Walk In My Shadow: A Gripping Romantic Thriller (Mirror Book 3): A Mirror Novel

by Stephanie Tyler

  She'd known that—it was on her calendar, obviously, but she'd been repressing it. "Where's she being sent?"

  Carl looked at her oddly. "You never ask."

  Probably because she wasn't allowed to know. She was just a holding pen of sorts until after Mary did what she'd promised to in order to earn her protection up until this point.

  What Mary didn't know was that protection didn't always continue after the trial. Because the witness protection program couldn't protect every single witness like Mary, and depending on how effective she was, how important she was to other cases in the future, she'd be cut loose.

  The best Mary could hope for was that she'd learned enough about disappearing into thin air. But Mary was newly in love. She was happy.

  She had no idea that after next week she'd need to leave this area and keep running.

  This was part of the reason why Abby had become disenchanted with her job, which was keeping witnesses safe only to lose them after they testified or right before, after the marshals handed them over to the courts. "Does Mary know yet?" she asked Carl now.

  "No. I thought it best if we waited until the last minute. She's always been skittish."

  But she's changed, so much, and for the better, Abby protested in her head. To Carl, she said, "Can she stay here after she testifies?"

  Carl stared at her. "Did you get attached, Daniels?"

  "Is that a problem?" she shot back.

  "Don't get defensive with me, Abby. I've seen you go to hell and back. I'm not surprised this happened. I'm only surprised it took this long to happen."

  "That doesn't sound like you think it's a good thing," she muttered.

  "It's not. But it happens." He paused. "Maybe I should reassign you now. Make this easier on you."

  I don't want easy. "No," she said firmly.

  "Then be prepared to hand her over when I say so." With that, Carl walked away.

  Abby stared back down at her paperwork, the words blurring. She finished up a few pages, then stuffed it into her bag and left the office, hoping some fresh air would clear her head.

  It didn't. Her head was clear—she was firm about not wanting to hand Mary over. Her choices? She could tell Mary the night before she was to testify to not be there in the morning, to hide and hide well. But another part of her nagged. What if testifying did finally free Mary from a life of running and hiding?

  Could anything ever do that? Mary wouldn't ever stop looking over her shoulder, to some extent.

  "What's the internal battle happening?" Vance asked.

  Abby had noticed Vance walking with her into the diner, but he was such a fixture at this point it didn't register that he was paying close attention to her emotions. Once they settled into a booth and she ordered a soda, she asked, "Is it that obvious?"

  "To me, yes."

  She wanted to hate him for knowing her that well, but it gave them a shorthand that simplified things. So little in her life was simple that she'd take what she could get. "I have to turn a witness back over in a week. Lately, that hasn't been going all that well for them."

  Vance sighed. "They signed up for that life, in some way, shape or form. You know that."

  "Some of them are too young, dumb, and desperate to understand any of it. We both know that," Abby countered.

  Vance's lip quirked up at the side, like he was trying not to laugh. "And now you're going to be their superhero?"

  She fought the urge to throw her soda at him. "Someone has to. Aren't we supposed to be the good guys?"

  "We are," he said firmly. "But we can't save people who screwed themselves. They know that WITSEC isn't a walk in the park."

  "That's bullshit and you know it—it's sold to them like a second chance. A new life. A fresh start, and it's nothing like that."

  Vance looked troubled. "Abby, if you can't handle doing your job, you need to get out. I'm telling you that, as a government employee, and as a friend."

  "Would you have told me that before you kidnapped me as a member of the government, or was that done on your own steam?" she shot back, and when he didn't answer, she slammed her chair back, startling diners around them.

  "Don't make a scene," he warned.

  "Try me." She pointed at him. "Stay back. Don't talk to me anymore. I'm not kidding." She walked out of the diner, got into her truck and sped away from the scene. One glance in the rearview told her that, of course, Vance was behind her. There was no way to stop him from tailing her, but there was no law saying she had to interact with him.

  She was tired. Tired of being followed, stalked by killers and crazies, tired of stalking them back. Tired of living under the constant threat of danger. She sagged under the weight of the responsibility. She surrendered to it, far younger than her father ever thought about doing, Maybe that was progress her mother would've been proud of. Maybe this was something she needed to get out of her system.

  If so, she was definitely rid of it. She wanted to run away and never look back at any of it.

  She'd had witnesses who'd run and she'd always found them. She knew the tricks on both sides. She could do it, and still make it so Teige didn't worry about her, and that gave her comfort in the knowing.

  But she wouldn't run. Not tonight—tonight, she simply needed breathing room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Abby hadn't noticed the large envelope on her passenger's seat, with her name on it. In Vance's writing.

  Now he had keys to her truck, too. She grabbed it and went inside. When she opened it, there was a handwritten note.

  Angel-

  Here's the information you requested.

  -V

  And that information? Was bullshit, every last bit of it. She wasn't sure why, could only point to her instincts to say that the CIA was deliberately trying to throw her off the track.

  Which was why she'd live and die by her instincts.

  Last month, she'd been living a normal life—her normal—wondering when, if ever, Ethan would call. Now, she'd been kidnapped by the CIA, discovered Ethan had been killed, learned that his murderer had not only contacted her but was possibly stalking her…

  And she was under the CIA's protection.

  None of this added up. Unless…

  She pulled up with a start. Stared out the window at Vance, who was making his way up her front walk for their nightly sparring session, despite her earlier warning to stay back.

  That actually worked in her favor.

  So far, there had been supposedly no evidence matched from the rose. The CIA had taken it from the marshals, so she couldn't truly believe that.

  As usual, Vance knocked and called as he was opening her door. This time, she was ready.

  She had him by the balls and by the throat, gun and knife respectively, as she kicked her door closed. She wouldn't make the mistake of doing a single process on him again. "How do you know Ethan Graves?"

  Not "Do you." She wasn't playing that game.

  Vance didn't blink. Or breathe. Or show any signs of panic or distress. "I'm surprised it took you this long to figure it out."

  She almost crumpled. Maybe part of it was from relief. Because if Vance knew Ethan, really knew him, then maybe he was somehow looking to clear Ethan's name, and by default, hers. Maybe he really was protecting her.

  Unless Vance and Ethan were mortal enemies? "Were you friends? Work acquaintances?" she demanded.

  Vance closed his eyes. Sighed. And finally admitted, "Family, Abby. We were family."

  Family, Abby. We were family.

  His admission echoed over and over in her mind as she pulled the weapons away from him and pocketed them. She wanted him to be lying about this, but he wasn't.

  Because her instincts. Because this made more sense than anything previously, put all the pieces together.

  It still didn't make her any less angry. "You tricked me." She hissed it, but her voice wavered at the end, dammit.

  "Angel…"

  "Don't. Don't call me that ever." She
wasn't sure which was worse—the fact that she felt completely betrayed by Vance, or somehow disloyal to Ethan. Which was ridiculous, because Vance should be the one feeling disloyal.

  "You need to let me explain—"

  "No. No more explaining. No more this." She pointed between the two of them.

  "Bullshit." Vance held her in place by the shoulders in that gentle giant way he had. "I need to keep you safe. If anything ever happened to you…I promised…"

  "Wait, you promised? You and Ethan had some sick, twisted conversation about passing me around?" She jerked away hard from Vance, who couldn't hide his devastated expression.

  "He was my brother. It wasn't like that," he protested and she didn't care in that moment that he'd lost his blood. She was completely and utterly selfish and she made it all about her.

  Later, she'd realize how horrible she'd been, lying devastated and going over and over the entire conversation, thinking about how insensitive she was.

  In the now, she told him, "You used me, you and Ethan both. Is this your game? You pick women and share them? Maybe Ethan really is—was—a killer and maybe you knew that all along. Hell, maybe he's still alive and you've got cameras set up so he can watch us fuck."

  That hit him like a physical slap…maybe harder. His body actually seemed to take a blow. He took a step back and stared at her like she was a complete stranger.

  She was to him, no matter what Ethan had told him about her. A couple of nights in bed wasn't enough for Vance to know anything more than what made her come.

  "Get out of here," she told him fiercely and he did, without another word, his expression a stricken one that would haunt her for a long time to come. She'd never thought she could be responsible for putting that look on someone's face. Not on purpose.

  She'd gone for blood and she'd drawn it.

  It was supposed to feel good. Instead, when the door closed behind him, she crumpled to the floor and began to sob.

  Abby's words couldn't have been more effective than a knife stabbing him repeatedly, because they continued echoing inside his head as Vance had driven away from her house on his Harley.

  Had he deserved them?

  Yes.

  Expected them?

  Yes.

  Did that make it an easier?

  Fucking no.

  Sleeping with her hadn't been on his list of things to do with a reluctant informant. Kissing her had been an inevitable byproduct of his cover and he'd conceded to that. Accepted it.

  And hadn't expected to enjoy it nearly as fucking much as he had.

  He wanted to believe she'd seduced him. But something had been wrong at the restaurant and he'd told himself that he needed to know what for the sake of the investigation.

  The reality was, he'd already known all of it—the phone call, the envelope with Ethan's writing that'd been sent to her. Because Vance had been going through her mail for the last six months before it got to her.

  The phone call had been the first recent communication from Ethan to her, though. Vance had almost spared her, but he'd needed to see what she'd do. How strong she was. Whether or not she was a victim or still a survivor.

  She was a woman used to taking care of herself. It had killed her to show the slightest bit of vulnerability. And it was in that moment he'd known she'd be under him within the hour.

  He'd planned on bringing her in that night. He'd had every opportunity. Gave himself every excuse in the book why he hadn't, why the time hadn't been right.

  Mainly because the right time and place had been his bed.

  But six months. Six months of watching her, listening to her messages to Ethan, falling for her…it had built to an inexplicable level for him.

  In truth, he'd probably fallen for her from the first time Ethan mentioned her. And Ethan?

  He'd known it. Would tell Vance, "You're better for her than I could ever be."

  But Vance avoided entanglements, and he'd done that within the first year of enlisting. It was hard to erase the torture of listening to someone you loved being murdered, knowing you were completely unable to do anything about it.

  Worse still was knowing he could've picked up the phone and been there for his girlfriend at the time while she was being tortured. Instead, he'd been finishing up paperwork and he'd let the call go to voicemail.

  Listening to that message an hour later, he remembered the room spinning around him, the pain and rage building inside him to a level he'd never truly been able to rid himself of.

  There was nothing he could've done, and there was a special, hellish pain in knowing that. He'd never felt more goddamned helpless. Never thought he would, until Ethan came home in a box.

  Now he had two unsolved cases on his conscience. He refused to have a third in Abby.

  The only reason Vance pulled over was the bike trailing him, making no show about it. Could be one of his own, but he doubted it.

  Still, he pulled over and checked his phone, studied it until another Harley pulled up next to his.

  A dark-haired, wild-eyed man watched him.

  "Now Abby's put a tail on me?" he ventured when the guy cut his engine.

  "And here I thought the CIA didn't have any deductive reasoning skills."

  Must be Abby's former partner and current FBI Agent Jacoby Razwell. Guy was good. Guy was a ghost. A legend. And he'd been checking on Vance for the past week. "Must be FBI."

  "And you must be operating illegally in the good old US of A."

  "Perhaps you're the Pollyanna type who believes everything you're told. You must be reading WikiLeaks. Or romance novels," Vance offered.

  Jacoby smiled lazily. "We need to talk."

  "Planning on doing that with fists?"

  "Or knives." There was a pause and then, "I'm Jacoby. And you're Vance. Ethan's brother."

  "Yes."

  "You're worried about Abby."

  "I am."

  Jacoby stared at him. One haunted soul to another. "She's on the floor."

  "Is that some kind of millennial saying?"

  "She's literally on the floor. Curled up in a ball." Jacoby shrugged. "Women do shit like that. Scorch the earth and then realize they're not the only ones suffering."

  Vance stuffed his hands in his pockets and didn't say anything.

  "You walked away. Gave up," Jacoby continued. "Not the kind of thing I'd expect from you."

  "First of all, you don't fucking know me and second, fuck you."

  Jacoby smiled faintly. "You wired her place so you can see it from your cell."

  Fucking asshole for knowing that. "Does it matter?"

  "To her? Yeah, it will. To me?" Jacoby shrugged again. "Yeah. It's the only thing stopping me from killing you. And that's not a millennial saying either."

  After Jacoby's motorcycle pulled away, Vance felt the sudden, icy chill of someone watching him. He'd been watched before, targeted. He'd been on the receiving end of bad men before. In his line of work, it was inevitable. But this…this was different. This was the kind of gut feeling of terror that Ethan described when he'd tried to explain what being routinely stalked felt like.

  But if the stalker had been watching, he'd know now that there was no love lost between Vance and Abby…if Vance had been convincing enough. Judging by the look of betrayal on Abby's face, he'd definitely convinced her.

  Keeping Abby safe was the goal. Ethan had managed it—in the end, it was all he'd cared about, as evidenced by one of their last conversations.

  Ethan was insistent, telling Vance, "I'll get him if it's the last thing I do."

  "You're losing it," Vance had warned him.

  "I'll never let him get you."

  "He's not after me," Vance said.

  "He's been after you for a long time," Ethan had admitted and Vance remembered wishing he'd been more stunned at his brother's admission. But on some level, he'd always known that tabs were being kept on him too.

  Vance turned and saw shadows. Was there a man behind them, or would he
end up chasing his own tail, the way Ethan had? Toward the end, Ethan had been half crazed, and even though Vance had begged him to just come the hell home, Ethan had refused, saying he'd never drag his problems toward Vance.

  Now, Vance knew he was up against the very same problem that killed his brother, and that he'd meet a similar fate if he wasn't careful…and much sooner than Ethan had. Vance didn't have the same kind of patience.

  How Jacoby always seemed to know when she needed him there, not just by phone but really, physically there, was a mystery. He didn't have her house wired, that much she knew.

  She guessed he'd use the same explanation she often did. Instincts.

  And his had him letting himself into her house, calling softly for her and then settling on the floor next to her. She put her head in his lap and he stroked her hair and let her cry—ugly cry—until her ribs wouldn't stand it anymore.

  Finally, she whispered, "Jacoby, I messed up so bad."

  "Why are you whispering?"

  "I don't know,” she whispered again, and even so the emptiness of the house seemed to echo back at her.

  She'd always liked it before, dammit.

  "Talk to me, Abs. Spill it."

  She did. She started from Ethan's call, which she was pretty sure Teige already told Jacoby about, and then veered into the whole "kidnapped by Vance and the CIA" thing.

  Jacoby was quietly furious during that part of the story, his eyes a thunderstorm all their own, but to his credit he kept her calm enough to tell the story.

  When she ended with what had happened tonight, he'd gotten up briefly and brought back a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses, no ice. He poured, she sipped and Jacoby pondered, finally asking, "You think this guy was stalking Ethan for a while, then?" before muttering, "It makes sense," in answer to his own question.

  It did. Somehow, having Jacoby agree made it more real. "So Ethan knew I could be in trouble."

  "And subsequently, he asked Vance to watch you."

  She hadn't left out anything in her retelling. Not the parts about sleeping with Vance. Or her attraction to Vance. Because being a sobbing mess on the floor pretty much told that tale. "I should hate him."