But not before noticing there wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
“So,” Davey said, “are we just gonna cry all day or are we gonna eat some cake?”
Two hours later, with Ryker hooked up to his new phone and Travis promising to pay the bill as long as Ryker was in school, Travis took Heather’s hand and they slipped outside to the warmth of the barn.
The moment they stepped inside, Travis shut the door, pulled her close, and kissed her. He put everything he felt for her into that kiss, and by the end, all he could manage to say was, “I love you, Heather.”
He heard her swallow. “I love you too, Travis.”
He hugged her once more, then let her go. “We can go back to the party now. I just wanted to kiss you.”
She bit her lip. “Travis, I . . .”
His brows creased. “What is it?”
“It’s not anything you don’t already know, but I come with a lot of baggage. I still wake up screaming some nights. Far less than I used to, but . . .” She pursed her lips. “I’m stubborn and like to be in control and I still don’t ask for help very easily.”
“And I’m . . . hmm . . . I’m easygoing, never lose my temper, and am an all-around perfect guy.” He paused while Heather’s jaw dropped. “Oh, wait,” he said, then stopped. “Never mind, that’s all I can think of.”
Heather blinked. Then laughed. That deep belly laugh he’d heard only once in all the time he’d known her. The fact that he’d been the one to bring that laughter to the surface warmed him all the way to his toes. Tears leaked from her eyes and she shook her head. “Oh, Travis, you’re so very good for me. And to me.”
“Does that mean you’ll let me stick around for a while?”
She smiled and more tears gathered even though she didn’t let them fall. “I think that can be arranged.”
He kissed her again, long and slow and sweet. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that,” he whispered. He knew he wouldn’t.
“Then you’re in good company.”
More laughter. One more thing about her he’d never get tired of.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” she said, “but you’ve got to promise you won’t let on that you know.”
“A secret about what?”
“Asher and Brooke.”
He raised a brow. “What about them?”
“They’re pregnant.”
“What?” His shout sent her into a fit of giggles.
“I caught Brooke puking in the bathroom the other day and flat-out asked her, but she wants to wait a little longer to tell everyone.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s not very far along,” Heather said, “and I suppose she wants to make sure everything’s okay. But she said I could tell you since she knows I can’t keep secrets from you.”
His heart puddled into the soles of his shoes. He was completely besotted with this woman. “Thank you for telling me. It’ll be hard, but I won’t say anything, I promise.”
“We’d better go see if there’s any cake left. I’m afraid Davey’s going to have quite the tummy ache tonight.”
“I think he was on his fourth piece when we left.”
“Fortunately, I know someone who can help him out with some prescription meds if he needs them,” Heather said.
He wasn’t ready to let her go just yet—or share her with other people—but he figured it was probably a good idea, considering he’d like to simply sweep her up and hurry her off to the nearest reverend and be done with it. But he’d wait. She was worth waiting for.
He opened the barn door for her and cold air gushed in, but Travis didn’t feel it. With the warmth of Heather’s love and the promise of a future with her filling him, he sent up prayers of thanks and wrapped his arm around the shoulders of the woman he loved as they headed back to the house. Together.
CHAPTER
ONE
THURSDAY AFTERNOON IN MAY
Today, the watching ended and the killing started.
Anticipation arched through him. The man in the ski mask turned his gaze from the front door of the luxury home to the end of the street. For ten days, he’d hidden and observed—and learned—the routine of the household and even the neighborhood.
Right on time, the mail truck turned onto the street and began its stop, deliver, go. Stop, deliver, go.
As soon as the vehicle moved on to the next house, the man’s gaze swung to the front door once more. And there she was. In her midfifties, the woman of the house took care of herself. She ate healthy with the occasional sweet indulgence, and she jogged two miles every morning. On Wednesdays, she volunteered at her grandchildren’s elementary school.
He could have snatched her off the street during one of her runs, but he couldn’t take the chance that a doorbell camera would catch him. No, this was better. They had an alarm system, but no cameras.
She slipped out onto the porch, down the walkway, and to the mailbox. For the past two weeks, she’d done the same thing every day at approximately the same time. Other than the Wednesday break in routine, it was like she had nothing else to do but work out at the gym, jog the route in her neighborhood, and wait for the mail. What a sad, sorry life. But that wasn’t his problem.
Just off the wraparound porch, the seven-foot fir tree to the left of the door hid him well. His heart thudded, but he’d prepared himself for the adrenaline rush. His right hand curled around the grip of his weapon. The suppressor added weight to the gun, but he hardly noticed it. He’d had fifteen years of preparation and training, research and planning.
She was on the first step, then the second, then walking to the door.
As she twisted the knob, he stepped from behind the tree and clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. A muted scream escaped her, and he brought the weapon up to the base of her skull. Whimpers escaped through his fingers. She shook so hard, he thought he might lose his grip.
He shoved her through the door and kicked it closed behind him. “Where’s your husband?”
He kept his voice low. A sob ripped from throat and harsh breaths gushed from her nose. He released his grip so she could answer.
“He’s not here.”
“He is, because I know you’re supposed to be leaving in an hour for your holiday in Turks and Caicos. The suitcases next to the door tell me he’s getting ready to load the car. So, if you want to live to enjoy your trip, you’ll get him in here.”
“He’s—”
“Darling?” The voice came from the balcony overlooking the foyer. “I’m almost ready. Was there any mail? I’m expecting—” He stopped, gasped. His hands gripped the railing and his gaze met the man’s. “What do you want?”
A smile curved beneath his mask. “Hello, Maksim. Come on down.”
“Don’t hurt her.” The husky baritone held fear—and . . . something else. Resignation?
“Well, now, that depends on you, doesn’t it?”
“I’m coming.” The man hurried down the winding staircase, stopping at the bottom. “Please. Let her go. I’ll do whatever you want. Do you need money? I have ten grand in the safe.”
Money? He almost snorted. Money was the last thing he needed. He kept the weapon on the woman’s head. “Turn slowly,” he told her without taking his eyes from her husband, “and reach into my left-hand pocket. Pull out the object.” She didn’t move and he narrowed his gaze on the man at the bottom of the steps. “You might want to convince her to do as I ask.”
“Darling, do as he says, and it will be all right.”
The woman whimpered and turned, her eyes downcast. She reached for his right pocket.
“My left,” he snapped.
She jerked her hand away, then slid it into the left pocket of his blazer.
“Good. Pull out the photo.” With shaking fingers, she did so. He nodded to the husband. “Come get it.”
Maksim’s brows dipped farther over the bridge of his nose, but he did as ordered without having to be told twice. When he held the pictu
re between his thumb and forefinger, he looked at it—and swayed. “I see.”
“I’m sure you’re starting to.”
“Max? Make him let me go.” The woman whimpered and the intruder tightened his grip.
“Who are you?” Maksim whispered.
“I think you know that answer.”
What little color the man had in his face drained away as his suspicions were confirmed. “You’re Nicholai, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“How did you find me?”
“It’s a long story. And not one I have time to tell. I have one question and if you know the answer, you will live.”
Maksim’s eyes lifted to meet his. “Let me guess, you want to know who the man is.”
“No. I know who he is. I want to know who the child is.”
The woman had gone completely still, with only an occasional tremor shuddering through her.
Maksim stood still, studying the picture. When he looked up, fear was written in his blue eyes. “Why?”
“It doesn’t matter why,” Nicolai snapped. “Who is it?” He dug the suppressor harder into the woman’s head. She shrieked, the sound grating against his eardrums.
Maksim stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Please!”
“Who. Is. The. Child?” Nicolai asked, his voice low. Calm. Controlled. “Don’t make me ask again.”
“His daughter.”
A daughter.
A thrill like nothing he’d ever experienced lit up everything inside him. His enemy had a daughter.
“Well, well,” he murmured.
His original plan immediately shifted. He had a lot of thinking to do, but he’d stick with it for now. It was the end that would change.
The daughter would be the last to die.
Nicolai fired his gun and the woman slumped. She was dead before she hit the ground.
The husband screamed. “You promised!”
“Exactly. I made a promise and now, I’m keeping it.” He aimed the weapon at the man.
“How did you find me?”
“Some people just can’t throw anything away.”
Maksim swallowed. “The files?”
“The files. Now, it’s just you and me. We have a lot to talk about before you die.”
“A death that will be slow, no doubt?”
“The slowest.”
Maksim bolted into the hallway. Nicolai blinked. Okay, he hadn’t expected that, but he knew this house as well as its owners, thanks to the blueprints he’d acquired. He followed his target to the closed office door. Maksim might try to call for help, but no calls would go through. Nicolai had made sure of that.
He didn’t bother trying the knob, but simply lifted his foot and kicked the door in on the first attempt.
Maksim sat behind his desk, pistol to his chin, blue eyes teary. Determined.
“No! Don’t you dare!”
Maksim never blinked. He pulled the trigger. A red mist coated the window behind him. Nicolai screamed his fury before he grabbed the nearest bookcase and shoved it to the floor. Then the next and the next and the next. Until he slumped to the floor amidst the chaos to catch his breath and reconfigure the plan.
TEN DAYS LATER
SATURDAY MORNING
FBI Special Agent Caden Denning stood outside the upper-middle-class home with his phone pressed to his ear. “There’s a security system, Annie. This is a very nice neighborhood with a lot of cameras, but first see if you can get anything on the home system.” Annie’s skills at the Bureau were legendary. Hacking into an alarm system that recorded footage would be child’s play for her, and time was at a premium. “Officers are going house to house asking for footage,” he said, “but I want inside the home cameras now. I don’t want to have to wait for the powers that be to give it to me.”
“Of course,” she said. “And I know it’s early and missing a lot of data since you haven’t even seen the crime scene yet, but I’ll run this murder through ViCap and see if it matches any other murders of entire families. Depending on what shows up, we can add the other information as we get it.”
“Perfect.”
Caden shoved his phone into his pocket, pulled the little blue booties over his shoes, and signed the crime scene log an officer held just as a black Jeep Wrangler pulled to the curb. His partner, Zane Deveraux, joined him on the porch, coughing into a tissue. The man’s nose was red, his lips chapped, his hazel eyes bloodshot with dark circles beneath them. Morning stubble graced his face and his dark hair looked finger combed.
“Dude, are you on some undercover assignment I don’t know about?” Caden asked him. “That’s one heck of a disguise.”
“I wish. I think I’m officially sick.”
“Sorry, man. I can take this if you need to go home.”
“I’ll be fine, just don’t get too close.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.” The last thing he needed was a cold—or whatever affliction the man had.
The foyer inside the home held a set of stairs to the second floor. From his position in front of the door, Caden could see straight ahead into the den. The living room was to the left, the dining room to the right. Even though he couldn’t see it at the moment, he knew the kitchen with a large island was connected to the dining room. “Who found them?” Caden asked.
The officer looked up from the log. “The neighbor. She and the wife—”
“Angelica,” Caden said, his voice low.
“Right. Angelica. They go walking every Saturday morning. When the woman—Angelica—didn’t show up at their usual meeting spot on the curb, the neighbor came looking for her. The front door was open, so she walked in.”
Caden groaned. “Walked in to see—”
“Yeah.” The officer nodded. “She ran screaming to her husband who called us. Paramedics almost had to sedate her she was so hysterical. They finally got her calmed down.”
“That poor woman.”
Bracing himself, Caden forced his covered feet forward and entered the den. He spotted the victims and let his chin drop to his chest while grief slammed into him.
Zane blew out a harsh sigh, coughed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, man.”
When Caden had heard the last name and saw that the father was military . . . For a brief moment, he’d hoped it wasn’t his friends. Then he’d been given the address and all hope fled. He squeezed his eyes tight. He didn’t want to see this.
“You want to take a pass on this one?” Zane asked.
“No.” Caden opened his eyes and studied the family huddled together on the couch. “Staff Sergeant Michael Fields, his wife, Angelica, and their two youngest children, Brian and Ellen, ages eight and ten.” Each had one bullet to the forehead. The nausea swept through him and he fought the swirling grief to focus on the building rage. He could manage the anger. “Where’s Mickey?”
“Who?”
“Their oldest son. He’s fourteen or fifteen, I think. He’s named after his father, but everyone calls him Mickey.”
“I’ll get someone looking for him.” Zane turned to the nearest officer and requested he ask the neighbor about the teen.
“I go—went—to church with them,” Caden said. “Brian sat on my lap last Sunday during the children’s sermon.” He swallowed hard, forcing the memories to the back. “Who would do this?” he asked, not expecting an answer.
“Robbery doesn’t appear to be a motive,” Zane said. He nodded to the elaborate media system nestled into the wall unit. “That would bring in a lot of cash.”
“So, why?” Caden muttered. Another rhetorical question. Until they took apart this family’s lives, they wouldn’t speculate.
Zane continued to frown and turned his eyes from the scene. “Adults are bad enough, but kids . . . they get to me. I’m going to be seeing them in my nightmares for months.”
“I know. Same here.” It would probably be more like years.
Caden’s phone rang. Annie. He swiped the
screen. “That was fast.”
“I had an almost immediate hit in ViCap. There are two other murders that I can say initially match yours.”
“Tell me.”
“In both families, each person was murdered with one gunshot to the head. They were all seated on the sofa, kind of huddled together. Scenes were middle- to upper-middle-class neighborhoods.”
“Where?”
“First one was San Diego, California, last month. Second one almost two weeks ago in Houston, Texas. I’ve pulled the photos and other information from those two scenes and sent them to you. That’s all for—” A pause. “Hold on, Caden, we might have something more for you.”
We?
Within a minute, she came back. “Okay, Daria’s got more information for you.” Daria Nevsky, a new analyst with mad skills in all things technical. “And, as of twenty seconds ago, she’ll be your go-to on this one. Gary’s handed me something else to work on.” Gary Smith was her supervisor.
Caden went still. Daria had worked on other cases with him, but . . . “This is a big one, Annie. You think she can handle this?”
“Without question.”
Her complete lack of hesitation settled his momentary twinge of anxiety. “Fine.”
“Truly, Caden, she’s better than I am. I’m putting you through to her. Hold on.”
Better than Annie? Not likely.
The line clicked. “Caden?”
“Yeah.” Man, she sounded too young to be as good as Annie said. Not that age had anything to do with skills or being a good agent, but still . . .
“. . . has a camera in the den facing the sofa, so I’m sending the footage to your phone. You can watch it yourself.”
“Wait, you actually got something?”
“Yes. Our speech reader even got some of the words from Mr. Fields’s lips before, well . . . before.”
Before Michael had been shot. He just prayed he’d been the last one to die and the kids hadn’t seen—
“Caden . . . Caden?” Daria’s voice pulled him back.
He blinked the images away. For now. “I’m here.”
“Did you get the video?”
He checked his phone. “I did.” Along with everything Annie had sent him.
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