by DiAnn Mills
On the rear patio, with the hum and gentle breeze of an overhead fan, Leah and Terri sank into cushioned chairs.
“I see why you’re so very happy,” Leah said. “Chris and the boys are amazing. You simply beam.”
“Thank you. I never realized how good you are with kids.”
Leah allowed another sweet memory with her siblings to warm her. “I enjoy their minds and uninhibited creativity.”
“We’ve had a great new beginning this morning, haven’t we?”
“Perfect in my book. But once I let the boys beat me in basketball, I need to get going. I promised Jon I’d let him show me how to fish.”
Terri’s blue eyes sparkled. “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you get so serious about a guy.”
“Jon’s a good guy. A friend. And we’re working together.” Leah paused to figure out what else she could say to emphasize the professional relationship. “We’ll most likely talk about the case.”
Terri waved away the comment. “Of course. What else is there?” She grinned mischievously. “But, Leah, Jon Colbert is super cute. I can see you two together.”
“We’ve only known each other since Tuesday.”
“Maybe so, but something’s put a spark in your eyes.”
Leah sensed heat rising to her face. “He is fun.”
51
SUNDAY AFTER EARLY MASS, Silvia fingered the business card belonging to Special Agent Leah Riesel. Warren wrapped his arm around her waist, comfort when she needed it. She looked at the card for the third time. Not knowing the truth left her grappling in a way that felt worse than what she might face.
Dylan hadn’t been completely honest with her when he phoned her for money. The medication he’d been getting for her had likely come from illegal means. Her head throbbed. She’d suspected as much. Now the media said the FBI had arrested a man who claimed to be a Veneno, but his name hadn’t been released. He’d been arrested at Judge Mendez’s funeral, but from where she and Warren had been sitting, she hadn’t seen his face.
Silvia needed to be sure he wasn’t one of Dylan’s friends, one who’d stopped by the house or the man who’d picked up the cash at the dental office, the young man who’d done drugs before he arrived. She tried to relax, but until she was assured the man in custody had no connection to Dylan, her efforts were useless. Aaron Michaels and Landon Shaw had spent time in her home, and she’d lied to the FBI about them. But if she acknowledged their friendship with Dylan, then he looked like a gang member too.
Dear God, I’m sinning for Dylan. I hate myself, but what choice do I have? Father Gabriel told me to sin no more and be honest. I can’t betray my own son.
“Honey,” Warren said, “the truth can be hard to take, but you’re a strong woman.”
He understood her. The one thing she held back from him was Dylan’s adoption. Agents Riesel and Colbert had heard the truth about her son. Why keep it from Warren? Except not this morning. Her heart and mind ached for her precious boy. Before she agreed to Warren’s marriage proposal, she’d tell him about the adoption, including the truth about Dylan’s birth mother. She believed married couples shouldn’t have secrets.
She tightened her fist. “I’ll call Agent Riesel.”
Warren kissed her cheek. “We’re in this together.”
She pressed in the number. The agent had been kind, gentle, and Silvia wanted to believe she could trust her. It rang once, twice, three times—
“Agent Riesel here.”
Silvia weighed hanging up. She’d never been a coward, only naive at times, and she’d promised herself to be strong. “This is Silvia Ortega.”
“Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?”
“The news said the FBI had arrested a man who confessed to being a Veneno. I’d like to see if he’s one of Dylan’s friends.” The words tumbled out much easier than Silvia had expected.
“Are you having second thoughts about your son’s involvement?”
“I believe in his innocence, but I want to make sure the man you have under arrest is . . . a stranger.”
“He’s being held at the Galveston jail.”
“If I come tomorrow, can I talk to him?”
Warren mouthed he’d drive.
“I’ll arrange to meet you there,” Agent Riesel said. “Can we tentatively schedule around nine?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Silvia wrapped up the call, Warren offering moral support in his tender gaze. She thanked God for sending the dear man to her. If only Dylan saw his remarkable qualities . . . Where had she gone wrong in mothering him?
Warren gathered her into his arms. “You need to be prepared if the man in custody is someone you recognize.”
“I believe in my son.” She closed her eyes to avoid unwanted tears. “He’d never do those terrible things.” But the doubts wouldn’t leave her alone.
52
FISHING? WAS LEAH OUT OF HER MIND? The word tackle meant nothing to her, except to bring down somebody she was chasing. But she’d done a lot worse than hooking a slimy worm.
Jon gripped the worn cork handle of his pole like the hand of a friend. He wound white line around a wheel and threaded it out to the end of the pole. He reminded her of a kid, so she’d try to emulate his enthusiasm in the stifling heat. New York’s summer temps never melted her like this.
He nodded at a bucket filled with rich brown dirt and worms. “Caught these fellas right after breakfast,” he said. “With last night’s rain, they were easy to find.”
“I need instructions.”
He picked up a second pole, a little less worn, and handed it to her. “Reach into the bucket and pull out a worm. Then stick the hook through its fat little belly.”
“Okay.” She grasped a wiggly worm. If she’d dug bullets out of a man’s flesh, she could hook a worm. And she did.
“Now stand up and throw the line into the water. I’ll show you.” He anchored his feet firmly and lifted the pole and line over his right shoulder and tossed it out over the water.
She rose to her feet and glanced at the worm dangling from the end of her line. Poor thing. She followed Jon’s example and tossed the line close to his.
“Good one.”
“What’s under the box and newspaper?”
“Grasshoppers. Perfect for summer fishing.”
At least he wasn’t asking her to eat them. Been there. Done that.
“Half the fun of fishing is who you’re with,” he said.
She adored the peacefulness on his face, confirming he loved what he was doing. “Tell me about the art of fishing.”
“Well, Agent Riesel, it’s like working a case. Fish eyes are located on the sides of their heads, which means their blind spot is straight in front of them. That’s why more than one agent works a case. Fish can see bright colors, the same way a pretty girl or a vulnerable person gets a bad guy’s attention. Fish sense temperature changes and hear vibrations in the water.” He nodded. “While we’re fishing, we’ll stand or sit. We won’t make a lot of movement or noise. That’s like waiting for a sniper shot. We want to keep our shadows out of the water.”
“As we don’t discuss a case where someone might hear. And we use our senses when we’re headed to a sniper spot.”
He gave her a thumbs-up. “Fish smell but rarely take bait because of it, except catfish. So we fishermen use different methods to attract fish. They aren’t all drawn to the same type of lure. And I usually carry extra hooks in this case for the same reason.”
Jon opened his tackle box beside them. “Most of these aren’t needed in my pond, but when I’m doing serious fishing in other waters. Extra hooks could be compared to our proficiency with different weapons or hand-to-hand combat.” He gestured to other items in the box. “A fisherman always has an extra line. Invariably your fishing line will get tangled or broken. Think of this as your backup, like the SWAT team.” He picked up a little red-and-white ball. “This is a bobber. It floats on the water until a fish
takes the bait and drags it down, showing the fisherman there’s something on the line. Just like we gather evidence and follow the leads.”
She’d seen a bobber before and wondered what it was used for.
He picked up what looked like a small rock. “You’re looking at a sinker. It sends the hook and bait deep into the water. Consider it your informant or an agent working undercover.”
Leah smiled from the inside out, ignoring the heat and humidity to concentrate on Jon’s explanation. “All these things sound like good reminders, lessons for me to learn.”
“Fishing is quality think-time about what we know and what we’re missing.”
Were her feelings showing? “How many times have you given this lecture to other agents?”
“This is the first.”
“It’s outstanding.” She motioned for him to keep talking.
“This is veering into overkill.” He laughed. “My lures imitate what the fish are after, like setting up a sting operation.” He grabbed needle-nose pliers. “These are sometimes used to get the hook out of the fish.”
“I can’t decide if the pliers act like a good cop in bringing the fish some relief from the pain of the hook or if it’s more of a bad cop, ‘I’ll get a confession out of you one way or another’ thing.”
He feigned a shocked look. “Like our chief of police friend? Would we stoop to intimidate a suspect?”
“Never. What’s wrong with me?”
“I also have a line cutter. Can’t think how to compare it, except in the most direct way: cutting a suspect loose. Oh, and a first aid kit.”
“For us or the fish?”
“Whoever needs it.”
For several minutes, they sat on the bank in silence. Her mind eased in and out of the case, her family, and Jon. Spending time with Caleb and Asher created a longing for her brothers and sisters. She didn’t have problems with them, but with the way her parents had expected her to be like a parent too.
A robin caught her attention and flew toward Jon’s farmhouse. The home reflected a type of comfort she enjoyed. Neatly kept flower beds, a kitchen that made her want to learn how to cook. Jon Colbert, what would you think of me if you knew my past?
While they enjoyed the shelter of a live oak, insects hummed and birds sang, creating a whimsical and peaceful setting. The sun glistening off the pond and an accompanying hint of a breeze had no similarities to her previous home in New York or her Houston apartment.
She picked up her phone when it dinged with a text message.
“No work this afternoon,” he whispered.
“This is an agent who has connections with CPS. Her sister-in-law is a social worker. I talked to her yesterday.”
“Right. We need info for Rawlyns.”
She sent the reply text and slipped her phone back into her purse. “Is meeting with Silvia at the Galveston jail in the morning okay? She wants to see if Henry is one of Dylan’s friends.”
“The first time we met her, you said she was guilty of loving Dylan. Now we know more about her history.” He shook his head. “Breaking the law to protect him only makes the consequences worse.”
Leah’s sympathy for Silvia deepened each time they talked. “For her sake, I hope she and Dylan are innocent, and he’s alive.”
Her phone alerted her to a text. Leah had a confirmed time to contact a social worker that evening.
Twenty minutes later, sweat dripping down her back, her line dipped. Then jerked slightly. “Do I have a fish?” she whispered.
“Stay cool,” Jon said.
Her heart pounded like she’d just gotten a SWAT call.
“Take your time and reel it in. When it gets close to the bank, lift it out of the water.”
Leah concentrated on landing her first fish—a perch, according to Jon. The fish wiggled in desperation. “It’s very small.” She watched Jon unhook it for her, then she tossed it back in. “When it grows, I’ll catch it again.”
“Celebration time.” Jon reached into a cooler and handed her a cold bottle of water.
She twisted off the lid and drank deeply. “Tastes wonderful.” She recapped it. “Ever swim here?” She remembered to whisper.
“Sometimes.” Before she could protest, he gathered her into his arms.
“Jon, I’m drenched.”
“Me too. But we’re celebrating.” His lips met hers, and despite the heat, the fish, and her misgivings about a relationship with him, she returned the kiss.
The temps grew hotter. She leaned back and reached for her pole.
“Rather be facing an army of armed terrorists?” he said.
She drew in the truth. Jon was exactly what she wanted, needed, in a man. The fright of reality made her want to run.
“Where do we go from here?” he said.
“Time for this lady to head back to Houston and shower. I’ll have to drive with the windows down.” She stepped back and kept her distance.
“Are you afraid of being kissed again?”
Before she could think of something clever, he’d reached out and reeled her in again . . . like a fish. His lips on hers stole her breath, leaving her dizzy. When it was over, she didn’t attempt to escape his arms. “Thanks for teaching me how to fish, the analogy, and the lovely afternoon.”
“The kiss?”
“Get over it, partner.”
Their first real kiss, actually kisses, and she smelled worse than the fish.
53
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN DAYS, Leah unlocked her apartment door before the sun had gone down. She set a grilled chicken salad and her phone on the kitchen counter. The familiar sight of her clock collection in a corner antique curio cabinet gave her strange comfort as though time held the answers to her problems. What would Jon think of her steampunk decor—an old framed map of Europe combined with a Victorian sofa and lamps made from salvaged metal? Logic scolded her for allowing Jon to sink into her thoughts when her focus needed to be on the Venenos.
She had a call arranged later with the social worker from CPS. Confirmed updates for Will Jr. would help gather intel from his dad.
A whiff of her hot and ripe body sent her straight to the bedroom to unload her backpack and step into the shower. Family pics downloaded from Facebook and lined up on her dresser made her feel not so alone. The smiling faces created a sense of belonging. She inhaled the freshness of potpourri, scents of vanilla, mint, and lime. Home.
She lingered in the shower to let the warm water cleanse and massage her. When the afternoon’s dirt and grime flowed down the shower drain, she dried off and slid into yoga pants and a T-shirt.
Since Tuesday, her world had moved from one crisis to another, and it wasn’t over yet. This evening she’d enjoy every moment alone. Her bed looked far too comfy. Later, after eating her salad, she’d crawl beneath the sheets, phone the social worker, and watch a Hallmark movie.
The doorbell rang.
Leah groaned. Dare she ignore it? She sighed. What if the visitor had a critical message? She trudged to the door. A quick peek through the security hole showed a deliveryman holding a long box.
Flowers? She opened the door.
“Leah Riesel?” When she nodded, the young man handed her the box. “These are for you.”
“Who sent them?”
“There’s a card, miss.”
She thanked him before closing the door and locking it behind her. No one had sent her flowers in years. She carried the box to the reclaimed-metal table in her dining area. It was heavier than she expected. Must have a vase included. A square envelope with her name in gold script looked incredibly formal and sweet. Maybe Dad had a change of heart and sent them? She flipped on the brass-and-leather chandelier.
She loosened the envelope and carefully lifted the flap to read the card.
Leah,
To my gorgeous partner. Looking forward to time alone with you.
Jon
A fishing lesson and two kisses prompted him to send these? They’d grown close
as friends over the week and a definite attraction had drawn them together, but . . . A hint of anger settled on her.
She stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest. If she’d had the foresight, she would have learned who sent the flowers before the deliveryman left and instructed him to give them—probably roses from the size of the box—to his significant other.
Jon Colbert was about to get a piece of her mind. They barely knew each other. No more relationship stuff until the bad guys wore cuffs—and maybe not even then. She snatched her phone from the kitchen counter.
But curiosity tugged at her. She wanted to see the flowers before calling him, at least be gracious while being firm. Laying the phone aside, she lifted the lid.
In a flash a snake’s head snapped up and fangs sank into the top of her left hand. Screaming, she jumped back. Fiery pain shot up her arm. A rattler crawled from the box and slithered across the table. Her worst fear lay a few feet from her. Her throat tightened. Heart hammered. Memories of the rattler pit flashed across her mind. She’d failed then, but this rattler had bitten her.
Her first instinct was to get her gun, but firing it had the potential to pierce the floor or wall, and an older couple lived next door.
A knife.
She flung open a kitchen utility drawer. Blinding agony in her hand stole her breath. Gulping for air, she snatched a chef’s knife with her right hand. Panic seized control.
The rattler wriggled across the table, down a chair, and onto the floor toward her.
God, if You’re real, I need help.
The rattler slithered across the hardwood floor onto the tiled kitchen three feet from her. Like yesterday.
She must recover from the paralysis of watching the rattler move closer, or it would strike her again. Leah clutched the knife. She raised it above her head and down, slicing its head off.
She kicked the open-fanged mouth across the room. With a flood of anger, fear, and pain, she cut the rest of the snake into pieces. All the years of snake phobia unleashed. Her breath came in spurts. Releasing the knife, she tapped 911 into her phone.