by Karen Rose
“Whatever I need,” she murmured. “Right. You can’t give me what I need. Or won’t. I don’t know which. And it doesn’t matter. Not right now, anyway.” She tugged her hand again, swallowing when he still didn’t let go. “Please, Adam,” she whispered hoarsely. “I can’t do this here. I can’t fall apart. Not in front of all these people. I shouldn’t have asked you to come. It wasn’t fair to either of us and . . . and you have a job to do. So just let me go.”
“I can’t,” he whispered back. “Don’t ask me to. Not yet. Please.”
Her eyes were glistening now and she turned her head, blinking to send tears down her cheeks. “Fine,” she said, shuddering out a sigh. But her hand went limp in his and he knew the moment he loosened his grip, she’d pull away. Emotionally, she already had.
She cleared her throat, straightened her spine, and schooled her features into the calm mask everyone else seemed to believe was her natural zen expression.
But Adam knew better. He knew what she looked like when she let go. When she lost control. When she screamed his name. He shuddered out a breath of his own.
He could not be thinking about that right now. “Later,” he murmured. “We can talk about this later. I promise. For now, I need to get your statement. You said he was suddenly there, standing at your table, staring at you.”
She nodded, stoic now. “I wanted to run. Just instinct, I suppose. I had my gun in my pocket, so I unsnapped the holster.”
Her gun had been taken into evidence. “Do you always carry?”
Another nod. “For a few years now. I’ve had some parents threaten me after their children revealed abuse. A few have become violent.”
Adam had to choke back his rage. Not now. “I’ll need their names. All of them.”
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I can give you names of the people who’ve specifically threatened me, but they’re already on record. I’ve filed official complaints on all of them with the police.”
He frowned at her. “Specifically? What about unspecific threats?”
She lifted a slender shoulder. “They don’t exist.”
His eyes narrowed, immediately understanding the nuance. “They don’t actually exist or you’re not going to tell me who they are?”
“Legally the first one. Pragmatically, the second.”
He closed his eyes briefly, pulling his temper back into control. “Why not?” he asked when he thought he could speak without snapping.
“If I identify the parents, I identify my clients. I can’t do that. Not if they haven’t made a threat specific to their child or to me.” Her voice was level. Kind, even. He imagined she used that voice on the children she counseled, but it grated on him.
He managed to keep his own tone professional. “But you carry a gun.”
Another half shrug. “I’m careful, Detective.”
Detective. Shit. “Has anyone given you reason to believe you need a gun, even if there was no explicit threat?”
“Yes.”
His temper broke free. “Dammit, Meredith. Somebody nearly blew up a restaurant on a crowded street. Do you know how many people could have died?”
Her chin lifted. “I am quite aware. I will cooperate to the best of my ability.”
“But you won’t tell me who you’re afraid of. For God’s sake, Meredith.”
She swallowed hard. “I will not breach the privacy of my clients. They are children, Detective Kimble. Children who’ve been traumatized. The ones who’ve come to me through the courts are on record. Anyone who has specifically said, ‘I’m going to make you pay, bitch,’ has been reported to the police. By me. The ones that just happen to be running around the high school track at the same time I do every morning at five a.m., or just happen to be shopping for veggies at my neighborhood Kroger on Saturday mornings, or just happen to catch my eye across the crowd after Sunday mass at St. Germaine’s for the past three weeks . . . those I can’t tell you about.”
“And they’re the reason you carry a gun.”
She nodded once, her lips pursed tight. “So. I unsnapped my holster and when he pulled his gun I tried to talk him down first. His hand was shaking.”
He’d get those names later. Now she was holding herself together by a fragile thread. “The first cop on scene said that other diners reported the man talking to himself.”
“I don’t think he was,” she said, her brow furrowing again. “I don’t know if it’s even possible now”—a hard swallow—“what with his head and all, but you might check for an earbud. He was being coerced. I’m sure of it. He kept saying he was sorry and ‘He’ll kill her.’” Her eyes sharpened. “Everyone has video on their phones now. Maybe someone caught him talking.”
He’d already thought of that. “I plan to ask the other witnesses when I’m finished with you.” Except he’d never be finished with her. Not while he drew breath. “And then?”
“And then I drew my gun. We did a standoff for what seemed like forever, but it could only have been a minute. Maybe less. He dropped his gun and told me to run. To get down and run. He started to unzip his coat, but then . . .” She swallowed again, audibly. “The shot came from outside. The window shattered and his head . . . well, you know.” She stared down at her hands. “I was kind of in shock, you know? I just stared at my gun, thinking I hadn’t fired it, wondering what the hell had happened. I hadn’t put the window shattering together with everything else yet.” Her lips twisted. “Luckily, Mallory did. She pulled me down, just in time. The next bullet hit the man sitting behind me. He’ll be all right,” she added. “The EMTs were able to stop the bleeding.”
“And then?” he nudged patiently.
“Then tires squealed.” She sighed wearily. “And then I called you.”
“I’m glad you did.” He gave her limp hand a light squeeze. “So damn glad, Meredith.”
Another bitter twist of her lips. “At least it allowed you to have a head start in getting here. Agent Taylor told me that you and Agent Triplett are the lead investigators on this case.” She looked pointedly down at their joined hands. “I imagine your boss wouldn’t want you holding a witness’s hand like this, Detective Kimble.”
Adam’s heart clenched. She was still calling him “detective.” He wanted—no, needed—to hear her say his name again. “I’m sorry, Meredith. I need to explain some things to you.”
She shook her head, sadly now. “You don’t owe me any explanations. I want things that you . . . clearly don’t. I’m a big girl. I can deal.” Pasting a fake smile on her face, she tugged her hand again and this time he let her go.
He needed to tell her everything. If for no other reason than because he didn’t want her to hurt like this. He’d never dreamed she could be hurting like this. Over me. I’m not worth it. And that was the fucking understatement of the century.
“We need to talk,” he insisted, keeping his voice to a murmur that no one could overhear. “I need to talk. To you. I need to explain.”
Her back went rigid. “Am I done? I need to see to Mallory. And I really want to go home.” Her voice broke. “I’d really appreciate it if I could be done now, Detective Kimble.”
No. Don’t go. Please do not go. But he swallowed back those words and pushed emotion aside to consider the case. “Where was Mallory all the time this was happening?”
She blinked, appearing surprised. “Next to me.”
“In the chair? You said she pulled you down after the first shot was fired.”
Meredith frowned in concentration. “I told her to get down. After he pulled the gun.”
“What did he do then?”
“Yelled at me. Told me that nobody could move.” Her head wagged slowly. “I can’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something like that.”
“When did he talk to himself—or somebody else, if that turns out to be the case?”
Her frown deepened. “After he pulled the gun. Before I told Mallory to get down. I think. He got distracted when I pushed Mallory down. Pointed the gun at her then back at me. That’s when I pulled my gun from my pocket. I think Mallory went under the table then.” She pressed her fingertips to her temple. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember exactly.”
“I understand.”
She folded her hands in her lap primly. “When can I have my gun back?”
“I don’t know. It’ll be held as evidence, so not anytime soon. Certainly not today.”
“It’s all right. I have another. Now may I go, Detective?”
“Yes. I’ll—” He came to his feet when she did. “Can I call you? Tonight? Please,” he added when she said nothing. He dropped his voice to a desperate whisper. “Please.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Okay. Whatever—” Her voice cracked. “Whatever you need.”
She turned and walked away. He let her go, his gut churning with the urge to go after her. He let out a huge sigh, then sent a quick text to his AA sponsor. You home tonite?
His phone buzzed a second later. Yup. What’s up?
Meredith Fallon was what was up. But he wasn’t going to say that. John had discouraged him from seeing her before his year was up. But if she turned him away after he explained to her? Yeah. He’d need his sponsor then. Caught a bad case, he texted instead. May need to talk.
I’m here. Call me. Doesn’t matter how late.
Because John Kasper was a decent man, a retired cop who knew exactly what Adam’s job entailed. Thx, Adam typed, hit SEND, then rejoined Trip, who was watching him.
“She okay?” Trip asked.
“No.” Meredith Fallon was definitely not okay. For too many reasons.
Trip’s brows lifted, his shiny bald head tilting in question. “You okay?”
Adam made his lips move. “Of course. What’s our status on the bomb?”
“On its way to the lab. I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s deactivated, but the removal team took all precautions, just in case.”
“How did you deactivate it?”
“I didn’t,” Trip said. “I think the victim did.”
Anderson Township, Ohio
Saturday, December 19, 4:50 p.m.
Finally. Civilization. Linnea pulled into the parking lot of a seafood restaurant called Clyde’s, looking around for his thugs. That she didn’t see them didn’t make her feel better. She was pretty sure that she wouldn’t see them first. She’d realized about five minutes after leaving him in the muddy snow that he probably had a tracker on the SUV, that he’d probably already sicced his enforcers on her. But it hadn’t made sense to abandon the SUV on the side of the road. She’d be on foot and she was too sore to walk very fast or very far. Her chances were better now that she was in civilization. She could hide for a while. Maybe hitch a ride.
To where? She didn’t know yet. Not too far away. She needed proximity to kill him.
Pulling the hood of her coat forward to hide her face, she gingerly got out of the SUV, wincing at the blood she’d left on the seat. Terrific. She’d bled through her jeans. Not a huge surprise, as she’d bled off and on all through the night after his right-hand maniac had finished with her. She stared at the bloody seat for a long moment, the assault replaying in her mind. Her own screams. The laughter. His and his thug’s.
He’d watched. He got off on watching.
Stop. She pushed the memory into a box inside her mind and visualized locking it tight. Along with all the other memories she couldn’t seem to delete.
Go to the ER before you bleed to death. It could happen. She’d come close once before.
But she couldn’t go to the ER. He had people inside the hospital, too. She wasn’t sure which hospital, or if he had staff in all of them. She couldn’t take the chance.
There was a clinic downtown. She’d used it before, after another brutal time just like last night. The lady doctor had been so kind. She’d asked if Linnea needed help from the police, accepting her quick refusal. The doctor had merely stitched her up, given her a nonnarcotic painkiller. Then she’d recommended a series of STD tests, including HIV.
There’d been no judgment in the lady doctor’s oddly colored eyes when Linnea had returned for the test results. No pity. No revulsion or disapproval. Only sympathy and understanding. That had been Linnea’s second time at the clinic.
Which had been six months ago. Linnea hoped the shot of antibiotic she’d been given had taken care of the gonorrhea, because she hadn’t been back for a second shot or to be retested after three months as the nice doctor had recommended.
What difference did it make? The other diagnosis she’d been given was a death sentence, even though the lady doctor had insisted that it no longer was. Except Linnea had no money for medicines. No money for care.
She’d been stuck in her worst nightmare, forced to “entertain” his “associates” over and over again. The other girls got paid, but Linnea didn’t, because he’d had leverage. Information that he’d been able to use to force her compliance.
Some of his associates used condoms. The others would share her fate. There was some satisfaction in that. Although she had worried about the women his associates went home to. They didn’t deserve to be infected, too, but she’d been powerless to stop any of it. Once he’d known she was HIV positive, she’d have become a liability. He’d have had no reason to keep her alive and once she was gone, he’d have gone after Andy.
She’d have done anything to protect Andy Gold. But none of that mattered anymore.
At least she knew to warn whoever was on duty at the clinic today. Because she would go. Get sewn up. Again. She’d live long enough to kill the man who’d done this to her.
The man who’d killed Andy like he was nothing.
She just needed a little cash. Enough to get back to the city. She looked up and down the street, relieved to see a bus stop a block away. There was also a hotel at the entrance to the interstate. It wasn’t a fancy place, but she’d be able to get a cab from there. If she could find enough cash for the fare. She hoped so. It was late on a Saturday and the buses wouldn’t be running that often. It was cold. And I’m still bleeding.
Not sure how much time she had before he or his goons arrived, she quickly lifted the lid of the center console and peered inside. Nothing. It was as clean as new. The glove box was also empty, but the pouch on the back of the front passenger seat yielded a single piece of paper, folded over and over until it was only a little bigger than a postage stamp.
Linnea shoved it in her coat pocket and continued searching for cash. Even some change would be helpful. Maybe she’d even find enough to buy some food. The smell of hamburgers made her stomach growl and she tried not to think about how long it had been since she’d eaten. Focus. Get to the clinic first and then eat.
She opened the ashtray, exhaling in a rush. Cash—a roll of twenties, secured by a rubber band. Which made sense, actually. Prostitution and drugs—his bread and butter—were generally cash-only businesses. There were at least ten twenties in the roll. Maybe fifteen. That would more than pay for a cab. She’d have enough left over to buy another weapon, since she’d left her switchblade in his arm.
She shoved the money into her pocket. Stepping away from the SUV, she slammed the door, locked it, and pocketed the key.
The blood she’d left on the SUV’s seat was deadly. If the cops found the vehicle first, they’d have gloves on. They’d be protected. If he or his thugs found it first, they deserved whatever exposure they got.
But no one else deserved exposure to her blood. She hoped a locked door would keep them out. At least her coat was still clean. She’d sit on it once she was in a taxi.
She started walking toward the little hotel, throwing the SUV keys into the first storm sewer she came across. Stay away from the road, she tol
d herself. Stick to the shadows. Which wasn’t too hard because that was how she’d lived for the last six months.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, December 19, 4:50 p.m.
I need to explain some things to you. Meredith sat next to Mallory on a small sofa in the hotel manager’s office, her arm tight around the girl’s thin shoulders, Adam’s words echoing in her head so loudly that it was all she could hear. How could he explain away months of ignoring her? He wasn’t interested, plain and simple.
Yes, he’d sent her pictures he’d colored—even painted—but that only meant he was letting her know he was recovering. That he was getting a hold on his PTSD.
If he even starts to say “It’s not you, it’s me,” I’m going to fucking hit him in the face.
“Hey,” Wendi said from the doorway, thankfully halting her thoughts. Wendi’s face was tear streaked, her eyes red. Trembling head to toe, she rushed into the room and wrapped Mallory in her arms. “You’re both okay. I was so scared. But you’re okay.”
Meredith met her friend’s eyes over Mallory’s shoulder and shook her head. Not okay, she mouthed. At all.
“You’re unhurt,” Wendi corrected in a fierce whisper. “All I knew was that there was a shooting. I was afraid you’d been hit.”
“I told you she was fine,” Agent Colby said in that very quiet way he had. “That they were both fine.” He came into the room and winced when his gaze passed over Meredith’s hair. “We’ll get your statements squared away and take you home. You can shower.”
Meredith clenched her eyes shut, her stomach heaving again. “It’s in my hair?”
“Not much,” Wendi said quickly—way too quickly. “It looks like . . . like the dust bunny fuzz you pull out of your dryer filter.” She sounded so pleased with herself.
Meredith opened her eyes, her lips curving wryly at her tiny best friend. “You are such an awful liar, Wen.”
“She really is,” Colby said, affectionately tugging a lock of Wendi’s hair.
Wendi looked over her shoulder at him, frowning. “Mer can’t stay by herself in her house. That man tried to kill her today. What if he comes back?”