“Boone and I will make sure he’s okay,” Dallas assured her, his hand cupping her elbow as he walked her to the door.
She could feel the warmth of his fingers through her coat, and she told herself that it didn’t feel nice, that she hadn’t missed the sweetness of someone else’s touch, the comforting feeling of warm hands against chilly skin.
She hadn’t realized how cold she was until he released her and stepped back into the room, leaving her in the hallway with a tall redheaded officer, a hammering heart and the bittersweet memory of all the things she’d once thought she’d have.
* * *
A two-hour interrogation by the DC police was not the way Dallas had hoped to spend his day, but that was exactly how things were playing out. He might not have been so impatient about it if he hadn’t spent the previous forty minutes talking to the Montgomery County Police about the incident in front of his house. They’d asked questions and had seemed satisfied with his answers. They’d also been willing to fill him in on what they’d discovered at the scene—or rather, not discovered: a body or, aside from a few drops of blood on the pavement, evidence that anyone had been seriously injured. Dallas was confident his bullet had struck the perp, but he’d kept that information to himself. If the guy had been mortally wounded, the K-9 unit that had been dispatched would have found him. According to the officers who’d interviewed Dallas, the dogs had followed a scent trail to the same parking lot Carly had used and lost it there.
Still, they’d seemed more than willing to believe Dallas’s account. They had a witness, they’d said. A neighbor who’d seen most of what had happened. His version had corroborated Dallas’s, and that, it seemed, was that.
They were satisfied. Dallas was free to return home.
Except that he wasn’t.
The DC police wanted some of his time, too. Actually, lots of his time.
He glanced at his watch, tapping his fingers against the faux-wood table that sat in the back of what looked like a classroom, with a whiteboard at one end, long tables lined up in rows and spindly folding chairs pushed beneath them facing the board. He wasn’t sure what kind of teaching they might do at a general hospital, but he imagined they could fit a hundred students in a space this size.
Dallas eyed the officers who sat across the table from him. They were jotting notes and frowning. He’d answered dozens of questions, maybe hundreds. He’d responded with candor and honesty. He’d held nothing back, because there was nothing to hold on to. He’d been dragged into something he knew nothing about by a woman he hadn’t known twenty-four hours ago.
Except that the officers who were questioning him didn’t seem to buy it. Funny how the truth was often stranger than fiction.
“So, what you’re saying,” one of them said, pausing to lift the tablet he’d been writing on, “is that you never met Carly Kelley before this morning?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you’re also saying that she’s your sister-in-law?”
“In legal terms. Yes.”
“Legal terms? Can you clarify that?”
“She was married to my brother. He died seven years ago. I didn’t meet Carly when they were married.”
“That seems unusual. Don’t you think?”
“My brother and I were estranged.” He managed to keep impatience and irritation out of his voice. Barely. He’d answered this same question at least ten times, and—he decided, shoving away from the table and standing—he wasn’t answering it again.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Morgan?” the younger of the two officers asked. She had close-cropped brown hair colored deep burgundy at the ends, her face perfectly made-up, her expression a mixture of surprise and irritation.
“Only the fact that you’ve asked me the same question a dozen times.”
“I’m sorry if that seems like a burden. We’re just trying to make sure we get your story straight.” She stood.
“It couldn’t get any straighter, Officer. I gave you the facts. I’m sorry you’re not satisfied with them.”
“It’s not that we’re not satisfied. It just seems odd to us that Ms. Kelley’s house was set on fire right after you met.”
“The fact that her house was set on fire isn’t strange in and of itself?” he asked.
“Of course it is. But we like to look for patterns, find connections—”
“Beat a question into the ground and hope that doing so will give you a different answer?”
“We’re trying to be thorough.” She’d followed him to the door. But she couldn’t keep him from leaving, and they both knew it. To her credit, she didn’t even try.
“Look, Mr. Morgan,” she said as he stepped into the hall, “I know it feels as if we’re treating you like a criminal, but getting the facts right, making sure that when we make an arrest it’s the right guy, is our highest priority.”
“I don’t feel like I’m being treated like a criminal. I feel like I’m wasting my time. You have my contact information. If you come up with any new questions, give me a call.” He walked away, heading for the bank of elevators at the end of the hall, his knee throbbing a loud and annoying protest.
He’d done too much. For sure.
This was what he’d spent the past few years living for—helping people, making a difference, doing what he hadn’t been able to do for his wife and children.
He swallowed down the bitter taste of regret, the sour taste of guilt.
There was nothing he could have done.
He’d been told that dozens of times by dozens of well-meaning people. Even if he’d been in the driver’s seat when the semitruck had crossed the center lane, he couldn’t have changed the outcome. He’d lived because he was young and healthy. Lila had been seven months pregnant. The injuries that he’d survived probably would have killed her. They definitely would have killed the babies.
He knew the facts, but they didn’t change anything. They didn’t take away the feeling of helpless rage when he woke up from the nightmares—headlights and brakes squealing and Lila’s scream.
The last sound she’d ever make.
He slammed his hand on the elevator button, stepping inside and waiting impatiently for it to carry him up to the sixth floor. Boone and Chance were sitting in on the interview with Zane. His nephew. The more he saw the kid, the more obvious the resemblance to Josh was. He couldn’t dismiss it. Nor could he convince himself that Carly was lying. He wasn’t sure why she hadn’t bothered contacting his family before. Maybe she’d believed whatever lies Josh had told her—and there was no doubt he’d told her plenty. Josh had been great at pretending. He’d even had Dallas fooled for a while.
None of that mattered, though. Zane was family, and that mattered way more than decade-old hurts.
Faith first. Family second.
That was his parents’ mantra. It was why they’d put up with Josh for so many years, why they’d stuck by him through two stints in rehab. Why they would have forgiven him if he’d ever apologized for stealing their money and Mom’s jewelry, for breaking their trust. Again and again and again.
But he’d never apologized, because he’d never thought he was wrong. In his opinion, the world owed him for the mess he’d been born into, and he’d made sure that his adoptive parents paid the debt. He’d stolen a car, taken valuables and money, and finally disappeared for good. No note to say where he’d gone. No phone call to let them know he was okay. He’d just walked off and never returned. When they’d finally found him, he’d made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with the family. He’d obviously meant it.
Josh had never told their parents that he’d married. Dallas had been the one to let them know. Their mother had cried. He’d never given them the joy of knowing they would have a grandson, either. He’d taken everything they’d been willing to give and with
held the one thing they’d wanted—his love.
Dallas had tried to make up for it, but love unreturned was as painful as love dying.
The elevator doors opened, and Dallas stalked out, tired, frustrated, angry.
The day had taken a much darker turn than he’d expected. And now he was thinking about things better forgotten.
He’d loved Josh once upon a time. He’d been the older brother, the protector, the one who could make things better. They’d lived in a meth house until Dallas was nine, watching adults smoke and shoot up and sniff and pass out. There’d never been enough food, enough heat, enough clothes. He’d learned to cook eggs and to steal milk. He’d figured out how to open canned soup and heat it on the stove. He’d learned to read so that he could teach his brother. He’d been the one to give baths, help with homework, tie shoes, get Josh up for school, and he’d done it all while their mother slept off her latest bender or entertained her newest guy friend.
When they’d entered foster care, it had been a respite from the stress of too much responsibility at too young an age, but that had been tough, too. Good foster parents followed by not-so-good ones. One couple made them sleep on wood pallets in the basement.
In the end, the state had placed them with the Morgans. Life had gotten much better. Dallas had taken advantage of the opportunities he’d been given. Josh had taken the path of least resistance, going in the same direction their mother had.
Drugs. Stealing. Drinking.
He’d broken their new parents’ hearts so many times those first few months, Dallas had been certain the placement would be dissolved. Instead, the Morgans had adopted them, given everything they could to be the best parents they could.
Faith first. Family second. Without any expectations. Without any need for thanks.
Dallas had learned a lot from their example. He was still learning. If the twins had lived...
He shut the thought down. Shut out the past.
Dwelling there didn’t lead to a good night’s sleep.
The conference room was just ahead, and Boone was leaning against the wall beside the door, munching what looked like a sugar cookie. “Hungry?” he asked as Dallas approached.
“No.”
“You look hungry.” He held out the package of cookies. “I got these from a vending machine.”
“Like I said, I’m not hungry.”
“You’re mad. What’s got you riled up? The situation or the fact that you had no idea you had a nephew until this morning?”
“All of the above. Are they done in there?”
“No. Been asking that little boy questions for over an hour, filling him up with cookies and soda and pizza, not letting him go home. That got me riled, and I finally decided to step out and take a break before I said something Chance might regret.” He finished off the cookie, brushed crumbs from his hands and popped another one in his mouth.
“You’re not worried about regretting it yourself?”
Boone raised a dark red brow. “We’ve known each other for a long time. Have you ever known me to say something I regretted?”
“I guess I haven’t.”
“Exactly. I say what I mean, and I don’t back down from the consequences. I’ve got kids, Dallas, and I keep thinking about how I’d feel if that was one of mine sitting in there, but Chance told me to keep a low profile. He doesn’t want to be stonewalled by the investigating officers, and he’s feeling like that could happen if we make any missteps.”
“He’s got a point, like always, but I think he’s lost sight of the big picture. We can investigate, and we can keep Carly and her family safe. We don’t need the DC police to do that for us. I’m surprised Carly is allowing things to go on this long.”
“She tried to stop them forty minutes ago, thirty minutes ago, twenty minutes ago, but they’re bulldozing her, reminding her over and over again that she has to cooperate if she wants to keep her son safe.”
“And Chance is allowing that?”
“He stepped out to make a few phone calls. He doesn’t want Carly and Zane to go back to their place, and he’s trying to set up a safe location before he gets them out of here.”
“That’s nice,” Dallas said, all the irritation he’d been feeling, all the anger, still simmering. Only now he had a place to direct it. “But you’ve known me a long time, Boone,” he said, and Boone grinned.
“That’s true.”
“And in all the time you’ve known me, have you ever known me to worry about saying something Chance would regret?”
“I don’t believe I have.”
“And have you ever known me to worry about stepping on the toes of the local authorities?”
“Can’t say I’ve known you to do that, either.”
“Chance told you to keep a low profile. He didn’t say a word to me. I’m loyal to the team, and I play by the rules. As long as the other team does the same.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Boone finished off a cookie, neatly folded the package to close it up again and put it back in his pocket. “Come on. Let’s do this thing.”
Dallas’s thoughts exactly.
He opened the conference room door and did exactly what had to be done.
EIGHT
Three in the morning was as good a time as any to think things through, and Carly was thinking about a lot of things.
For example: when a person had been living on her own terms for most of her life, a week was a long time to live on someone else’s. A week was also a long time to wait for a best friend to wake up from a coma. It was a long time to keep a son home from school.
A week, which usually flew by, was a long time when most of your life was on hold.
And hers was, because she’d agreed to move into Dallas’s house, share a room with her son, let a group of people she didn’t know take charge of her life. She’d asked for help, and she’d gotten it. Not just from Dallas. Several members of HEART were staying at the house and offering round-the-clock protection. They told her where she could go and when. They decided who would escort her. For Zane’s sake, she’d been doing everything they asked.
Anything to keep him safe.
She sighed, pushing aside the covers and easing out of bed. The floor creaked as she walked across the room and checked on Zane. He was sleeping soundly. Just like always. It would take more than her opening the door for him to rouse, but she moved quietly anyway, shuffling across the room and putting her hand on the old glass doorknob. She stood there for a moment, listening to the old house settling, the walls sighing. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have believed the house was empty.
But, of course, she did know.
Aside from Dallas, two HEART operatives were there. If they were following the pattern they had every other night, one of them was sitting in the living room watching live feed from exterior security cameras. The other was on the couch nearby, sleeping or reading or doing whatever security specialists did when they weren’t watching monitors. Dallas was in his room. Straight across the hall. If she opened her door, she’d see his.
She knew that just like she knew what he looked like first thing in the morning when his eyes were still red-rimmed from sleep. She knew how he looked with a coffee mug in his hand and with his hair mussed from his evening run. She knew the sound of his voice, his laughter, his deep-throated bellow when he was playing David and Goliath with Zane.
She knew him, and she was pretty certain he knew her. They’d spent nearly every waking hour together this past week. Her personal bodyguard was what he called himself.
She called him a complication that she didn’t need and a craving that she couldn’t seem to ignore. Every morning, she decided that she would ask someone else to accompany her to work. Every evening, she promised herself that she’d be in her room before h
e came back from his run. Neither of those things ever happened. Her fault. Not his. He wasn’t putting any pressure on her, wasn’t demanding anything except that she follow the rules. She could have insisted that they not spend so much time together. She hadn’t, because she hadn’t wanted to.
She frowned, easing the door open and stepping into the hall. Dallas’s door was closed, no light seeping out from under it. If she was quiet enough, she might be able to slip past without waking him. She turned toward the back of the house, heading for an old servant’s staircase that led into the kitchen. Chance and Jackson Miller were on duty tonight, and she wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Hopefully, she could avoid them, too.
“Going somewhere?” Dallas asked, his voice a low rumble in the dark hall.
She swung around, realized he was standing just inches away. “You’re awake.”
“So are you,” he pointed out.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Must be an epidemic,” he replied, his voice gruff and raspy.
She tried to see him through the darkness, but he was nothing but a shadowy blur. “I know why I’m awake. What’s keeping you up?”
“Do you want the easy answer or the hard one?”
“Which do you want to give?” she asked, her hand moving of its own accord, settling on his shoulder. Just that touch connected them, but she felt every breath he took, felt the tension in his muscles.
“You never asked me why I sent a card instead of attending Josh’s funeral,” he responded.
“You were estranged.”
“Not enough to keep me from attending.”
“Okay. I’ll bite. Why weren’t you there?”
“I was in the hospital recovering from the accident that killed my wife. She was seven months pregnant with twins that were due on Christmas Eve. They were killed, too.”
“Dallas—” She had no idea what she planned to say. She couldn’t think of one word that would make any kind of difference.
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