by Julie Miller
“Good enough.” She stooped over to brush the debris from her skinned-up knee and idly noted she had a matching pair of bum knees now, not unlike her childhood as a tomboy. From this angle she also noted the tear in the sleeve of Michael’s sweater and the scrape along his elbow underneath. “You?”
“I’ll live.” He hugged her right into his chest, blocking her between the vehicles, as he turned his attention back to the dispatcher on his cell phone. “I know green and car isn’t much to go on. Run the partial plate to see what you get. Keep me posted if traffic patrol pulls over anyone that matches. Cutler out.”
He clipped his phone back on his belt. Keeping her tucked against his side, Michael headed across the lawn, making a beeline for the front door even as his eyes scouted in every direction around them. “Let’s get you inside in case he decides to come back for round two.”
Jillian had no problem hanging on and picking up the pace. “Do you think that was him? Loverboy?”
“Oh, I know it was.”
“Did you see his face?”
Michael stood at her back while she unlocked the security door and led him inside. “I was too busy trying not to get hit. We almost had a head-on collision at the entrance. He was gone by the time I got the other car clear.”
“No one else was hurt?”
“Not this time.” Despite her nightmare, they went straight for the elevator. Once inside, he continued to hold her and Jillian rested her head against his shoulder, feeling the adrenaline of fear and danger starting to wane. “A few days ago, you said you felt like someone was watching you. Maybe he’s been around here all along and I was too blind to see it. Did you recognize the car? Do you think you may have seen it before?”
She waited for the doors to open on the third floor before she answered. “I didn’t get that good of a look—just a blur of green as it flew past us. It was a lighter color. Almost mossy. I’m trying to think of anyone I know who has a car that color…” She saw the envelope tacked to her door at the end of the hallway. “Michael.”
Dread rooted her to the spot for one moment. Outrage sent her running down the hall the next.
But Michael was there, snatching her wrist out of the way as she reached for it. “Don’t touch it. I want to know how he got inside the building. Do you have gloves inside?” She nodded. “Get ’em.”
Under Michael’s careful eye, she took the envelope inside her apartment. Self-adhesive seal. No stamp. No postmark. Just her name typed across the front.
While Michael paced from window to locked door and back to the sink to wet down some paper towels, Jillian opened the envelope. A strip of pressed gold and nickel slipped out and clunked onto the kitchen table. She flipped it over to see the R engraved on the opposite side. A money clip. Was it another unwanted gift? It wasn’t her initial and she didn’t want it any more than she’d wanted those flowers. Was it something she was supposed to recognize? She unfolded the letter. Maybe she’d find answers there.
My dearest Jillian,
Are you safe? Are you well? You’ve changed the lock and now I can’t get in to help you. It’s all right, my love. I know you’re afraid. I forgive you.
I was frightened myself last night. For you. It broke my heart to see how brave you were. You don’t belong in Isaac Rush’s world. You never did. To know that you would risk your life to help someone who doesn’t appreciate you the way I do sickens me. You have a noble, beautiful spirit that I’ve come to know so well, and I admire your dedication to helping others. But please, please, please—don’t let your past destroy you. It would kill me to see you hurt by another man.
The blood drained down to her toes and she sank into the nearest chair as she read on.
I love you. More than my own life. More than my own freedom. And I know you have feelings for me, too, that we can never express. You don’t have to say you love me. Because of your brave heart and generous spirit, I know you care.
I will treasure the beautiful gift you are every day, even when we’re apart. I will honor that gift. And I will protect the love you have for me inside you.
I have always been there for you, Jilly. I’m here for you now. Here is proof of my love for you. I’ve seen to it personally that the man who hurt you last night will never hurt you again.
I’m keeping you safe from the horrors of your life. I will always keep you safe. I know that some day when we are together, in this world or the next, you will thank me.
Until then I am forever,
Yours
“What has he done now?” Jillian swiped at the tears burning her eyes and looked down to the man kneeling beside her, cleaning her scraped-up knee. “I don’t understand.”
Michael set aside the towels and quickly read the note. “He was there last night. In No-Man’s Land. He must have seen what happened to you in Troy’s building.”
“But what does he mean, ‘never hurt you again’? Who does that freak think he’s protecting me from?” Oh, no. She picked up the money clip on the table and traced the R with her gloved finger. R. Rivers. He’d used her as a shield to escape from Isaac and had pulled her down the stairs with him in his haste to get away. “Blake.” She leaped to her feet, ignoring the pain of the sudden movement. “We have to get to the hospital. We have to help Blake.”
“Jillian. Jillian!”
But she was already out the door. Already afraid she was too late.
MICHAEL’S PHONE CALLS to the Truman Medical Center and then to Edward Kincaid had given him the grim news long before he and Jillian arrived at the hospital. Not that she’d take his word and let him spare her the trip. She had to see it for herself.
Blake Rivers was dead.
The hospital room was about as cold and pristine as the anger beating in Michael’s heart. He didn’t care one whit about Rivers, but he cared a great deal about the stony-faced woman wrapped up in his jacket and hugging herself beside him.
Jillian shouldn’t have to be here. She shouldn’t have to see this. It wasn’t the most disturbing D.B. Michael had ever dealt with. But the body was still in rigor mortis, indicating how violently and helplessly Blake Rivers had suffered right before his death earlier that morning.
Edward had gotten there first, to cordon off the room and take statements from the staff, who hadn’t noticed anyone or anything out of the ordinary until Blake’s monitors had stopped and signaled them at the floor desk. Edward hadn’t been able to convince Jillian to wait out in the corridor to let them work. His wife, Dr. Holly Masterson-Kincaid, was the medical examiner in charge of the initial analysis of the body. She hadn’t been able to convince her sister to leave the potential crime scene, either.
What chance did Michael think he had to get her out of here without upsetting her even further?
“Sweetheart…”
She jumped when he spoke and huddled even deeper inside the collar of his jacket. But her feet wouldn’t budge. In the end, Michael opted to simply hold on to her.
“And you can rule out accidental death?” Edward asked his wife, taking Michael’s cue to stand at the end of the bed to block the worst of the scene from Jillian’s view. “He did have a head injury.”
“Not a life-threatening one, according to his charts.” Though not as tall as her younger sister, Holly Masterson-Kincaid had the same leggy figure and dark hair that Jillian had, as well as that familiar twist to her mouth when she was deep in thought. Like now, as she bent over Rivers’s hospital bed with her flashlight and inspected the body. “The facial petechiae indicate suffocation, but there are no ligature marks or other bruising around his neck.” She studied the fingernails on one hand before carefully sliding a protective paper bag over the hand. “There’s trace here. And some of these bruises are newer than the others. He struggled against something. Or someone.” Energized by a sudden discovery, Holly circled behind her husband and approached the body from the opposite side. With a steady balance between flashlight and plastic tweezers, she plucked a tiny filament from Ri
vers’s mouth and held it up. “Probably the person who held a pillow over his face.”
After sliding the filament into a tiny envelope, Holly walked across the room. She hugged Jillian around the shoulders, and held on even tighter when she tried to shrug off her supportive touch. “I’m sorry, hon. It’s definitely murder.”
“I knew it.”
Thank God she was responding to someone. A tear trickled down Jillian’s cheek as she turned her eyes to her sister.
“Now can I get you out of here?” Holly asked.
With a nod, Jillian allowed Holly to lead her into the hallway and down to a row of seats. Michael followed and sat on the opposite side, wishing Jillian would hold on to his hand the same way she’d latched on to her sister’s.
After a drink of water from Edward and a chance to compose herself, Jillian turned to Holly. “This is my fault.”
“How do you figure that? Edward told me about the letters and the break-in. I would have thought Blake was a prime suspect—he never did seem to get over you breaking up with him.”
“Can’t say I’m sorry to see the SOB go.” Edward sat on the arm of Holly’s chair, resting his palm on her shoulder and taking her hand when she reached up to find his. “Do you know how many possession charges he’s had over the years? They were all pled out or dismissed. He was spoiled and selfish and never good enough for you, kiddo.”
“It doesn’t matter who Blake was. Don’t you get it? I’m the reason he’s dead. First Troy Anthony’s grandmother. Now this? Nobody look cross-eyed at me—he’ll probably come after you, too.” She turned to Michael, digging her fingers into the sleeve of his sweater, begging him to understand. “What if Mike throws a temper tantrum during a therapy session? Or you…” She reached up to cup his face and the tremors he felt in her normally confident touch nearly broke his heart.
“Jillian.” He spread his hand over hers, warming her, comforting her, wishing he could tell her everything would be all right.
“I couldn’t handle it if something happened to you or Mike.” She turned to Holly and Edward, including them in her plea. “To any of you.”
When she faced Michael again, she sat up straight and breathed in deeply. The tears had dried, the shaking had stopped. All good signs that she was feeling more like her old self again after the triple shock of the attempt on her life, the letter and Blake’s death. Still, an uneasy feeling stirred in Michael’s gut. He knew that determined glint in her eye. He wasn’t going to like what she had to say.
“I want to meet this guy.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Bad idea,” Edward echoed.
“Jilly, no.”
“Three votes to one.” Michael pushed aside his gut reaction of stark, crazy fear for her, and stated the facts in his most authoritative tone. “That bastard tried to kill you today. Everything he’s done has gotten more dangerous and more personal. You are not going to seek this guy out. You are not going to contact him. You are not going to set yourself up as some kind of bait to smoke him out. We’ll get him. Without putting you in more danger. I promise.”
“I don’t want to wind up like Daphne Mullins. She was a victim. I won’t be. I want to meet this guy and tell him to his face he has no idea what…love is.” Her gaze drifted away to a nebulous point beyond his shoulder, then snapped back into focus. “Jilly.”
“What is it?” Michael asked, sensing something very important had just clicked together in her brain. And it had nothing to do with his warnings to keep her safe.
“He calls me Jilly.” She turned to her sister. “Sorry, Holly, but it’s not my favorite nickname. Mom and Dad used to call me that. It makes me feel like a kid.”
“So…?”
She raised her gaze to Michael. He understood. She was already zeroing in on this Loverboy bastard, and he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop her.
“I’m making a list of everyone who calls me Jilly.”
“SHE CAN’T BE LEFT ALONE. Ever. That’s all there is to it.”
Michael paced in his office at home, listening to the grim recording Edward Kincaid had brought over after he and Holly had gone back to Jillian’s apartment to pack a bag of her things.
The messages recorded on Jillian’s answering machine had started with a relatively benign “I’m so worried. Are you okay?” and had progressed to the definite threat of “You freaking tramp! After all I’ve done for you, you aren’t even the least bit grateful?”
“How many messages did you say he left?” Michael asked.
“Lucky thirteen. The frequency of calls is harassment enough.” Edward’s expression looked as murderously grim as Michael felt. “Holly’s already called Eli. He’s on a flight back to K.C. first thing in the morning. I can get my brothers to help keep an eye on her when they’re off the clock.”
“My team will, too.”
“But this is Jillian Masterson we’re talking about. Stubborn as they come,” Edward pointed out. “Unless you know some sweet-talk trick that I never learned, sir, she’s not going to hole up in your house indefinitely while we try to ID the guy.”
Michael tuned out the next “Jilly, I’m sorry. You know I love you. I didn’t mean…” recording and sat in the leather chair behind his desk, leaning forward to where Edward sat on the opposite side. He might outrank Edward at KCPD, but there were familial concerns he needed to respect. “Are you and Holly okay with her staying here?”
Edward scratched at the late night stubble lining his scarred jaw before he nodded. “Like I said, stubborn. If this is where Jillian feels safe, then this is where we want her to stay. Your experience with witness protection and running special weapons and tactics means you’re probably the best man for the job, anyway. But you know she’s going after this guy. She wants to maintain her regular routine so that we don’t scare him off. She thinks she’s protecting us.”
Yeah. That had been a pointless argument that had lasted all the way home from the hospital. The only way to truly make Jillian and the people around her safe was to move faster and think smarter than Loverboy. “Any suspects we can bring in for questioning?”
“Isaac Rush and his man Lynch both posted bond this morning. I vote for one of them as the perp in the car with the death wish. They both had history with Blake Rivers.” Michael liked Edward’s methodical approach to discussing a case, and wondered what his secret was for detaching his emotions from an investigation that hit so close to home. “Could be one of them had another reason for silencing Rivers, and is using this stalking thing to cover up the real motive. We’re trying to trace their movements since their release from lockup this morning.”
“You think terrorizing Jillian has been a setup to mask the motive for Rivers’s murder?” Michael didn’t like that scenario any better. “Are Rush and Lynch smart enough to plan out a hit that far in advance?”
“I’m just throwing possibilities out there. Holly told me that Lynch rescued Jillian back when she was a teenager—kept her from being assaulted by Rush. Maybe he’s got some kind of savior complex with her. In his eyes he’s taking care of her still.”
“That would fit with what I overheard in the stairwell at Troy Anthony’s building. She was pleading with Lynch to let her go again.”
“Of course, if Rush was the one attacking her—”
“He doesn’t have feelings for her.” A drug dealer who still had a thing for the woman he’d gone after when she was an underaged teen? The idea curdled Michael’s stomach. “He’s a businessman.”
“One who’d take Rivers out if he thought Blake was conducting business on his turf. He’s not above using Jillian, or anyone else, to maintain his power.” Another message from the answering machine tape began to play. “That son of a bitch.”
“…death is the only way. My love for you is pure and lasting. I can’t allow you to mock my feelings for you again. I won’t abide that kind of cruelty. I’m ready to give you the opportunity to show me that your love runs just as deep.” And if i
t didn’t? Michael’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I’m forever yours, Jilly. Forever.”
So Edward Kincaid wasn’t any more inured to the vile filth Loverboy was spouting about Jillian than he was. Every curse Edward uttered resonated deep inside his bones as Michael walked over to the tape player and shut it off. “She doesn’t hear this tape, understood?”
Edward caught the cassette when Michael tossed it to him. He tucked the tape inside his jacket pocket and stood. “What if she can identify the voice?”
Michael shook his head. “It’s raspy and distorted on the tape. Either he’s pretty inebriated or he’s intentionally masking it. I won’t put her through listening to those for no reason.”
“There’s no sense dumping the numbers on her cell phone, either. They’re easier to trace. He’d be too smart to leave a number there. And we haven’t had any luck narrowing down an ID on the green car, either. This guy has anonymous down to an art.”
How did they trip up a guy that clever? One who knew enough about Jillian—where she worked, where she lived, where she went to help her patients like Troy Anthony—to avoid showing up on the radar anywhere? Michael splayed his hands, racking his brain for answers. “How do we get this guy to show himself? What’s his weakness?”
With a soft knock at the door, he had his answer.
Jillian walked in.
Michael’s heart flip-flopped inside his chest. He’d already lost Pam. He’d nearly lost his son. Both, to events beyond his control. And he’d been powerless.
He couldn’t lose anyone else he loved on his watch. He couldn’t do it. It almost hurt his eyes to look at Jillian and feel this way.