by Julie Miller
“I’m fine.”
“You’re trained to listen, Michael. You’re trained to keep it all inside so that there’s always someone who can keep a cool head in a crisis.” She reached up and patted his shoulder. “Sometimes, even the best of us have to let it out with someone we trust. Today’s events might break her heart, but they wouldn’t shock her. Jillian may be the baby of the family, but she’s been through a lot more than you know.” Probably more than Shauna knew, too, since Jillian hadn’t told anyone about Loverboy’s gifts and letters until he’d forced the information out of her on Friday.
“I’ll be fine, ma’am,” Michael reiterated.
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Look, I promised Eli I’d keep an eye on her while he was out of town. But I won’t invite her over for dinner if she has…other plans, with you.”
“Don’t you think I’m a little old for her? I bet her brother would.”
“That card doesn’t play with me, Captain. I’m ten years older than my husband.” Shauna pulled back, her tone and posture dismissing him. “The heart doesn’t see age when it finds what it wants.”
Was Jillian what he wanted? Or did he just want to keep someone so important to his son’s life safe?
Damn. He pulled back his sleeve and looked at the time. He needed to book it out of here if he wanted to get Mike over to the clinic for his afternoon session. Michael pulled out his personal phone and turned it on. “I’ll be seeing her this evening. I’ll give her your message.”
“If you want.” The commissioner laid out one last order. “Debrief at the station, but the paperwork can wait until tomorrow. Get your men out of uniform and out on the town.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As the commissioner and her escort headed for the lights and microphones and waiting cameras, Michael jogged around to the back of the truck and made a quick inspection. His men were nearly ready to roll.
“Yo, Delgado.” His second in command caught the helmet Michael tossed him. And while Rafe stowed it for him, Michael turned away to call Mike.
His son’s cell rang and rang. What the heck? Michael tried not to remember that the last time Mike hadn’t answered, he’d been lying unconscious in a mangled-up car. When it switched over to voice mail, his message was short and sweet. “It’s Dad. Call me.” He tried their home phone and ended up leaving a “Where are you?” on the machine there.
Michael unknowingly began to pace as he searched through his voice mail messages. Work. Work. Nothing from Mike. But there was a message from the physical therapy clinic, and another from a number he didn’t recognize. He played the first.
“Michael? It’s Jillian. I didn’t want you to worry if you called home and no one answered. Mike’s with me—has been since lunch. That clever son of a gun isn’t as handicapped as he likes to claim he is. He got himself here for his therapy session. Since he was so early and there’s no school to worry about, I had him stay and put him to work. You’ll just need to pick him up at five when we’re done.” His son needed a reminder about the rule to always let him know where he was going, but Jillian’s words made him smile. His go-to woman had come through for Mike again. “Oh.” Her voice hushed, putting him on alert. “He sent me flowers. And a card.”
Michael stopped in his tracks. The hesitant waver in her tone told him exactly which he she was talking about. He squeezed his eyes shut as a vivid aural memory of Daphne Mullins’s sobs played in his ear. No way was he going to let that sicko Loverboy terrorize Jillian until a violent death was the only outcome left for her.
He didn’t buy the false cheer in her “See you at five,” nor was he waiting until the end of the day to get to her.
He smacked the driver’s-side door by Rafe Delgado and signaled him to start the engine. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Michael was buckled in and they were on their way to the KCPD downtown headquarters building by the time the unidentified message began to play.
“Michael?” Jillian again. He read off the number to Alex Taylor, strapped himself into the seat behind him and ordered him to track down the source. “I’ve got Mike at the hospital.”
Everything in him tensed. Mike?
“Sorry, that didn’t come out right. Don’t worry, he’s not hurt.” But now Michael worried that she was. Talk to me, sweetheart. “It’s, um, Troy Anthony. We were worried when he didn’t show up at three, so Mike called him. Someone assaulted Troy’s grandmother early this morning.”
Alex Taylor interrupted. “The number’s a public phone at Truman Medical Center, sir.”
All eyes in the van were on their rock-still leader as the message continued. “Mike’s been super with Troy—I think those two have a real bond. I’m skipping the therapy session because this is more important. We’re hanging out in room 1312 at Truman Medical Center, so you can find us here when you’re ready to pick him up.” As proud as Michael was of his son, as hopeful as he’d been in months, there was something wrong. He heard it in the sudden hush of Jillian’s voice, as if she was turning away so no one would overhear. “Michael, I…um, I think Mrs. Anthony was hurt because of me. I think he did it. Because she yelled at me. He told me I was welcome, as if he’d done me a favor. Maybe it’s just the paint, but the things she said about her attacker…This is my fault.”
No. No way.
“I saw you on the news.” As if she needed something else to worry about. “Mike says that’s not good. You looked tired, but okay. I hope you are. I’m so sorry about that woman. Take your time. I’ll keep Mike with me as long as you need me to. Bye.”
Michael saved the message. Tapped his phone against his temple. Stared at the yellow lines zipping past the center median on the road.
“Everything all right, Captain?” Delgado asked.
“Yeah.” Who was he kidding? He turned to Delgado, raised his voice to be heard all the way to Trip in the back of the van. “No. I planned on taking you guys to the Shamrock tonight. Drinks on me. But you’ll have to give me a rain check.”
“No sweat.”
“Forget it.”
“We can handle it.”
“Is it Mikey?”
He’d absolutely picked the best men for his team. And not just because they were each solid, skilled cops. “Mike’s okay. It’s a friend. Take a detour, Rafe.”
The glib sergeant had already turned the van south toward the Truman Medical Center.
Chapter Seven
Jillian rubbed her hands up and down her arms, feeling a chill that went far beyond the hospital’s air-conditioning, as LaKeytah Anthony repeated her story to her brother-in-law, Detective Edward Kincaid. Edward seemed skeptical that the attack on Troy’s grandmother had anything to do with her, but Jillian knew. Beyond any kind of logic or circumstantial evidence, she knew.
An aunt and cousin had come to pick up Dexter to stay the night with them, but said their home was too small to accommodate Troy’s wheelchair. Troy had covered the slight by insisting he wanted to stay at his grandmother’s side. He claimed he was old enough and independent enough to stay on his own.
At sixteen? In the same building where LaKeytah had been given a concussion, along with a broken arm and jaw? Nobody should be alone when his family had come under attack like that.
But her compassion for Troy didn’t make it any easier to stand here in the dimly lit room and listen to LaKeytah Anthony’s story.
With LaKeytah’s jaw wired shut and her body sedated to ease the pain, her words slurred and her eyes kept drifting out of focus. But the older woman seemed perfectly clear on the details. “He hit me from behind. And then I don’t know much of anything. I never saw his face—only know it was a man by the pitch of his voice. He said it was a warning, that the world was an ugly place for a lot of people, and that I didn’t have the right to take out my anger and frustration on anyone else and add to their burden.”
Which was exactly what she’d done to Jillian the evening she’d gotten Troy home late.
&n
bsp; “He said…” a tear leaked from beneath LaKeytah’s closed eyelid, and Jillian nearly wept with her “…there would be no second chance…to keep my mouth shut.”
Jillian shivered in the doorway and suddenly felt a hand nudging hers away from her arm and giving it a squeeze.
Mike’s young face was creased with concern. “You okay?”
No, she wasn’t. She squeezed back and smiled. “Will you stay with Troy? I don’t think he should be alone right now. I need to get some fresh air.”
He nodded and Jillian slipped into the hallway. She leaned back against the wall just outside the door and shuddered with a weary, wary breath. Was this her fault? Did Loverboy think this was what she wanted? Was this his twisted way of taking care of her? And how did he know LaKeytah Anthony had reamed her out in the first place?
Did he live in Troy’s building? His neighborhood? Isaac Rush and Mr. Lynch instantly came to mind. She knew Isaac to be violent, but dishing out vigilante justice if there was no profit to be made? And Mr. Lynch was certainly big enough and powerful enough to have carried out the attack LaKeytah described. But what was his motive? If defending her truly was the reason for the assault, it made no sense. They’d only ever really talked that one night. The night he’d pulled her out of Isaac’s bed and sent her to the police station to file charges of attempted rape. No. He had nothing to do with her life.
So did that mean Loverboy had followed her to Troy’s building? Was his attention about more than letters and flowers? Her skin crawled at the notion that he could be watching her, even now. “Oh, God.”
Jillian swept the hallway with her gaze. Was that him? The orderly with the cart? The bleary-eyed intern? She thought she was going to be sick.
Needing something, anything, to do besides stand here and suspect every man she saw—doctor, visitor, patient—she spotted the water fountain near the floor’s main desk and made a beeline for it. She splashed a palmful of cool water on her cheeks and neck and then leaned over to get a drink.
A hand brushed her shoulder. “Jilly? What are you doing here?”
“Don’t touch—” The solicitous voice startled her and she spun around, spraying the man in the white lab coat with the water drops that clung to her hair. “Dr. Randolph.” She pressed her fingers to her lips, embarrassed to wear her fears so close to the surface and have greeted an old friend so rudely. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.”
Bushy brows that matched his short, silvering hair arched behind his glasses. “Are you all right? Is someone in your family hurt?”
“Oh, no. No, no. Holly and her husband, Eli and his wife, they’re all fine.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.” He hunched his lanky shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. “You’re not…?”
She knew that look—had hated it when she’d been seventeen and sitting through her first group therapy sessions at the Boatman Rehabilitation Clinic. There was something strengthening about being able to dismiss his concern. “I’m not looking for a meeting.” Reaching into her pocket, Jillian pulled out her keys and dangled her ten-year sobriety key fob for him to see. “I’m still being good.”
A kind eye winked as he straightened. “Glad to hear it.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised to run into Wayne Randolph at the medical center. Though she knew him from rehab and private counseling sessions over the years since, Dr. Randolph also practiced psychology at the hospital, assessing patients and directing them into various mental health programs that complemented the physical care the medical staff provided.
He put those assessing skills to good use. “You never answered my question. Why are you here?”
She linked her hand through his arm and walked him a few steps away from the fountain to give the next person in line the chance to get a drink without eavesdropping on their conversation. “The guardian of one of my patients was assaulted.”
“Was she hurt badly?”
“Badly enough to be hospitalized for a few days. A lot of weird things have been happening lately. This is the worst of it so far.”
“So far?” He rested his hand over hers on his arm and gave it a fatherly pat. “My goodness, dear. Are you in trouble? Can I help? Do you need to talk?”
“Always the therapist, aren’t you?” Jillian shook her head. “You know, sometimes I think…”
“What?”
Why not? Dr. Randolph would understand this more than anyone she knew. “Do you think horrible things like this happen around me because of the destructive choices I used to make back in high school? Are other people paying for my mistakes?”
“You mean like cosmic retribution for a misspent youth?” Dr. Randolph turned her in his arms and pulled her in for a hug. “No. Sometimes, bad things just happen.” He patted her hair and rocked her like a little girl. “You were one of the strongest young women I ever worked with, Jilly. I always knew you would turn your life around. And now you’ve gone on to do good things for so many other people. If anything, you’ve learned from your mistakes, and are making the world a better place because of it.”
Trading one last hug around his waist, Jillian pulled away, appreciating the kind words if not fully believing them. “It is good to see a friendly face, Doc. I’d better get back to my friends. See if I can help.”
“All right. Remember to call my office for an appointment if you decide you need to talk about anything.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Feeling marginally better, and slightly less paranoid, she headed back to LaKeytah Anthony’s room. A nurse went in before Jillian could reach it and shooed out all her visitors. Troy came out first, looking more subdued than she’d ever seen him. Mike wheeled his chair out behind him.
“Maybe I’m not good for anything anymore,” Troy muttered, as if repeating words he’d just heard. Jillian’s heart twisted in her chest. “I can’t blame her for puttin’ her heart and soul into Dexter now.”
“She’s doped up on pain meds, man.” Mike nudged his friend in the arm. “You remember what that was like. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She didn’t mean it.”
“I should have done something,” Troy insisted. “I’m the man of the house.” Displaying a rare burst of temper, Troy smacked the arm of his chair. “If I wasn’t in this damn wheelchair…”
Mike didn’t have a good answer for that one and looked equally dejected. Jillian hastened her steps, intending to intervene, but Mike came up with an alternate strategy of his own. “Hey, dude, you hungry?”
Troy shrugged. “Whatever.”
“I know a shortcut to the cafeteria.”
“Okay.”
As the two teens rolled around the corner, Jillian shook her head, marveling at the resiliency of youth. Underneath all that attitude, Mike Cutler was a natural. Compassionate. Intuitive. He had so much to offer the world if he’d give himself half a chance.
Edward came out of the room next, softly closing the door behind him. He draped an arm around her shoulders. “I’ve gotten all I can get from Mrs. Anthony right now. The nurse says she needs her rest.”
“What I said makes sense, right? I feel like I should apologize to her.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Edward’s tone was adamant. “I get the idea from Troy that his grandmother yells a lot. There’s no evidence to prove you had anything to do with the motive for her attack, beyond freaky coincidence. I’ve got my notes and the card from the flowers you gave me to add to your file, and I’ll keep in touch with the detective assigned to Mrs. Anthony’s case. But right now, unless the lab comes up with something concrete to tie it all together, we just have to sit and wait and keep a close eye on you.” He hugged her close and pressed a kiss to temple. “Love you, kiddo. Call if you need anything.”
“I will.” Jillian shivered when he released her and automatically hugged her arms around her middle.
The scar on his jaw throbbed with concern. “You gonna be okay?”
“As long as that whack job
is out there terrorizing me and hurting others in the name of love?” She shook her head. “I don’t think I’m ever going to feel okay.”
“I do.” Edward was looking over her shoulder. “Turn around.”
Frowning at the odd request, Jillian turned. Her breath caught in her chest, then rushed out in easier, quicker gasps.
Michael Cutler was striding down the hallway. Tall, intent, black hair rumpled. Wearing his uniform and needing a shave. Walking straight toward her.
“See ya, kiddo.”
Jillian barely heard Edward’s goodbye. She was already rushing forward, her eyes locked on to the mesmerizing strength of midnight blue. “Michael? Are you all right?”
She didn’t pause, she didn’t ask—she zoomed right up to Michael, locked her arms around his waist and turned her ear to his starched shirt and the strong beat of his heart underneath.
He braced his feet to catch her and wrapped his arms around her, burying his nose against her hair. “I’m okay. Are you safe?”
“But the news about the hostages at the bank, I saw—”
“Damn it, woman, I’m worried about you.” He leaned back, caught her face between his hands. He smoothed her hair off her cheek and tucked the loose strands behind her ears. He read every nuance of her upturned eyes, every catch or gasp of breath. He brushed the rough pads of his fingers across her brows, her cheeks, her jaw, her mouth. He pressed his thumb against the swell of her bottom lip and went still. “I don’t scare easily, sweetheart, but your messages…”
“I’m okay.” Her whispered words transformed the touch of his fingers into a caress against her lips. “Better, now that you’re here. But I’m okay.”
Instead of giving a verbal response to her mushy confession, his gaze darted to the right and the left. Then he grabbed her by the hand and led her down the hall to an empty patient room. “Is Mike around?”
He pulled her inside. “He took Troy to the cafeteria to eat.”