by Karen Rose
Meredith would have to wait a little longer.
Anderson Township, Ohio
Saturday, December 19, 4:30 p.m.
He’s going to kill me. There was no question in Linnea Holmes’s mind. He’d killed Andy like he was . . . nothing. Andy was not nothing. He’d been . . . everything.
I’m so sorry. She wanted to scream her apology to the darkening sky, but she didn’t. Because she wanted the bastard who’d killed Andy to believe he’d broken her. That she wouldn’t fight. But she would fight. She wasn’t going to let him kill her.
Through a hole in the pocket of her coat, she fingered the switchblade she’d hidden in the lining. Andy had given her the switchblade so that she could protect herself. She didn’t know where he’d gotten it from. She figured he’d either won it in a poker game or stolen it. She hadn’t cared, but Andy had. He hated having to cheat and steal.
That was why Andy had pointedly shown her the receipt when he’d bought her the coat when the weather turned cold in November, long before he’d bought one for himself.
He always took care of me first. Always. That he’d died believing the worst of her . . .
But the worst was also the truth. Mostly. Yes, she’d whored herself out. But not for the reason he thought. She wasn’t sure she ever could have told him the real reason.
Tears stung her eyes. And now I’ll never know.
She owed Andy Gold everything. I’m not going to let him down again. She steeled her spine. Revenge will happen, she promised herself. Promised Andy.
The SUV finally stopped. They’d been driving east for twenty minutes, leaving the city behind for the countryside. She’d never been this far out in the country before. Overgrown with trees and vines, it was like no one had touched the land in years.
She’d kept her head bowed so that he’d continue to think she was in shock, but she’d been carefully observing their route so that she could find her way out. She tightened her grip on the switchblade. Either she’d get away or she’d be dead.
She lifted her chin, widening her eyes. Pretended to be surprised. “Where are we?”
He didn’t answer, just got out of the SUV. Leaving the motor running and his door open, he walked around to her side, drawing a gun from a shoulder holster.
This is it. She whispered a prayer in her mind and hoped that God would hear her.
Gripping his gun in his right hand, he reached for the collar of her coat with his left, his body bracing to yank her out of the car. And then to shoot me and leave me here.
I don’t think so. Linnea gritted her teeth. Not today.
She whipped the blade from her pocket, holding it the way Andy had taught her to, releasing the blade she sharpened religiously, just as she’d promised Andy she would. As if your life depends on it, Andy had urged when he’d given it to her. Today it would.
She struck out, catching his right forearm as she swung her legs from the car and jerked her knee up into his groin. He bent over on a shocked gasp and she met his head halfway, butting her skull against his so hard she had to blink away stars.
“Fucking bitch,” he snarled, tightening his grip on her collar—and on his gun. Dammit. She hadn’t cut him deep enough in his gun arm. He hadn’t dropped it. Panic nearly froze her, but she pushed it away.
Again. Do it again. And again. Until he stops. Or you’re dead.
She struck again, plunging the knife hard up into the underside of his arm. With a furious cry he released her, stumbling back a step. Ignoring the searing pain from the injuries she’d sustained in last night’s beating, she used both feet to shove him away, using his own momentum, then shoved the SUV door, hitting him again.
A shot cracked the air, but it hadn’t hit her, so she leaped from the SUV and ran to the driver’s side, not looking back. Don’t look back. Don’t look. Just drive. She yanked at the gearshift and floored it, not stopping to close his door or hers.
For a split second she saw him in her side mirror, making a desperate grab for the back door as the tires squealed, slipping on the snowy road. Then the tires gained traction and the SUV lurched forward, fishtailing.
She saw him fall to his knees, aiming his gun at the vehicle, and she ducked down as far as she dared. More shots cracked the air, so fast she lost count. One hit the back window, making her flinch, and then . . . nothing. No breaking glass.
She glanced into the rearview to see a small dent in the back window, but no webbing, no fracture. She felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up and was powerless to stop it.
Bulletproof. He had bulletproof glass in his SUV. And it had worked against him.
Finally, something worked against him.
She raced to the end of the road, relieved when it connected to a larger one. She turned sharply onto the two-lane highway, the centrifugal force causing the back door to slam shut. Good. She hadn’t planned for that to happen, but she’d take it.
She tapped the accelerator hard enough to make the driver’s-side door swing close enough that she could reach it. She pulled it closed, then floored the accelerator again.
Where am I? She knew she was east of the city, but she didn’t know anyone out here. She didn’t have a phone. She glanced at the charging cord hanging from the USB port in the stereo. No phone was attached, so he probably had it in his pocket.
Which meant he was calling for help right now. Shit. She’d need to ditch the SUV quickly. He had . . . staff. Devoted staff. Linnea had no idea what he’d done to earn such loyalty, but his thugs obeyed his every command. She winced, her body protesting her sudden activity back there. His thugs especially obeyed the commands that allowed them to torture anyone smaller than they were. Which was pretty much everyone.
She wore bruises all over her body. Inside and out.
It wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to “entertain” one of his “associates.” But last night’s thug had been particularly brutal. He’d wanted her to scream, and she had. He’d counted on Andy agreeing to anything to make her torture stop, and he had. But not really.
She’d known Andy wouldn’t be able to kill. She’d seen the grim line of his jaw, the sorrow in his eyes. Andy had known he would die today, but true to character, he hadn’t let anyone else get hurt. That was just who he was.
Grief pierced her heart. Who he’d been. Goddammit. He was gone. Forever. He, who deserved to have every happily-ever-after in the world. Now he never would.
Linnea’s eyes filled and she brushed the damned tears away impatiently. She didn’t have time to grieve. She didn’t deserve to grieve. Not until Andy got justice.
You should call the police. Tell them what you know.
She huffed bitterly. Like they’d believe me? A whore?
Besides, a call to the cops could get her arrested. And she wouldn’t last a single night inside. He had his fingers in the jail, too.
For now, the only people who knew she was involved in this afternoon’s shooting were him and his staff. For now, she could hide. And wait for her chance to kill him herself.
Then she’d go to the cops. Then she’d take whatever she had coming. Because then Andy would be able to rest in peace. And so will I.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, December 19, 4:30 p.m.
“Just a little more, Dr. Fallon.” Special Agent Quincy Taylor’s hands were gentle, his voice incredibly kind as he knelt on one knee in front of her. “I’m finished scraping under the nails of your right hand. I’ll finish your left and then you can wash up.”
Meredith flinched. Wash up? Like she’d gotten her hands dirty tending her garden or painting a bedroom wall? One washed up from activities like those. But not from this.
Agent Taylor had cleaned the bulk of the mess from her hands when he’d arrived, only minutes after the first cops, then he’d asked her to wait while he attended to the scene.
A
nd then they’d been evacuated—an utter nightmare. At least Kendra Cullen had been on patrol duty in the square. Mallory knew Wendi’s sister and trusted her. That Mallory was safe and being cared for was one thing Meredith didn’t need to worry about.
Because there was still a bomb in Buon Cibo. The boy had been wired to blow them all sky-high. The look on his face when he’d told her to run . . . Meredith’s heart hurt. He’d been so damn frightened.
And still he’d told her to run. And then . . . In her mind she heard the shot, felt the . . .
No. Not going there. Not again. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, willing herself not to look at her hands. Not to gag. Again. It hadn’t been pretty the first time.
She’d thrown up hard after ending her call to Adam and she’d been glad he hadn’t been there to see that. But she needed him now.
The hotel’s revolving door swished, indicating someone had either entered or exited. She’d lifted her eyes to that doorway each time she heard the sound, hoping to see Adam’s face. Not caring if he wanted her or not. Not caring why he’d held himself so rigidly distant. Not caring if she looked pathetically needy.
She was pathetically needy. This time she told herself to keep her eyes closed, that it wouldn’t be him, but her eyes were rebellious and looked anyway.
And then everything seemed to settle. He’s here. He came. Just like he’d promised.
Adam came through the revolving door looking around the crowded lobby and . . . found her. His body stilled and his shoulders sagged. He carefully sized her up, then lifted one gloved finger, wordlessly asking her to wait.
She’d waited for Adam for months. “What’s a few more minutes?” she muttered.
“I’m done,” Agent Taylor announced.
“Thank God.” She lifted her eyes to find Adam again. He was talking to Agent Triplett and both men were looking at her, but she couldn’t tell what they were saying.
Agent Taylor looked over his shoulder, then back at Meredith. “They’re the lead investigators. That’s why he didn’t come straight over. He’s got to attend to the scene first.”
Meredith’s cheeks heated. “Whatever.” Great. She sounded like her adolescent clients. She straightened primly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Taylor.”
Agent Taylor’s grin turned a little cheeky. He was really cute in a nerdy, young kind of way. “Call me Quincy, if you want to,” he said and pulled a box of antiseptic wipes from his kit. “Let me get your hands clean, so that you can do whatever when he comes over.”
“Get them clean so I can hide behind them.” She swallowed a groan. “I know I’m not that obvious. Am I?”
Quincy bristled in mock offense. “I’m a trained observer, Dr. Fallon. I have degrees in psychology, chemistry, and forensic anthropology.” He chatted as he cleaned her hands with gentle efficiency. “And I’m trained in deception detection. Not that I needed it,” he added, grinning again. “If you meant not to be obvious, you should work on that. Just a little.”
She ignored his final words. “You can’t have all those degrees. You’re too young.”
His brows lifted above the rims of his black horn-rimmed glasses. “I’m thirty-four.”
Two years younger than me. I guess I just feel older. “That is so not fair,” she grumbled, making him chuckle.
“I might have agreed with you when I was twenty-five and looked seventeen,” he said, inspecting her clean skin. “You don’t have any open cuts, so that’s good news, at least.” He gathered the discarded wipes into an evidence bag before rising to his feet with a fluidity that seemed equally unfair because Meredith felt creaky. “I’ve got to get back to the scene.” He gave her his card. “Let me know if you need anything. I mean that.”
“But—” She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. “The bomb. Have they defused it?”
Quincy pointed to Agent Triplett, then patted her hand. “If that big guy over there is here, the bomb is defused and on its way somewhere secure. He’s the team’s bomb expert.”
Forcing her fingers to let go, Meredith considered the enormous man standing next to Adam. She knew Jeff Triplett personally because he’d recently joined their circle of friends. He was a really nice guy. Smart, funny, and a great dancer. But here, on the job, he was an imposing figure, arms crossed over his broad chest and his bald head a gleaming dark umber under the lobby’s bright lights. Trip dwarfed Adam, who was no slouch at six-two.
“Interesting,” she said. “You’d think Trip’s fingers would be too big to deal with those little wires.”
“You’d be wrong,” Quincy said seriously.
“Okay, fine, but he is young.”
Quincy smiled down at her. “Yeah, he’s disgustingly young.” His smile faded. “I’m glad for him, you know? He’s not all hard and jaded like the rest of us. Yet, anyway.”
Meredith narrowed her eyes at him, hearing a vulnerability in his voice that pushed her warning buttons. “Are you all right, Quincy?”
He looked a little startled, but nodded. “I almost forgot you’re a psychologist. I guess I’m as all right as any of us,” he said with a shrug. “Seen too much. Too many nightmares. Today is just one more. You know the drill.”
“I worry about you guys,” Meredith said, thinking of the anguish Adam had gone through nearly a year ago, when he’d reached out to her for comfort. And then again, four months ago, when he’d sat at her table and colored with her. He’d used an entire colored pencil on one picture, every bit of it red. Too many of the cops she knew suffered from PTSD, but too few sought the help they so desperately needed. “I’d be happy to—”
“I’ve got to be going,” Quincy interrupted. Then, with a tight smile, he was gone.
Meredith stared after him, not realizing she’d stood up, hands on her hips, until she felt a blast of warmth at her elbow. She looked left, then abruptly up, catching her breath. “Adam.” Her heart began to thunder. Adam Kimble was, under any circumstance, the most beautiful man she’d ever known. “Hi.”
But it was like he hadn’t heard her. He was scowling. “What did he do to you?”
Meredith blinked rapidly. “Please?” She followed Adam’s glance to the revolving door. The forensic investigator had pushed through and now stood outside, shrugging into his winter coat. “You mean Quincy?”
Adam’s dark brows lifted sarcastically. “Quincy?”
She cocked her jaw in irritation. Oh, for God’s sake. Was he angry? Possibly. Jealous? Unlikely. Still, this was macho posturing if ever she’d seen it. Which, of course, she had. Many times. “Agent Taylor? You know,” she added sweetly, “the nice guy on your team?”
Adam’s mouth thinned and she cursed herself for thinking even that was sexy. “He put his hands on you.” He all but growled the words.
Her temper bubbled. “He was cleaning brains off my hands. He made sure I was all right, because I was a mess. His behavior was fine. Whatever your problem is, stop it.”
His swallow was audible. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his tone low and . . . intimate, shivering over her skin. “I’ve been half out of my mind worrying about you, but I have to stay professional or Isenberg will take me off the case. I’m sorry,” he said again. “Are you all right? I should have asked that first.”
She started to say that she was all right, then opened her eyes and saw his gaze fixed on her face. The lie slid away. “No.” Her voice broke. “I’m not. I’m not all right,” she whispered. “I saw a boy die today, and I’m not all right.”
Chapter Four
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, December 19, 4:45 p.m.
Adam needed to touch her, so damn bad. Needed to pull her into his arms and hold her until her trembling subsided. She was pale and . . . there was brain matter in her hair. He didn’t think she knew because she’d have tried to wash it out.
He let hi
mself grip her elbow and tugged her back down to sit in the folding chair the hotel had provided. Crouching in front of her, he damned Isenberg and her warning to perdition and pulled off one of his latex gloves. Meredith’s slender hand was icy cold and smelled of antiseptic. He gripped it hard and looked up into her face.
“Tell me what happened, Meredith.”
She shuddered. “We’d just sat down, Mallory and me. We were looking at the menu and then . . . all of a sudden he was there. Staring at me.” She closed her eyes, any remaining color draining from her face, leaving her ashen.
He squeezed her hand again. “Meredith,” he said sharply. “Open your eyes. That’s good,” he said more softly when she obeyed.
“You have glitter in your hair,” she murmured.
Wonderful. “It’s from the star on top of the tree at Mariposa House.”
Her eyes flickered, her mouth turning down in a frown. “You put up the tree?”
“Diesel and I.” He started to loosen his grip on her hand, but she grasped at him.
“Let me hold on,” she whispered. “For just a little while longer. Then you can let go.”
“Whatever you need,” he said quietly.
She huffed, bitterness flickering across her face so quickly he would have missed it if he hadn’t been staring. She started to speak, but stopped herself, giving her head a slight shake. “Fine. All right. It’s okay. I’m okay.” She tried to tug her hand free, but he was the one who held on this time. He wasn’t ready to let her go. Nowhere close to ready.
He frowned at her. “No, it’s not okay. What were you going to say? No, tell me,” he insisted when she looked away. “Look at me, Meredith.”
She met his eyes and he wanted to flinch at the raw misery he saw in hers, but he didn’t allow himself to respond. He didn’t deserve to flinch.
She cries, Wendi had said. If you don’t want her, let her go.
I did this, he thought, feeling as miserable as Meredith appeared. I put that pain in her eyes. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but that was exactly what he’d done.