is life-threatening though you’ll feel really sore tomorrow.”

  Kristen frowned. “Worse than now?”

  “Oh, a lot worse,” Ruth said cheerfully. “But considering the alternative I’d say you’re lucky.” She rose and looked down, her expression shifting from cheerful to concerned. “Abe’s a fine man. He was afraid you’d gone into shock. Don’t be too hard on him.”

  Kristen tugged her skirt to her knees. “I’m just sorry you got dragged out here.”

  “It’s okay. Have you eaten?”

  Kristen frowned, trying to remember. “Yes, I did. I stopped at Owen’s for dinner. It was on my way home from the diner that those guys stopped me.”

  “Well, then I’d say the best idea is to take some ibuprofen and a nice bath.”

  Kristen snorted. “That’s what I told Reagan, but he’s too thickheaded to listen.”

  Ruth laughed. “Runs in the family, honey. Wait till you meet his dad.”

  Kristen shook her head, sincerely panicked that Ruth thought… “Oh, no. I don’t want…I mean…” She gave up when Ruth just looked more amused. “Never mind.”

  “It was nice to meet you, Kristen.” Ruth’s smile faded and she glanced at the door. “He’ll need to take care of you. Please let him. It’s very important.”

  Kristen remembered the look on his face when she’d entered the kitchen. Such desperate desolation. And he’d clutched her teacup so tightly that she’d thought it would shatter, right there in his hands. “Why?”

  But she got no answer as Reagan picked that moment to return.

  “She’s fine, Abe,” Ruth said, patting him on the shoulder. “You, on the other hand, look like you could use a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.”

  He smiled down at his sister-in-law with such genuine affection, Kristen’s heart ached a little at the sight. What it must be like to have a family so close that you could call and know they’d come at a moment’s notice. Wishes, once again.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said.

  Ruth sighed. “That’s what you always say, but I always do. You’re still coming on Saturday, right? A week from tomorrow, don’t forget.”

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away from my newest niece’s christening.”

  Ruth bit her lip. “I’m sorry about Debra’s parents, Abe. My mother invited them. I couldn’t un-invite them without causing a huge family row.”

  Who was Debra? And why did the mention of her parents make his eyes harden?

  “It’s okay, Ruth. I’m sure we can manage to coexist peacefully for one evening.” He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, the movement practiced, as if he’d done it many times before. “If it looks like trouble is brewing, I’ll leave. I promise.”

  “I don’t want you to do that, Abe.” Ruth’s voice thickened and she closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you’ve missed so much. I don’t want you to miss this.”

  He glanced over at Kristen, his expression slightly embarrassed. Good manners dictated she look away, but again she remembered the look of desolation on his face and gave him what she hoped was a supportive smile instead. He’d been good to her, this relative stranger. Caring for her when he hadn’t needed to. Ruth said that it was important he take care of her and whatever his reason, Kristen believed that was true.

  “Now don’t go getting squishy on me,” he said. “You know how much I hate that.”

  Ruth grinned tearily. “It’s just the damn hormones. Kristen, it was so nice to meet you. Keep your foot elevated.” She leaned up and kissed Reagan’s cheek. “Dinner on Sunday?”

  Kristen watched in fascination as Reagan’s stubbled cheeks reddened at the little kiss. “Me miss ham? I don’t think so. Let me walk you to your car.”

  Kristen gave Ruth a little wave. “Thank you.” And she watched them leave, Reagan’s arm around Ruth’s shoulders, the sight making her eyes sting. Hating herself for wishing for things she could never have, she turned and stared at the box.

  He was here because of the damn box. Because of all the damn boxes. And as soon as their humble servant was safely put away, he’d be gone. She drew in a deep breath and let it out. And focused on the damn box.

  She wondered who the vigilante had targeted this time and tried to make herself care, but it was hard to care about the loss of such twisted, evil people. Harder still after tonight. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what those men would have done to her had she not gotten away. It didn’t take imagination to conjure the picture of herself at their mercy.

  Memories sufficed.

  “Spinnelli will be here soon,” she murmured to herself, and it wouldn’t do to be sitting here bare-legged when he arrived. She needed to change her clothes. Summoning all her energy, she pushed herself to her feet.

  Friday, February 20, 9:15 P.M.

  He didn’t knock. He banged hard enough to wake the damn dead.

  Zoe opened her door. “Do you have any concept of self-control?” she snapped.

  He pushed inside and slammed her front door so hard the building shook. “Obviously not, since I was stupid enough to get tangled up with you.” His body shook with barely suppressed rage and for the first time, Zoe was afraid.

  “Calm down, for God’s sake. Do you want a drink?”

  “No, I don’t want a drink.” He grabbed her arms hard and she cried out. He hauled her up on her toes. “What I want is for you to back off. No more stories about Mayhew or vigilante killers.” He pulled harder and she bit back a whimper. “Understand?”

  She struggled, but he held firm. “It’s my job. I’m doing my job.”

  “Then go find another story, because you doing your job will make me lose mine.”

  “You’re overreacting. Nobody’s going to lose their job.”

  He shook her, hard. “That’s because you’re going to stop.”

  She threw her head back, stared him in the eye. “Or what? What could you possibly do to back up your spineless little threat? Tell the world I’m sleeping with you? I’m not married. I don’t care.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or maybe I’ll turn up as one of Kristen’s gifts.”

  He paled as she’d known he would. “What are you talking about?”

  She lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “The power of the press,
the spoken word. A whispered allegation. Association with a vigilante. It could ruin a man’s career.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then threw her away as if she burned him. She hoped she had. Nobody threatened Zoe Richardson. Nobody.

  “You’re insane,” he whispered.

  “Unfortunately for you I am quite sane.” She settled her hands on her hips, well aware of the picture she made. “You want to stay or what?”

  Horror flickered across his face. “You think I’d sleep with you now? My God.”

  “Pity. Press conferences and interviews with the Contis really get my blood stoked. Sleeping hadn’t crossed my mind.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Conti? What does that sonofabitch have to do with anything?”

  Zoe laughed. “So sanctimonious suddenly. Go on home, sugar. You can probably just catch the interview if you leave right now.”

  He shook his head. “You’re poison.”

  “Probably. Oh, and I’d be careful about that sleep-talking thing if I were you, sugar.”

  He paled and went still. “What are you talking about?”

  It was too rich for words. “You talk in your sleep, honey. I’m sure your wife knows all about us. Or will soon.” She tilted her head, her smile patronizing. “Sleep well.”

  Friday, February 20, 10:00 P.M.

  He’d chosen the next name from the fishbowl. It was a good choice. He stared at the name, thinking of the vileness of the man’s crimes. It would be too much of a pleasure to see this man dead.

  He sighed. He really should admit it, if to no one but himself. He’d started this mission to avenge Leah and the countless other victims denied justice. After the second one, Ramey, he’d felt satisfaction, and that was okay. With King it had been more than satisfaction, it had been almost… exhilarating, beating that man’s face to a bloody pulp. But with Skinner…it had been pleasure.