The Rebel

by Adrienne Giordano

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, big brother, you’re not going to believe where this guy works.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The Dyce Youth Center.”

  * * *

  HAVING RECLAIMED A PORTION of her sanity, thanks to Lexi, Amanda marched into the youth center with her head high, her makeup and hair repaired and her one remaining completed painting ready to be shown.

  Life and business as usual.

  Sort of.

  Mrs. Dyce couldn’t know it, but this little visit would restore Amanda’s sense of routine. Bring her back to the existence she’d had before David Hennings had marched through her front door and upended her life with his presence and, after last night, a few bouts of borderline rough sex she’d never before even considered participating in.

  What she needed was exactly what she was about to do. Show her work, explain the details, share her love of art. This was where Amanda belonged. Where she thrived. The safe zone.

  Neutral.

  Forget David Hennings. The man had already torn her up in a million different ways. Why give him more opportunities?

  But maybe Lexi was right and she needed to lighten up. The time with him, for the most part, had been good, extraordinary even. No one could be perfect 100 percent of the time.

  “Hello, Amanda,” Mrs. Dyce said, striding toward her in gray slacks and heels and a black blazer. She wore a pearl necklace and earrings, and the minimal accessories screamed elegance and class and money.

  Money that would help Amanda’s bank account. And, considering that her assets were currently unavailable, a fresh infusion of funds would be nice.

  “Hello, Mrs. Dyce. Thank you for letting me come by.”

  “I should be thanking you.” She gestured to the large narrow box Amanda held. “Do you need help with that?”

  She gripped the handle, lifting the painting a few inches. “No. Thank you. I’m used to it.”

  “All right, then. We’ll look at it in the conference room. There’s room to spread out in there.”

  Amanda followed Mrs. Dyce down the same hallway she and David had traveled earlier in the week. Mrs. Dyce stopped in front of a doorway—apparently their destination—just across from her office and waved Amanda in.

  Once inside the conference room, a large space with a table for ten and leather cushioned chairs, Amanda set the painting down, resting the box against the wall while she rummaged through her tote for her portable easel. In seconds, she’d have it set up and be able to show the painting on it. As much as Lexi teased her about the pop-up easel, it came in handy for displaying her work in a pinch. Except...whoopsie...she’d forgotten it in the trunk.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot my easel in the car. It’ll only take me a second to grab it. Do you mind?”

  “It’s not a problem at all. Go ahead. While you’re doing that, I’ll see if my husband is still here. I’d like him to look at the painting with me. I always prefer to get his opinion on large purchases.” The older woman smiled. “Keeps things running smoothly.”

  After that fight with David, Amanda was beginning to learn. “I know exactly what you mean.” She held her finger up. “I’ll be back in a flash.”

  She walked down the hallway to the door she’d entered from. The parking lot behind the building, a definite perk in Chicago, made for easy access. She popped her trunk, found the easel and headed back inside. As she climbed the brick steps, a man exiting the building pushed the door open and held it for her.

  She glanced up to offer a smile and thanks and stared into the face of the man who’d stolen the skull.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amanda stood on the step, unmoving, for a solid five seconds, maybe more, before her brain clicked. When it finally did, she whipped around, ready to run, but he clamped on to her arm.

  “No,” he said.

  And the deep, shaky voice came back to her. I don’t want to hurt you. She tugged, but his hand tightened and he stepped back, dragging her up the steps as she threw her weight into her heels, resisting momentum. Useless. The man outweighed her by at least one hundred pounds.

  “Help!”

  Someone had to be nearby. In the parking lot, walking the street, anywhere. She swung her head around. “Help!”

  Nothing. Not a pedestrian in sight.

  The man yanked and a blast of pain shot up her arm into her shoulder. He knew he had her. She kicked out, but he leaped just out of her reach. Missed.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Amanda peered over his shoulder and spotted Mrs. Dyce holding the door partway open. Finally, someone to help.

  “Call the police,” Amanda said. “This man broke into David’s apartment. He stole the skull I was working on.”

  Still holding her, the man angled back and his grip slipped. Amanda yanked and—yes—freedom. She spun back to the door, sprinted toward it, made it four steps until he caught her and latched on to the back of her jacket.

  “Stay still!” he hollered.

  “Sssshhh!” Mrs. Dyce hissed. “Get her in here.”

  The words jabbed at Amanda, tiny swords stabbing at her ears, forcing their way in, but...what? She didn’t understand. “I don’t...”

  What was happening?

  But the man tugged her backward, dragging her down the hall, and Amanda started screaming. Two, maybe three seconds passed and the man’s meaty hand clamped over her mouth. Still, Amanda screamed. The sound was muffled but at least it was there as the man hauled her across the tiled floor, her feet skidding, failing to gain traction.

  He shoved her back into the conference room, where her painting still lay against the wall.

  What’s happening?

  Without breaking stride, Mrs. Dyce closed the door, and the icy control in which she did it made Amanda shiver. Where was the caring, loving woman who’d helped the masses?

  Slowly, she turned to the man, her cheeks sucked in, her eyes more than a little wild. But the control remained. Demented calm, that was what this was.

  She moved closer to him, a few steps away. “How could you be so stupid?”

  In minutes she’d transformed from pleasant and elegant to mean and scrappy. Unhinged.

  “I don’t understand,” Amanda said.

  “Shut up! You—” she poked at the man “—find my husband. Get him in here. Now.”

  The man scurried from the room, closing the door behind him.

  Disbelief consumed Amanda. “What are you doing?”

  Insanity. All of it.

  “Stop talking, Amanda. Before you get hurt.”

  The entire episode was bizarre. What’s she doing? And then the pieces, albeit odd pieces, started to merge. The visit to the center, chatting with Mrs. Dyce about the reconstruction and agreeing to work with the detective, all of it had been discussed. With a woman who had massive connections within the city.

  But what did the reconstruction have to do with the Dyces? “You knew that man stole the skull? David almost got hurt!”

  “Shut up. I tried to stop you. I tried. All I wanted was for you to go away. To give up on this reconstruction. And now look what you’ve done.”

  Amanda shook her head, disbelief stunting her thoughts. There’d be time for figuring it all out later. She eyed the door, but Mrs. Dyce stood in her path. Get around her. The woman had twenty-five years on her. If Amanda could get close enough, she’d shove her and maybe escape.

  “You’ll never get by me. Believe me. I’m not willing to let meaningless people destroy my life.”

  The door came open and a tall man with dark hair, graying at the temples, stepped in, his large frame filling the doorway. She’d seen Mr. Dyce on television plenty of times, but he appeared bigger now, more confident. Behind him was the other man. The mes
senger boy.

  “That idiot!” Mrs. Dyce poked her finger. “He walked out when she was here. How stupid!”

  “You witch!” the man said to her. “After what I’ve done for you?”

  Mr. Dyce glanced at Amanda, his eyes darting. The confidence from seconds ago slid away and his body became more erect, his movements jerky. He’d just been appointed to a presidential committee, an honor men in his position rarely saw, and his wife was detaining someone against her will.

  “You have to let me go,” Amanda said. “Whatever this is, holding me will only get worse for you.”

  “Stop talking,” Mrs. Dyce said.

  “No. You two are beloved in this city. After this, you’re done. It’s over. Tell her to let me go.”

  But Mr. Dyce’s eyes were still bouncing around, that panic shredding him. “Scott, leave us,” he said.

  Scott, the lackey, slid his gaze to Amanda, then back to Mr. Dyce. “Whatever happens, I’m not going down for this.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Mrs. Dyce hissed.

  “Shut up? I’ve been helping you this whole time.”

  “Just let me go,” Amanda said, still not sure what exactly they were talking about. “I’ll walk out and everyone is safe.”

  “Irene,” Mr. Dyce said to his wife. “What are we doing? This is crazy.”

  The woman’s eyes got huge. The kind of look fueled by rage and torment. “What are we doing? We’re saving your career. We need to stay together on this.”

  “Yes. We do. But I just talked to Simeon. He’s out. This plan of yours has gone too far. It needs to stop.”

  Simeon. What had she gotten into with these people?

  “Wonderful,” Mrs. Dyce said, sarcasm oozing. “What do you propose?” She pointed at Amanda. “She can send us all to prison. She has to go.”

  “No. She doesn’t. Accidentally killing a homeless person is one thing. This? This is murder and I won’t do it.”

  “Isn’t this typical? Once again, on my own.”

  “Stop it.”

  “No. I was afraid that night and you were gone. You’re always tending to someone else’s problems. If you’d been available, this would have wound up differently.” She held her hands out. “I had to protect myself and now we’re almost there. Please. We’ll just make her go away.”

  No. No, no, no. “David knows I’m here.”

  Mrs. Dyce marched to the credenza, where a brass sculpture of two children playing sat on the top. She picked it up, checked its weight and looked back at Amanda with that same menacing face from minutes ago. “Well, that’s too bad for him, then, isn’t it?”

  The man—Scott—backed toward the door. “Lady, you are insane. I’m out. I was willing to help you six years ago, but now you two are on your own.”

  He slipped from the room.

  “Irene,” Mr. Dyce said, giving his back to Amanda.

  Go! With the couple occupied, she ran. Bolted to the door, grabbed the handle and yanked. The door came halfway open. Freedom. Run.

  Clunk.

  A huge weight blasted the side of her head and she stared at the hallway, at her chance to escape, at freedom.

  At least until it went black.

  * * *

  DAVID CHARGED THROUGH the back entrance of the youth center and scanned the doors on either side of the long hallway. A man strode toward him, a big guy in ratty khakis who looked...familiar.

  Him. The guy he had chased out of the condo.

  David kept moving, heading straight for the man, until something in his face changed. Recognition.

  The man slowed, but David ignored him—wait for it—and moved just past him. The guy, thinking he’d dodged one, kept his gaze glued to the door, but David whirled and slammed him with a fist behind the ear.

  Boom.

  He hit the floor.

  What most people didn’t realize, and David learned while working out with a buddy who was into Ultimate Fighting, was that a well-aimed punch to the temple or behind the ear would drop someone. Immediately.

  Case in point: the unconscious man at his feet. Hearing a commotion from behind one of the doors, he hustled to it. Muffled, hissing voices came from the other side and he halted, listened for a second. Idiot...your career...you did this.

  Gently, he turned the knob and suddenly the door flew open, smacking against the interior wall. He flinched at the bang, but his eyes fixed on something.

  A body. On the floor.

  Amanda.

  She lay unconscious, arms and legs sprawled at her sides while blood seeped from her head, and something inside him went berserk. Just blew his mind.

  Mrs. Dyce stood over Amanda, fiercely gripping a sculpture. She directed her hard, almost desperate gaze at David. “She attacked us!”

  Liar. All David was sure of was one of them—most likely Mrs. Dyce—had knocked Amanda out cold. And that was a problem. For them.

  “Irene, shut up.” Mr. Dyce’s voice climbed an octave higher than his normal calm baritone.

  David shifted his gaze between them. First he’d have to take out Mr. Dyce. He was the bigger, more powerful opponent. By then, McCall would be showing up to question Mrs. Dyce about the employee who’d broken into David’s condo. When he arrived, he’d find a whole lot more than that. Between the two of them, they’d get this under control.

  Lunging left, David drove his shoulder into his best friend’s father’s gut, propelling the man backward, off his feet, both of them crashing to the floor. They landed hard, David on top as air whooshed from Mr. Dyce. Behind him, Mrs. Dyce wailed at him to stop and Mr. Dyce started swinging, the punches missing their mark and sliding off David’s arms and shoulders and the side of his head. David reared up, jabbed once, twice and the final time landed a cross on the jaw. Mr. Dyce groaned, a low guttural sound, and his eyes rolled back.

  Mrs. Dyce. Where is she? David leaped to his feet and twisted in time to see her, on the move, a foot from him, sculpture in hand. He dodged left, ducking under her arms as she raised the sculpture. Before she could clock him, he shoved her, knocking her off balance, and she cried out, tipping forward until she dropped across her husband’s legs, the sculpture still in her hand. She kicked out and swung the heavy piece, but the weight and her weird angle made her efforts useless. She swung wide. Missed. Breaths coming fast, he reached down, gripped her wrist and squeezed until she winced. She opened her hand and the sculpture fell. It thunked against the carpeted floor, and the thought of Amanda getting hit with that thing made his stomach flip.

  He shoved Mrs. Dyce away, grabbed the sculpture with one hand and wrapped his fingers around the solid base. Not all that heavy—for him—but enough to split someone’s head. At his feet, Mrs. Dyce began to sob. The wailing hit him wrong. Forget empathy or sadness for a woman he’d known most of his life. Those tears were tiny shards of glass scraping against him. Behind him, Amanda groaned and relief gripped him. At least she was still alive. Whatever Mrs. Dyce had to say, he wasn’t interested. He shook the statue at her.

  “Move and I’ll crack your skull with it.”

  * * *

  DAVID SWUNG AROUND the corner of the hospital hallway on his way to Amanda’s room and received one hell of a shock.

  He stopped short and cocked his head, wondering just what the next thirty seconds would bring.

  Leaning against the wall outside Amanda’s room—at least he assumed it was Amanda’s room because why else would Penny be standing there?—his sister fiddled with her phone. Probably answering emails.

  He started toward her and she glanced up. Spotting him, she tucked her phone away and stood tall.

  If she was readying for a fight, he didn’t have it in him. He’d been at the PD giving his statement, damned near frantic wondering how badly Amanda had been hurt. She’d regain
ed consciousness, but they’d hauled her off to the hospital straightaway and no one had given him any updates on her condition.

  “Hi,” she said, nodding toward the door. “The doctor is in with her. She was kind of worked up, so they gave her something to settle her down. The doctor said she has a concussion but thankfully no fractures. There’s a deep cut that they put staples in. Blech. Literally, she has staples in her head. They had to shave the area, and let me tell you, when she comes out of her fog, she is not going to be happy about her funky new hairdo.”

  “Oh, man. But no fractures. That’s great.”

  “They want to keep her overnight, but the doctor thinks she can go home tomorrow.”

  David nodded, taking a second to absorb the relief bullying its way through the massive tension in his neck. Crazy few days. And even with McCall sorting through the mess David had left at the police station, he still had work to do regarding his sister.

  “Pen, what are you doing here?”

  She shrugged. “After you called Dad, he told me you were giving a statement and I wasn’t sure if Amanda was alone. I just didn’t want her to be by herself while you were tied up.”

  On his way to the police station, he’d called his father and asked him to meet him there just in case that key he’d swiped came back on him. Which, so far, it hadn’t, but man, oh, man, his sister had done this for a woman she barely knew. And he hadn’t even asked.

  “Thank you for doing that for her.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  But after she said that she shook her head and pressed her lips together in a way that told him he’d once again screwed up. What now? He replayed the last ten seconds in his mind and it hit him. “I can see you’re about to unleash on me. You don’t have to. I know what I did.”

  “Well, David, you recognized the sign. That’s progress at least.”

  He smiled. “Thank you for being here for her and for me. You knew I’d be worried about her being alone.”

  “We may not always get along, but you’re my brother and I love you. You have this massive protective streak. I figured I’d sit with her until you got here.”

  He hugged her. Just reached across and wrapped his baby sister in a bone-crushing hug. And, lookie here, she hugged him back. Not one of those quick, barely touching hugs that had a mountain of tension. This was the real deal and something they hadn’t done in years.