“Your dad is really good at what he does.”
“And I’m really good at knowing when someone doesn’t answer my question. I may be a teenager, but I’m not stupid.”
“I think your dad is okay,” she said, because she did.
But she’d seen Sullivan’s handiwork. She knew what he was capable of. If he had an opportunity to kill someone he thought had wronged him, he’d take it. And he was convinced that Justin had been a big part of his dishonorable discharge.
“For now?” Portia guessed.
“We’re going to capture Boyd Sullivan, and once he’s in jail, everyone will be safe.”
“And until he’s in jail, no one will be.”
“You’re a smart young woman, Portia. What are you planning to do when you graduate high school? College?”
“That wasn’t a subtle change of subject,” Portia muttered.
“No. It wasn’t, but there’s not much I can say that wouldn’t be a lie, and I don’t lie.”
“So, you’re admitting my father isn’t safe?”
“I’m admitting that Boyd Sullivan is dangerous. But you knew that when you were blogging about him. You did it, anyway.”
“Anonymously.”
“It’s very difficult to stay anonymous forever. I’m sure you knew that when you started the blog.”
Portia blushed. “I know it was stupid. I said I was sorry. If I could change it, I would.”
“I didn’t say that to make you feel bad, Portia. I said it because you decided that the blog was more important than the risks associated with it. Your father is the same. He knows the risks of his job. Every day when he goes to work, he weighs that against the importance of what he’s doing. And every day he decides that what he’s doing matters enough to take the risk.”
“That’s a good way to put it,” said a deep male voice, breaking into their quiet conversation.
Gretchen turned and glanced at the open door.
Justin was standing at the threshold, Quinn sitting calmly beside him.
“Has the search ended?” she asked, hoping that he’d say it had and that Boyd was in custody.
“No. We’ve still got teams on the ground, but I wanted to see how you and Portia were doing.” He crossed the room and took a seat in a chair next to Portia. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asked his daughter.
“I’m not the one who got shot,” she responded, her gaze skittering away from Justin. She seemed intent on looking at the floor, the ceiling, the walls. Anywhere but at her father.
“A person can be physically fine and mentally struggling,” he responded.
“I’m fine. Mentally and physically,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at her feet. All the worry she’d had for her father, all her concern about him coming up against Sullivan, was hidden beneath a facade of teenage indifference.
Justin seemed to take it in stride.
He patted Portia’s shoulder and turned his attention to Gretchen. “How about you, Captain?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be better once the doctor gets in here and stitches me up. The sooner I can get back on Sullivan’s trail, the happier I’ll be,” she answered, looking straight into his eyes the way she had dozens of times during their months working together.
This time shouldn’t have been any different.
He was the same guy she’d met a few months ago. The captain who’d showed her around, who’d introduced her to the other MPs, who’d welcomed her to the team. At the time, she’d been aware of his height and strength, of his confidence and his excellent communication skills. The people he worked with had seemed to respect and like him, and she’d noticed that, too.
She hadn’t noticed how blue his eyes were. She hadn’t paid attention to the smile lines at the corners of his mouth or the thickness of his lashes. He was a coworker, a mentor, a guy she’d know for a while and then walk away from. She’d had no interest beyond that.
But right now, she was noticing his eyes. His lashes. The faint smile lines. She was thinking about how concerned he looked and how intent. Not just focused on the job, but on her well-being.
She stood abruptly, swaying a little as the blood flowed out of her head.
“Whoa! Careful,” Justin said, holding her arm while she regained her balance. “You don’t want to fall and knock yourself.”
“What I want is the twenty-five stitches the doctor promised me,” she muttered, avoiding his eyes, because she was done noticing how striking they were in his tan face.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever known who was eager to have a needle poked through her arm,” he said as she walked to the door.
“I’m eager to get back to work.” And away from him, because noticing anything aside from Justin’s work ethic seemed wrong. They were coworkers who were becoming friends, but that was it. For now and forever.
“You don’t really think you’re going straight back to work, do you?” he asked, and she knew he was watching her. She could feel the weight of his gaze, but she didn’t turn around. She didn’t meet his eyes. She took the cowardly way out and stared into the hall.
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t. Someone has to write up tonight’s report.”
“I can do that. I think the best thing for you to do is take some time off. Maybe a week or two.”
Surprised, she swung around, realized he’d moved closer. She was tall, but she still had to look up to meet his eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Why would I be?”
“This is barely an injury, Captain.” She raised her arm, ignoring the fact that the gauze was stained with blood.
“It looks like one to me. I may not be your commanding officer, but I do send him weekly reports. I’m sure he’ll agree that time off is a good thing.”
“I only have four weeks left on base. I still have a lot to learn, and I’m not going to do that if I’m stuck at home for half the time.”
“I wasn’t thinking you’d be at home.” He glanced at Portia. “I’ve already asked my commanding officer to arrange for Portia to go to a safe house.”
“No way!” Portia jumped up, her hair flying around her face, her eyes dark with anger. “I’m not going.”
“You’re not going to have a choice,” Justin said calmly. “Sullivan wants me dead, and you’re the perfect way for him to get to me. Now that he knows it, he’s not going to stop going after you.”
“I’m sixteen. I should have some say in what happens to me.”
“You can choose how you want your hair cut and what you want to eat, but you’re not going to choose whether or not to stay on base when a serial killer is after you,” he responded firmly. No anger. No frustration. Just a statement of fact.
Portia looked like she wanted to argue, but Justin had turned his attention back to Gretchen. “Since we’re setting that up, I thought it would be a good place for you to stay while you’re healing.”
“Let me make sure I have this right,” she said, finally understanding. “You want me to go to a safe house until Sullivan is caught?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“And you’re not saying it’s not the truth.”
“You could have died tonight,” he said quietly, glancing at Portia.
“You aren’t the only one who weighs the risk and then reports to work every day, Captain. I didn’t become an MP to stand down when there’s danger.”
“I’m not asking you to do that.”
“Sure you are, and I’m not sure why. Is it because I’m a woman?” she asked, because there had been men who’d thought her gender made her weaker and less capable.
She wouldn’t have expected it from Justin. She’d never seen any hints of gender bias, but it was possible he’d learned to hide it during his years in the military.
“No,” he responded. Flatly. Bluntly.
“Then what is it?”
He glanced at Portia again. “Not something I want to discuss right now.”
“Then how about we discuss it after you transport your daughter to the safe house?”
“We’ll transport her together. We can discuss the rest later,” he responded, stepping to the side as the doctor finally arrived.
Gretchen was tense now, her muscles taut, and when the doctor began stitching her, the needle hurt more than it probably would have if she’d been relaxed. She’d never minded stitches, and she’d never been overly sensitive to pain, but she felt woozy, her ears buzzing as the doctor worked.
She’d lost a lot of blood.
That was for sure, but there was no way she was taking the time off that Justin had suggested.
She wasn’t hiding in a safe house, either.
She’d come to Texas to be a member of Canyon Air Force Base Security Forces. That meant keeping the men and women who worked and lived on base safe. No one would be safe as long as Sullivan was free.
She had four weeks to continue her training.
Four weeks to help Justin find the serial killer who’d made the base his hunting ground.
Four weeks to make sure that Sullivan didn’t strike again.
She could only pray it would be enough time, because she wanted to be there when Boyd was captured. She wanted to watch as he was handcuffed and led away. When she returned to Minot, she wanted to know that Justin, Portia and all the people she’d met and worked with could go on with their lives, free from the fear that had been dogging them since Sullivan escaped from prison.
FIVE
Portia wasn’t happy.
Justin didn’t have to know much about teenage girls to know that. She sat silently in the back seat of Linc’s SUV as he drove to Security Forces HQ, her eyes closed, head back, ignoring everything and everyone.
He could see her in the rearview mirror—angry and withdrawn. He was tempted to try to explain how important she was to him, how worried he was about her. But he’d done that before, outlining the situation from his perspective in an attempt to convince her that he was more concerned than angry after he’d found out she was the anonymous blogger.
She’d listened, but he doubted she’d believed him.
They had enough history together to understand a little about each other, but not enough to have an unspoken understanding about their relationship. He was her father, but he was certain she saw him more as a stranger. He wasn’t someone Portia could turn to when she was upset. He wanted to be. He’d tried to be. But trust had to be earned, and all he seemed to be earning was her contempt.
He’d had no idea being the parent of a teenager was this complicated. If he’d had, he’d have thanked Melanie more than a few times a year for being such a great mother to their daughter.
He frowned, glancing in the rearview mirror again. He owed it to Melanie, to Portia and to himself to keep reaching out, to keep trying, to keep being there. Even when Portia didn’t seem to want him to be.
“I know you’re upset, Portia,” he began.
Her eyes flew open, and she met his gaze.
“That’s an understatement,” she responded, turning to look out the window.
“I’m sorry. I understand that you don’t want to go to a safe house, but your well-being is my top priority. I’ve already tried hiring bodyguards and keeping you on base. That didn’t work. Now we’ve got to take more drastic measures.”
“You have to take more drastic measures,” she corrected. “I have nothing to do with that decision.”
“You’re sixteen, Portia. There are a lot of things you don’t understand.”
“At sixteen, I could be legally emancipated and living on my own,” she retorted, her tone a little flip and a little haughty.
He tamped down irritation, trying to get to the heart of the matter rather than the emotions of it. “Reminding you that you’re sixteen and that there are a lot of things you don’t understand wasn’t meant to be an insult.”
“I didn’t take it as one,” she said.
“But you did mention becoming an emancipated minor,” Gretchen cut into the conversation, shifting in the front passenger seat so she was facing the teen. “Is that something you’ve been considering?”
“No,” Portia muttered. “My best friend suggested it. She thought I could become emancipated and come back to Michigan and live with her family until I graduate.”
“Addie Windsor?” Justin asked, telling himself that it didn’t bother him that she’d been looking for ways to get out of living with him.
She was a kid.
She’d had friends and a school and activities back in Michigan.
When Melanie died, she hadn’t just lost her mother. She’d lost everything.
“It isn’t about not wanting to live with you, Dad,” Portia said quickly. She might be teenager with all the attitude that went with it, but she had a heart of gold. “It’s about not wanting to be away from home.”
“I understand,” he said, because he did. The day Portia entered kindergarten, Melanie had purchased a craftsman-style home in the little town where she and Justin had grown up. He’d helped her with the down payment, and he’d requested a few days of leave to help her move in. That was the only home Portia remembered. All her memories of her childhood, her mother, her friends were there.
“Like my room. Mom let me decorate it myself last year. She let me pick out the paint color and new bedding,” Portia continued, the words spilling out quickly as if she’d been holding them in for too long and finally had to release them.
“I remember,” he said. He’d sent Melanie extra money to help with the cost of redecorating. She’d texted photos of the finished room with Portia and her friends sitting on the bed, beaming at the camera. He’d had no idea when he’d opened the text and seen the photos that Melanie would be gone within the month.
“Addie and Jordan came over to spend the night after it was done, and we made a dream board that showed what we wanted to accomplish during our last two years of high school,” she said with a quiet sigh.
“A dream board?” Gretchen asked. “Did you bring it with you? I’d love to see what you and your friends came up with.”
“I tossed it in the trash,” Portia muttered. “Three of the things were about me and Mom going places. We had a trip to the Grand Canyon planned for my senior year. And we were going to visit five colleges this year. She was excited because—” She stopped abruptly.
“She told me you were thinking about attending Michigan State. Just like she had. She was really proud of you, Portia.”
Portia didn’t respond.
Which was pretty much how things always went when he mentioned Melanie.
The silence stretched out for a few moments too long, and Gretchen shifted again, her injured arm bumping Justin’s shoulder. “You said there were three things that you and your mother were supposed to do together,” he said. “What was the third?”
“Buy my prom dress. Mom was really excited about that. I didn’t even have a boyfriend, but she said going with friends would be even more fun. She never got to go to prom, because she was pregnant with me. I guess she wanted to have the experience.” Her voice broke.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Gretchen said. “I know how much it hurts to lose someone you love.”
“Did you lose your mom?”
“No. My fiancé. Three weeks before our wedding.”
Surprised, Justin glanced her way, trying to see her expression through the dark interior of the vehicle.
“Wow,” Portia said. “I’m so sorry.”
“So am I,” Justin added. He’d never been engaged. Except for the first few days after Melanie had discovered she was pregnant, marriage had never been on his radar. He dated,
but he kept things light. Dinner. A movie. He’d made it clear to any woman he’d been out with that he didn’t want more. Not because he didn’t sometimes think about having someone to go home to. But because his father had been an abusive alcoholic. Justin had memories of his mother being beaten black-and-blue. She’d left when he was ten, abandoning him to his father’s rage. Sometimes, he could understand that. Sometimes, he couldn’t. Either way, he hadn’t had good examples of love when he was growing up, and he’d had no desire to see if he’d do any better.
Until the choice had been taken from him, he hadn’t wanted to be the custodial parent to his daughter. He’d been afraid of what he might do, of the things he might say. He’d worried that he’d open his mouth and speak the words his father had, that he’d tear down rather than build up. That he’d create the same unforgiving and hate-filled environment he’d grown up in.
Somehow, though, that hadn’t happened.
Portia had been living with him for over a year. He’d had plenty of opportunity to lose his cool and act like a raging lunatic. He hadn’t. So, maybe nurture wasn’t the only thing that shaped a person. Maybe faith and commitment and compassion trumped learned behaviors.
“Yeah. It was rough,” Gretchen said, her voice soft and filled with emotion. “Henry and I had a whole life planned out. No dream boards, but I could picture it all in my head.”
“When did he die?” Portia asked, leaning forward, apparently eager to hear the story.
“Portia, Gretchen might not want to talk about it,” he cautioned, turning onto a side street that led to Security Forces headquarters. Portia would need to be interviewed by someone other than Justin. Once she’d given her statement, she’d be transported to a safe house, according to the base commander.
“I don’t mind talking about it,” Gretchen said, downplaying his concern. “Henry died four years ago. A little more than that actually. If things had gone the way I’d planned, I’d be retiring in six months, and Henry and I would be starting our family.” She sounded matter-of-fact, but he detected a hint of something in her voice. Longing for what she might have had. Sorrow for what she’d lost. He’d assumed she was a die-hard military officer, but maybe becoming an MP had been something to do while she waited to pursue other dreams.
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