One of the ambulances pulled out of the lot, expertly maneuvering a path among the cop cars and gawkers. She stared after it. Was the kid in there? God. She closed her eyes. Shivered. It could’ve been so much worse.
“How bad is it?”
“He was hit in the shoulder. Nothing life-threatening, but it spooked the thieves. They rushed out of there, forgetting about the register.” He squinted into the darkness, staring after the rapidly disappearing ambulance. The lines around his eyes seemed more pronounced, as if the night’s events had etched their presence on his face. “In a way, I guess I owe that kid. But damn, I wish those bastards had just gotten the money and no one would’ve been hurt.”
“Did you recognize either of them? Do you think they were from this neighborhood?”
He shrugged. “They wore masks. And they didn’t say much except to demand the money. I did tell the police both had accents though—they talked slower, like drawls. But—” again he lifted a shoulder. “Around here, that could mean anything.”
True, she conceded. Boston was mixture of races, cultures, and immigrants—both foreign and domestic. Many people from different points of the world and the United States migrated to the historical city and put down roots. Still…she crossed her arms, not to ward off the chill from the brisk December air, but the hint of frost slicking across her soul. A drawl. The word shouldn’t have crawled down her spine, but it did. It shouldn’t have made her think of Alex—but it did.
God, how many times was she going to bring him up tonight? With Carmen, and then now? So the thieves might have had southern accents. Linking Alex to a random robbery skipped too close to paranoia.
“Pat, I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
“Thirty years I’ve been in this neighborhood. Nothing like this has ever happened.” He fell silent, and they stood together, studying the organized chaos of the crime scene. His sadness lowered between them, a heavy cloak that did nothing to block out the winter wind. Though the till hadn’t been stolen, Pat had lost something else this night, something more important—his security and confidence in a community he’d served for over two decades. Danielle clenched her fingers until the blunt nails bit into her palm. She inhaled a deep breath, released it. Slowly, she raised her arm, watching it as if it were a floating body part from The Walking Dead. Her hand hovered above Pat’s broad shoulder for several long seconds before settling on the ropy muscle.
He started, his gaze jerking to hers. Surprise flared within his eyes, rounding them. The small touch was the first she’d initiated. The softening in his blue gaze acknowledged her sacrifice and what it cost her. For even now, discomfort raced over her skin, thumped in her heart, slickened her palms. Pat studied her face another quiet moment before patting the back of her hand and gently lowering it from him.
She couldn’t contain the soft sigh of relief.
“Hey, Danielle. Pat.” Both of them turned around and met the solemn gaze of Walter Adam Lawrence the Third. Or Tres, as Danielle had christened him not long after meeting the quiet, slightly nerdy graduate student who had been a regular at Pat’s since before Danielle had started working there.
“Hi, Tres,” she said. “How’re you doing? Are you okay?”
The shy smile he usually gifted her with at the sound of the nickname was noticeably absent. He dragged a trembling hand through his thick brown hair, shoving the heavy strands off his forehead. Inevitably, they tumbled back in his eyes.
She admittedly harbored a soft spot for him. Though she was only four years his senior at thirty, with his lanky form, quiet manner, and ever-present book bag, he seemed younger than twenty-six. Or maybe she just felt old as Methuselah. At times it seemed as if everything she’d endured in the past five years had aged her until she and Moses could have been BFFs.
“Okay. Just shaken,” Walt admitted, rubbing his palms down the front of his khakis. “It all happened so fast. One moment, I’m eating, and the next, someone’s screaming at me to ‘get down’ and my face is pressed to the floor.”
With no trouble, she could envision the scene he described. Walt perched on the second stool with his customary hamburger with no lettuce, light tomatoes, mayo, and extra ketchup, fries, and root beer. Being involved in a hold-up would have been a harrowing experience for anyone, but probably even more so for Walt.
To the regulars at Pat’s Diner, he was Walt, the geeky, quiet graduate student who showed up like clockwork Monday through Saturday for the burger and fries and the meatloaf special on Sunday. But she knew he was also heir to one of the largest wealth management firms in the Boston Metro area. Even though he rented an apartment not too far from the diner and taught computer classes at the local community center, his sheltered upbringing wouldn’t have prepared him for the evening’s turmoil.
“I really am sorry, Walt,” Pat rumbled.
Before the younger man could respond, Danielle slashed a hand through the air. “It’s not your fault, Pat. The blame falls squarely on the shoulders of the thugs who tried to steal from you.”
Pat didn’t say anything, but the air of weariness didn’t fall from his taut frame.
“I’m just glad you weren’t there, Danielle,” Walt murmured. “That’s something to be thankful for.” Even in the dark, she glimpsed the tinge of red dashed across his cheekbones, and she recalled Pat’s joking about the younger man’s crush on Danielle. True, Tres did talk to her more than the other diners, but she’d chalked his verbosity with her up to the fact that she didn’t treat him like an oddity.
“I forgot all about your errand.” Pat’s gaze narrowed. “Did you drop off that résumé like I told you to?”
She nodded, her delight in landing a job with Malachim’s firm briefly raising its head. “Well, you did have more important matters on your mind,” she said dryly. When he arched an eyebrow, she smiled. “Not only did I deliver the résumé, but you are looking at the newest employee with Jerrod & Associates, L.P.”
For the first time that evening, Pat’s eyes lit up. A broad grin stretched across his face, his joy unmistakable. “You’re kidding? Hell, how did you manage that?”
“The owner of the firm happened to be there, and he interviewed me on the spot. And offered me the job.”
“I told you,” Pat crowed. “Didn’t I tell you? Just have faith, and everything will work out fine.”
Faith had been on her endangered species list for some time now, but she had to admit, Pat’s unflagging confidence had pushed her to apply with Malachim’s office.
“Nice to see you don’t believe in ‘I told you so,’” she drawled.
Pat scoffed. “People who don’t say ‘I told you so’ never had confidence in their beliefs to begin with. So when do you start?”
“I’m supposed to go in Wednesday. But,” she scanned the parking lot again and frowned. “I can call and postpone my start date. I don’t want to leave you in the middle of all this.”
“Don’t you dare,” he growled. “This’ll keep. We’ll still be here. You’re going to that job on Wednesday, and that’s final.”
“Yes, sir.” She snapped out a sharp salute. At his grumbled “smart-ass,” she chuckled.
“Congratulations on your new job, Danielle.”
She returned her attention to Walt, having forgotten he still stood there, witness to her announcement.
“Thanks, Tres,” she said. “Don’t think I’ll forget I have you to thank for sending me in the right direction.” When he’d discovered she was searching for another job and had a paralegal certification, he had dragged his laptop out and pulled up several employment ads online. One of them had been from Malachim’s firm.
Walt shrugged, but a small smile tugged the corners of his mouth.
She glanced over her shoulder at the diner. Even washed in emergency lights, the sight of the building yanked at her heart. “I have to admit, I’m going to miss being here with you guys every day.”
“Like I said, we’re not going anywhere,” Pat told her. �
�And the apartment is yours for as long as you need it. There’s no hurry to abandon us altogether.”
The prick of tears startled her. Up until that moment, she hadn’t even admitted to herself the kernel of fear that had slipped beneath her joy and hid like a stone in an old shoe. Yes, she was thrilled at moving forward with her future, at easing her toe back into the world of law she loved with a passion. But still…the thought of leaping without a safety net scared her. Returning to the diner, the aroma of frying meat, the clang of dishes, and her small apartment would provide that soft, safe nest after a day of spreading her wings and flying.
“Thanks, Pat,” she whispered. Clearing her throat, she turned away from the two men, willing the threatening tears back. “But in the meantime, you’re not rid of me until Tuesday night. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“That’s not necessary, Dani…”
She turned back to look at the man who was still her boss for another day. “Yes, it is. That’s what…” she paused. Cleared her throat once more. “That’s what family does.”
A long beat of silence passed.
“Yes,” came his gruff reply. “That is what we do.”
Chapter Five
Danielle scowled down at her watch, as if the steadily ticking hand was directly responsible for her running behind. Her first day at work, and she was going to be late if she didn’t get her ass in gear. She’d played a merciless game of peek-a-boo with sleep the night before. When the alarm blared a warning at five a.m., she’d just shut her eyes three hours earlier. Hence the mad dash around the miniscule apartment.
Messenger bag. Check. Purse. Check. CharlieCard for the “T,” Boston’s labyrinthine commuter rail system. Check. And most importantly, stilettos to switch out for her sneakers. Couldn’t forget those, or she’d risk looking like a fashion faux pas on her first day at work.
Exhaling one last stomach-churning gust of breath, she jerked open the hall closet and tugged her coat free from a hanger, then paused in front of the battered mirror mounted on the inside of the door. The cream wool outerwear, like the suit she wore, was a relic from her past. Self-consciously, she rubbed a damp palm down the front of the black fitted jacket and eyed the frilly white shell and pencil skirt. Nerves tap-danced under her skin, and her heart provided the deep, heavy percussion.
More precious minutes skipped by, but her sneakered feet remained glued to the worn brown rug. She studied the petite, dark-haired woman in the power suit. She was so familiar. If the room behind her had contained a tasteful collection of antiques and was appointed in the finest of Southern décor instead of a hodgepodge of yard sale discoveries, the reflection of Danielle Warren in a tiny, dog-eared Boston apartment would’ve been identical to the likeness of Elena Rainier, high-powered, successful Birmingham civil attorney.
But Elena had lived every moment in fear—of making a mistake, of embarrassing her husband. Fear of his silences, rages, and fists. Beneath Elena’s calm exterior, anxiety had replaced oxygen, terror had pulsed through her veins every second. Always on edge, afraid the slightest infraction—real or imaginary—would thrust her into the drowning abuse of pain and humiliation.
Danielle, though… Danielle knew the trepidation of having to glance over her shoulder at regular intervals. She understood the importance of secrets and the necessary evil of lies. But she also woke each morning realizing she didn’t have to please anyone but herself. If she dropped mustard on her shirt or smiled at a stranger, she didn’t shake in terror of the beast that would slash, bite, and hurt her. Danielle dreaded discovery, not living.
Giving the mirror a shaky smile, Danielle stepped back and closed the door.
Now she only had twenty-two minutes left to lock up and arrive at the station to catch her train.
Damn.
She bundled into her coat and grabbed her bags. A slip of paper on the scratched coffee table snagged her attention. The note she’d jotted down Carmen’s address on. A reminder to call about the money. She patted her pocket, and a different piece of paper crinkled. Envelope. Check. Her keys jingled in her pocket as she pulled them free and yanked open the front door.
“Great first impression I’m going to make,” she grumbled. “Wild-eyed, wild-haired—What the—”
A long, slender box with a delicate gold bow skidded a couple of inches across the landing toward the staircase. She hadn’t seen the gift before the toe of her sneaker had bumped against it. Frowning, she lowered her bag and purse to the floor and picked up the box. The name of a florist on Cambridge Street was embossed on a small, white envelope.
A disquieting heaviness settled in her chest as she slowly tugged the bow free. The soft material drifted quietly to the floor. Silly. She was being silly. It was probably a good-luck gift from Pat and the diner’s staff. The cantankerous owner hated losing her as a waitress but was truly happy to see her pursuing another career path. Just last night, he’d called her “useless as tits on a bull” even as he’d pressed extra bills into her hand for lunch.
The memory eased the icy, tight band squeezing her chest. They were just flowers. She nudged the lid up. A perfectly acceptable token that hundreds of thousands of people gifted each other with for various reasons. Nothing to pass out about or make dire predictions over.
Right. Just flowers…
The box top toppled to the floor, tumbling from her numb fingers.
Roses. Twelve perfect, blood-red roses.
Air sawed in and out of her throat. The frantic pulse of her heart drummed in her ears, crashing against the inside of her head like furious swells pounding against a rocky shore.
The white walls and wood stair railings wavered in front of her eyes, were replaced by lemon and gold silk wallpaper and a huge four-poster bed. An open pale pink box rested in the center of the white coverlet. And inside…crimson, long-stemmed roses nestled inside blue tissue paper.
As if trapped in that time and the beautiful bedroom, she grazed her fingertips over her throat, seeking out the tender flesh that had once been mottled with dark purple and black bruises. That incident had occurred earlier in her marriage, the roses an apology.
Before the apologies stopped.
She closed her eyes, snapped them open. Coordination abandoned her as she dropped the box and ripped the envelope open. Nothing. No signature, no name.
Just like before.
Stop it! This—the red roses—didn’t mean anything. It could be anyone, any someones. Roses were common, cliché-ish. They were go-to flowers for any occasion. No one could guess the parts they’d played in her past. No one…
But Alex. She wasn’t fast enough to prevent the insidious thought from infiltrating her mind. From leaving its inky stain of terror and worry. Nor could she stop the hesitant glance over her shoulder as if her ex-husband would suddenly loom on the staircase like an evil specter.
“To hell with this.”
She seized the florist box and bow from the floor and tossed them back into the apartment. They hit the hallway floor, and Danielle quickly slammed the door shut and jammed the key in the lock. The satisfying click of the tumbler trapped the flowers and her memories behind the closed door.
She dashed down the stairs. As she pushed out the side door, she freed her cell phone and dialed Carmen’s number. Might need to buy a new phone, she frowned. Not once since leaving Alabama had she called Carmen twice from the same number. The added expense might not be necessary, but God, she couldn’t afford not to be cautious. Paranoid, a voice whispered. She gave a mental shrug. Careful, paranoid—different sides of the same coin.
“Carmen, it’s me.”
“Elena? What’s wrong?” Carmen demanded.
“Nothing. Nothing, I promise,” Danielle assured her sister. Although she hated the note of alarm in Carmen’s voice, the obvious concern warmed her heart. “I just wanted to let you know I wasn’t able to mail the money out yesterday, but I’m going to send it this morning.” She paused.
“Oh.” Carmen sighed, an
d Danielle detected the relief in the soft sound. “Okay. I’ll look out for it in a couple of days. Hey, El,” a beat of silence passed before she cleared her throat. “El, I know the fifty was your last. And I really want to thank you for sending it.”
Surprise rippled through her. “Thank me?”
“Yes,” her sister drawled. “Thank you. I know that’s a foreign concept.” When Danielle didn’t respond right away, Carmen’s chuckle echoed in her ear. “Did I stun you?”
“Umm…yes.” Danielle admitted.
“Listen, El, I realize our relationship has been a bit…strained. And I haven’t always been honest with you. But I’m really glad you called. Pride kept me from saying it Monday night, but I need to assure you. I haven’t started using again. The money is for groceries. Money has been short since I lost my job, and I’m scraping to get by.”
“Carmen,” Danielle murmured. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her sister sighed. “Because I’m the older sister, El. Too many times you’ve picked up the pieces for me. You’ve started over, trying to build a new life for yourself, and I didn’t want to add another worry on your plate.”
Wow. Surprise, gratitude—love—clogged her throat.
“Well anyway,” Carmen continued, her voice turning brisk. “No need to get emo. I just wanted to thank you and let you know I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. Take care of you.”
A smile curved her lips. No need to get emo. Now this was the Carmen she was used to.
“Fine, I won’t worry then,” Danielle said. “Listen, I have to get to work. We’ll talk next week, okay?”
“All right. I mean it, El. Take care of yourself.” A beat of silence passed. “Be happy.”
The line clicked in Danielle’s ear before she could respond. Stunned, she dropped the phone in her purse.
Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) Page 4