Esme wasn’t sure when Violetta had adopted it. Maybe after her first marriage. Her ex had been rich and snobby, his money buying him friends that his personality couldn’t.
“I’m okay. Just...” She glanced at Ian.
He was watching her, his eyes oddly light in his handsome, tanned face.
“Just what?” Violetta demanded.
“Wishing I could come home.” To her surprise, her voice broke on the words, some of the emotion she’d been trying hard to contain slipping out.
“You can. Just tell the feds you won’t testify,” Violetta responded.
“You know I can’t do that.”
“You won’t do it, sis. There’s a difference.”
“Reginald killed a man,” she said, the words making her feel sick and light-headed.
She’d seen it all.
The gun.
The blood.
The red stain spreading across the cracked linoleum floor.
“Sit,” Ian whispered in her ear, moving her to the chair and urging her into it.
“Is someone there with you?” Violetta demanded, her voice shrill.
“I...”
Ian shook his head.
“No,” she lied and despised herself for it.
“Look, hon, I love you. You know that, but you’ve got to back out of your deal. You can’t testify against blood.”
“That’s not what Mom and Dad would say. You know they wouldn’t. They’d say I should do the right thing, and that the right thing isn’t always the easy one.”
“Maybe so, but they’re dead. You’re not. I’d like you to stay that way.”
“Then maybe you could do what I have. Testify. If you tell the authorities what you know about the Dupree criminal enterprise, then Uncle Angus will be tossed into prison where he belongs.”
“Here’s what I know,” Violetta said, her tone hard-edged and angry. “You could die for the sake of a man you barely knew, a guy who was probably as big a criminal as you think our brother is. That man you saw shot? He had a record. You know that, right? Just because you think Reginald shot him, doesn’t mean he was an innocent bystander.”
“Think? I saw him!”
“If you insist on testifying, you could die for the sake of some idealized belief about right and wrong,” Violetta continued as if Esme hadn’t spoken.
“I could die because my sister won’t do the right thing.” The truth slipped out. Stark and real and harsh, and she despised herself for it as much as she had for the lie.
“I would do anything for you, Esme,” Violetta said, all the affectation gone from her voice. She sounded like the person she’d been before she’d married into money and decided that having material possessions was more important than having relationships. “But both of us dying isn’t a good solution to the problem. I love you, hon. I hope you know that.”
She disconnected, the silence echoing hollowly in Esme’s heart.
She wasn’t sure how long she held the phone to her ear. Eventually, Ian took it, his fingers brushing against her cheek, warm and calloused and gentle.
She should have moved away, but she didn’t. Not when he tucked the phone back in his pocket. Not when his hand cupped her chin. Not when he looked into her eyes.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said.
“You can’t know that.”
“Yeah, I can, because I’m going to make sure it is.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Ian,” she said, the words as hollow and empty as her heart felt.
“It’s not a promise. It’s a statement of fact.”
“It’s kind of sad that you’re more determined to keep me safe than my sister is.” Her voice broke, and to her horror, a single tear slipped down her cheek.
“Come here.” He tugged her into his arms, and she went, because she needed his warmth so much more than she wanted to.
“All she has to do is tell the police what she knows about Angus’s involvement in the crimes my brother has been committing. If she did that, it would all be over.”
“Some people have an easier time doing the right things than others do.” He smoothed her hair, and she realized her head was resting against his chest, that she could hear the slow solid thump of his heart.
“Violetta is making a choice. Me or money. She’s choosing money.”
“Maybe, but your parents were right. Sometimes the right thing is the most difficult. Sometimes the easy path leads to the most dangerous places, and the most difficult road brings us home.”
“I know.”
“Obviously, Violetta doesn’t. Not yet. So don’t let her doubts shake your conviction.” He said it kindly, his hand still smoothing her hair, the rhythmic thump of his heart soothing her soul.
It took a minute for the words to register, for her to realize what he was really saying: Don’t back out of your agreement. We need you to testify.
The knowledge was like a bucket of ice water in the face. It woke her up, made her realize whose arms she was standing in. He wasn’t any less biased than Violetta. He had just as much of an agenda, and she still wanted to stay in his arms, burrow closer, inhale the spicy scent of aftershave and soap.
She backed away. “You’re afraid I won’t testify,” she accused. “Still. Even after I told you I wasn’t going to change my mind.”
“You’re wrong,” he said as she turned blindly and reached for the door handle. “I’m not afraid you won’t do it. I’m afraid you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting it.”
“I won’t,” she bit out, her heart throbbing in her chest, her stomach churning.
“Are you saying you don’t already feel like a traitor?”
“I’m saying that I know I’m doing the right thing. That’s going to have to be enough.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Because I don’t know what you want me to say,” she responded, and she could hear the edge of sorrow and frustration and worry in her voice.
It surprised her.
She prided herself on her calm approach to life.
She’d won job after job because brides and grooms and their families had bragged about how easily she handled difficult situations.
She wasn’t handling anything right now. She was just trying to get through this moment without completely breaking down.
Maybe Ian knew that.
He sighed, grabbing her hand and tugging her away from the door. “I wish you weren’t in this situation, but you are, Esme. I wish I could give you some easy way out, but there isn’t one. All I can do is offer whatever support you need and all the protection necessary to keep you safe.”
“A personal bodyguard, huh?” she said, trying to smile but failing miserably.
“Call it whatever you want,” Ian replied, brushing strands of hair from her temple and looking into her eyes, studying her face.
She wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he must have found it, because he smiled gently.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said, just like he had before, and then he stepped back, his hands dropping away.
“What now?” she asked, because she needed to say something, and because what she really wanted to do was step right back into his arms.
“We’d better get back to the interrogation room,” he said. “The sooner we can convince the deputy sheriff to let us leave, the happier I’ll be.”
“Has your boss found a safe house yet?” She opened the door and walked straight into a tall muscular guy. She stepped back, nearly falling over in her haste.
He grabbed her arm to steady her, and she realized there was a dog beside him. Smaller than King, but watching her with the same kind of intelligence.
“I’m so sorry,”
she gasped.
“Don’t be,” the man said. “I never complain when a pretty woman bumps into me.” He glanced past her, his smile broadening.
“I’m glad to see that they didn’t toss you into jail, Ian,” he said. “I was worried when Max said you were at the local police station.”
“For once,” Ian said, “I’ve stayed out of trouble. Esme, this is Zeke Morrow. He’s a member of the Tactical K-9 Unit, and that’s his K-9 partner, Cheetah.”
“Nice to meet you.” The words sounded stilted and awkward. Which was exactly how she felt. She’d been running from these men for months, hiding from the FBI and anyone affiliated with it, and now she was back in their custody.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
She only knew she was tired. No. Exhausted. There was an old vinyl chair sitting against the wall, and she dropped into it, her head swimming.
She closed her eyes for a second.
When she opened them, Ian was crouching in front of her. “Are you okay?” he asked as King edged in between them and nudged her hand.
She scratched behind his ears and told herself she wasn’t going to pass out from fatigue and hunger. “I’m fine.”
“You’re white as a sheet,” he corrected, pressing his hand against her forehead.
“I’m a redhead,” she muttered.
“I’ve never seen a redhead your particular shade of white,” Zeke offered. “Maybe Ian was right. A little sugar might do you some good.” He handed her a white paper bag.
“What is it?” she asked, her gaze shifting from him to Ian.
“Just something I thought you might enjoy after your hours-long interrogation. I asked Zeke to stop and pick it up before he drove here from the airport.”
She peeked in the bag.
It contained a clear plastic container with what looked like cake inside.
She pulled it out.
Yes. Cake.
White with ivory icing and pretty yellow and pink flowers, and her heart hurt with the beauty of the gesture.
She met Ian’s eyes again, and he was smiling, his face soft with what looked like affection, compassion and concern.
“It’s cake,” she murmured, as if it needed to be said.
“I told you I would get you some.”
“Actually,” Zeke interrupted, “I got it.”
She heard him, but she was still looking in Ian’s eyes, still seeing his smile.
She couldn’t help herself, she smiled, too, some of her anxiety and fear seeping away. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Like he mentioned, Zeke did all the work.”
“Not just for the cake,” she responded.
“No problem,” he said again. “Now, how about you eat the cake while Zeke and I discuss how to get you out of here?”
He straightened, and she opened the container, found a plastic fork and a napkin in the bag. The first bite was sweet and light. Vanilla and sugar and flour and butter. If she’d had to put a name to the flavor, she’d say it tasted an awful lot like hope.
* * *
Things were looking up.
At least, as far as Ian was concerned they were.
Max had managed to find a safe house that was far enough away from town to throw Angus off their trail but close enough to be easily accessible. Zeke had arrived with Cheetah. Julianne Martinez was also on the way and planned to meet them at the safe house.
Three agents all devoted to getting Esme to the trial.
Yeah. Things were definitely looking up.
For him.
Esme didn’t seem quite as happy, but she did have some color in her cheeks. The cake he’d asked Zeke to bring had done its job. The empty container was in her hand, empty but for a couple crumbs and a few smudges of frosting.
“Was it good?” he asked, and she patted her stomach, her hand shaking a little.
“It was the best cake I’ve had in months.” She still sat in the old chair, her legs stretched out in front of her. Despite the food and the color in her cheeks, she looked exhausted.
“Good. Now, how about we get you out of here?”
“Deputy Sheriff Sinclair is okay with that?” she asked, glancing down the hall. Zeke was there, standing in front of a window, watching the parking lot as he and the deputy sheriff finished discussing plans for getting Esme outside safely.
Ian had left them to it, because he’d been worried about her. She’d been too quiet. For someone who’d been taking action and making decisions on her own for months, she didn’t seem all that interested in the plans they’d been discussing while she ate cake.
That concerned him.
Months of fear and anxiety could wear a person down, make her feel hopeless and defeated. He didn’t want that to happen to Esme.
“She said she has everything she needs from you. Come on. By the time we get to the safe house, there’ll be a freshly made-up bed waiting for you.” He took her hand, pulled her to her feet. She tossed the empty cake container and bag into a recycle bin and offered a shaky smile.
“That sounds great, because I think I’m crashing from my sugar high.”
“Maybe you’re just crashing from too many months of running,” he replied, and her smile fell away.
“Don’t, Ian.”
“What?”
“Be so nice.”
“I’m being me,” he replied, leading her toward Zeke and the deputy sheriff.
“And making it really hard for me to not like you.”
“Is there a reason why you don’t want to?”
“Maybe I just don’t want to be disappointed again.”
“Again?”
“It’s a long story. I don’t have time to tell it.”
“We’re going to have plenty of time later,” he replied, and she shrugged.
“You have something personal against my family, don’t you?” she asked, the question so unexpected and sudden, it took a moment for it to register.
When it did, he stopped, turning so that they were face-to-face and he could look into her eyes. He wanted to see her expression while they talked, and he wanted her to see his.
Nothing hidden.
Nothing left out.
She deserved the truth, and he’d give it to her, if that was really what she was asking for. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been sitting there eating cake and thinking, and while I’ve been doing that, I’ve been remembering a couple of things you said about my family. Maybe not what you said, but how you said it. As if you despised everything we were.”
“Not you,” he corrected. “Them.”
“See? Even with just those words, you sound angry.”
“Do I?” he asked, but he knew he did. Just like he knew he was putting off the inevitable. They were about to spend a month in a safe house together. She deserved to know who he was, what he’d spent most of his adult life trying to do—take down her family.
“I’m too tired for games,” she responded. “So how about you just tell me what happened?”
“I’ve known about your brother and his crimes for a long time. My father was a police officer in Chicago right around the time Reginald started making inroads into the crime world.”
She frowned, and he could almost see her mind working, see her putting together bits of information and trying to connect them.
When she didn’t speak, he continued. “My dad planned to shut Reginald down before he could gain more ground. He arrested quite a few low-level operatives, stopped several money-laundering schemes, intercepted a few drug shipments. Basically, he was making your brother’s life very difficult.”
He didn’t continue.
He’d told the story to other people. He’d imagined telling
it to one of the Duprees, standing in a courtroom somewhere and explaining the exact reason why he was going to make sure every crooked member of the family paid.
But he hadn’t imagined this. Hadn’t imagined looking in Esme’s stricken face, seeing the knowledge in her eyes. She knew. He didn’t have to tell her.
“Come on,” he said, and he’d have walked away, but she grabbed his hand, her palm cold and dry.
“You said they were killed in a drive-by shooting,” she murmured, her face so pale he thought she might fall over.
“They were.”
“Are you sure it was him?” she asked, and he gave her credit for not denying it, for not insisting that her brother hadn’t been responsible.
“Reginald showed up at the funeral. After everyone left, and I was standing by their caskets, praying that I’d wake up from the nightmare. I looked up, and he was there, standing a hundred feet away. He pointed his finger at me and pretended to shoot, and then he walked away.”
“I’m so sorry, Ian,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks, the woman who’d said she rarely cried, swallowing back sobs as she stood in the stark white light of the police station. Her hair was deep red and spiked up around her head, her eyes deeply shadowed. He couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d looked when he’d walked into the hospital room, seen her chopping off her hair because her uncle—her flesh and blood—had used her ponytail to keep her from running.
She must hate that, hate that she’d lost control in public, with Ian looking on.
She’d been through too much.
He’d made it worse.
If that was what wanting revenge led to, he didn’t like it.
Didn’t particularly like himself.
Let it go.
That was what his father would have said.
Let God deal with it.
He’d understood the truth behind that for a long time, but he’d never been able to make himself own it. He’d wanted revenge, and he’d wanted to be the one to dish it out. He’d wanted the Dupree family to suffer as much as he had. He’d wanted every last one of them to mourn and grieve and cry.
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