by Karen Rose
Her cell phone buzzed, saving her from answering one way or the other. She winced when she saw her screen.
“What is it?” Gideon asked.
“A text from Irina. Asking if I’ve called my father yet.”
“Ah. I take it that you’ve been putting that off.”
Daisy laughed unhappily. “Oh, you could say that.”
“I understand his concern in this situation,” Gideon said carefully. “But I think I get your concern, too. He seems prone to take drastic action very quickly.”
Daisy frowned. “Don’t—” Don’t criticize him, she’d been about to say. But Gideon had it right.
“I’m sorry,” Gideon murmured. “I should have kept that opinion to myself.”
“No. It’s okay. Dad does make quick decisions. Most of them have been good ones because he’s smart and careful, but the ones that haven’t been? They really haven’t been.”
“Like whisking you all away to a ranch in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yeah. But . . .” She sighed. “My dad has reasons for his paranoia.” She swallowed hard, wanting to cry as she thought about those reasons. “Dad was in the military.”
“With Karl. Rafe told me.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m not sure if their experiences were the same. Dad was . . . changed.”
“PTSD?”
“Big time.” Prisoner-of-war-survivor PTSD. I’m so sorry, Dad. “I never knew, not until this past summer. I mean, I knew he’d been in the military, but not what happened to him there. Finding out was a big shock.” She shrugged. “He didn’t even tell me. He told Taylor and I overheard him. And I didn’t ask a lot of questions, because I was still upset that he’d had me followed. I’m still upset, but now I feel guilty about feeling that way. Which sounds crazy.”
“No, it doesn’t. You understand the ‘why,’ but that doesn’t make his behavior okay.”
“Exactly.” She studied his face, shadowed in the semidarkness of the garage. He no longer looked grimly competent. He looked . . . lost. “Why do I think you’re talking from experience?” she asked softly.
He blinked and the brusque Fed was back. “You should call your dad. Irina will just keep nagging you until you do.”
She unbuckled her seat belt. “I will. Let’s go in. Brutus will catch cold.”
SEVEN
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 10:40 A.M.
Gideon came to a dead stop in the living room of Daisy’s studio apartment. His old apartment. Which had looked normal then. Now it looked like a craft store had exploded.
Holy fucking shit, he thought as he slowly turned, trying to take it all in. Every wall surface was covered with paper. Bright colors were splashed everywhere, some in random bursts, others as part of murals, landscapes, or portraits of people. And dogs. Lots of dogs.
A spinning wheel occupied the corner where his TV had once sat. Four different easels held more paintings, all in various stages of completion. Bolts of fabric—all bright colors with shiny textures—leaned against the walls in the dining nook, where a sewing machine dominated half of the table. The other half held a . . . he wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but lopsided clay vases surrounded it. None finished.
He did another turn around the room. Nothing was finished. Not one single thing was finished. He turned to find Daisy scooping stacks of paper from the sofa. Her arms full, she slid open the coat closet’s door with her hip, set the papers on the floor, and closed the door.
But not before he saw all the sports equipment the closet held. Gideon saw a field hockey stick, a tennis racket, two soccer balls, and a pair of ice skates.
Daisy was now watching him with twitching lips. “Go ahead. You can say it.”
“I . . . I honestly don’t know where to begin.”
She laughed. “You should see all the stuff I took back to the store.”
He blinked at her. “Why?”
“Why did I take some of the stuff back?” She shrugged when he nodded. “Because it wasn’t as much fun as I thought it would be.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, crossing the room to one of the murals. It was a neighborhood, he realized. This neighborhood. He recognized the colorful homes and the businesses. Children played and people walked dogs along the streets. He could almost hear the shouts of laughter and the murmured hellos as people passed one another.
“Wow,” he said softly. “It’s . . . alive.”
“Thank you.” She came to stand beside him, staring at the mural fondly. “That’s one of my favorite ones. I did it right after I moved here. I was so happy because there was so much of everything. Colors and scents and activity. A sensory feast.”
The joy in the painting was unmistakable. “Because you’d come from isolation.”
“Yes. Well,” she amended, “not exactly. I’d just come from Europe and it was better than I’d always hoped. I could have stayed a lot longer.”
“If you hadn’t discovered your father was having you followed.”
“Right. It took the fun out of it. I was so angry with him.”
“Was he at least sorry?”
“Oh, of course. He felt really terrible. Like I said, my father is a good guy.” She sighed. “Who I need to call. Make yourself comfortable. But be aware, if I get cornered, I’m totally saying I’ve got a Fed on bodyguard detail.”
“That’s fine.” At least he hoped so. He hoped Mr. Dawson didn’t ask to speak to him because Gideon did not have a good opinion of the man based on what he’d heard to date.
He busied himself checking the security of her windows and doors while she put a kettle on the stove and dialed her father.
“Hi, Dad,” she said as she added kibble to Brutus’s bowl. The dog pranced up to the bowl and Daisy gave her fur a stroke with a hand that trembled.
Gideon tried not to eavesdrop, but the apartment was small and he had good hearing. Or maybe he was just looking out for her. She’d been upset enough, first by the attack and then that prick she had to work with.
She and her father exchanged a few pleasantries, Daisy’s stiff and awkward, but she seemed to relax when she asked about her sisters. Julie apparently had a boyfriend named Stan. Taylor was planning a wedding for the summer.
Gideon wondered which of Taylor’s fathers would be walking her down the aisle.
The kettle whistled and Daisy made two cups of tea. She handed him one of the mugs, grimacing as she asked her father about his latest cardiology appointment.
Her dread made a little more sense now.
“Well, that’s good to hear,” she said. “You’re taking all your meds, right?” Sitting on one of the kitchen island stools, she slumped, elbow on the table and forehead in her palm. “So, Dad, I need to tell you something and I need you not to freak out on me, okay?”
Something about seeing her looking so small had Gideon pulling up a stool next to her. Sitting down, he sipped at his tea and nudged her cup a little closer to her.
She looked up, surprised appreciation in her eyes. He gave her a tentative smile and a nod of what he hoped would be encouragement.
“First of all, I’m okay. But . . .” She proceeded to give him the bare facts of the attack, glossing over the voice mails and e-mails. She began massaging her temples, wincing in pain at whatever her father was saying.
Brutus padded over and, swatting Daisy’s ankle with a paw, barked once. Daisy picked her up, settling the dog on her lap. “Of course I reported it. I was at the police station all evening. Rafe’s on the case.” Her fingers dug into her temple. “No, I do not need you to put Jacob ‘on the job.’ I have personal protection.” Her eyes darted to Gideon’s face in a bit of a panic, and he nodded calmly even though inside he was hoping like crazy that her father didn’t ask to speak to him. Daisy had been tired and stressed before, but now she lo
oked defeated and that pissed him off. “He’s with the FBI. Special Agent Gideon Reynolds.”
She winced again then held out her phone to him. Sorry, she mouthed.
“It’s fine,” he said quietly. Squaring his shoulders, he put her phone to his ear. “Mr. Dawson, this is Special Agent Reynolds. How can I help you today?”
“Why is the FBI watching my daughter?” Dawson demanded, but his voice trembled.
Gideon felt a stirring of pity. The man’s hypercontrolling ways had created a lot of problems, but they spoke clearly of his love for his daughters. It had to be difficult for Dawson to hear what Daisy had been through in the last twenty-four hours. “I’m here in case her attacker makes another attempt.”
“Why do you think he’d do that? He was some random guy. She fought him off. Why would he try again?” There was desperation in the man’s tone but also an awareness that had Gideon paying more attention. Frederick Dawson might be overbearing and paranoid, but he was also very sharp.
“We don’t know what his motive was.”
“Don’t try to snow me, Agent Reynolds. The FBI doesn’t use its resources to guard every woman who gets attacked. What are you not telling me?”
Gideon sighed silently. The man was right. And I’d want to know in his place. “Daisy removed a piece of evidence from her attacker last night. There’s reason to believe that that evidence connects to a previous crime.”
Cuddling the dog under her chin, Daisy stared at him, eyes narrowing in interest as soon as he indirectly mentioned the locket.
Now I’ve done it. Although he’d been prepared to tell her at least a little about the locket. It only seemed fair.
“Which is why you’re with her now,” Dawson said. “How long will you be there?”
“At least a week.”
Dawson exhaled. “I see.” He was silent for a long minute. “I imagine I’m the last person she wants to see right now.”
Gideon met Daisy’s eyes directly when he answered, “I don’t know about that. I do think your calmness in this situation would go a long way in helping her stay calm. She’s had a traumatic experience and doesn’t need to be worrying about what you’ll do or that you’ll have a stress-induced heart attack.”
There was a long moment of silence. “I’d like your badge number,” Dawson said quietly. “I need to know you’re who you say you are.”
Gideon rattled it off. “My boss is Special Agent in Charge Molina. I’ve also known the Sokolovs for sixteen years. Please call them if you want a personal reference.”
“I’ll do that. May I give you my cell phone number and ask that you call me if anything happens to Daisy? I won’t interfere with her independence, but . . .” A shuddering sigh. “I’m still her father. I need to know she’s okay.”
“I promise.” He noted Dawson’s cell phone number when the older man rattled it off. “I’ll try to text you updates regularly. Here’s my number in case you need to reach me.” He gave Dawson his number. “She’s really all right, sir. She did all the right things last night. Said you taught her how. You’ve obviously taught her well.”
Daisy’s eyes went soft. Thank you, she mouthed.
You’re welcome, he mouthed back.
“That’s . . . good,” Dawson said hoarsely.
“You want to talk to her now?” Gideon asked him, trying to sound kind.
“No,” Dawson said. “Tell her to get some rest, but to call me later, it doesn’t matter what time it is here. I’ll have my phone by the bed. And tell her . . .” He cleared his throat. “Tell her I’m damn proud of her. And that I love her.”
“Will do. Do you have someone with you? I think she’ll feel better if she knows you’re not alone, because this is stressful. For both of you.”
“Tell her that Sally is here. She makes sure everything stays okay.”
“All right. Good-bye, sir.”
Gideon ended the call and gave the phone back to Daisy, who sat staring at him wide-eyed.
“Can I say I’m impressed?” she said with a smile. “You talked him right down from the ledge. Only Taylor’s able to calm him down that fast. He and I always butt heads.”
“He said to tell you that he’s proud of you.”
Daisy sucked in a startled breath, her eyes filling with tears. “He told you that?”
“Yes.” He fought the urge to touch her face. To wipe those tears away. “Also that he loves you. And that Sally’s with him, whoever that is.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “His girlfriend. Dammit, I’m not going to cry.”
Gideon snagged a napkin from the holder and handed it to her. “I see no tears. Just allergies.”
She snorted inelegantly. “Fine. We’ll go with that.” She slid off the stool and laid a hand on his. “Thank you. For being here and for taking care of my dad for me.”
Gideon stared down at her small hand resting on his. It felt nice. Too nice. He looked up and met her serious blue eyes, still a little damp. Neither of them said a word and the moment stretched out, thinning until it snapped and was over.
Gideon swallowed. “Go to sleep.” He cleared his throat because the words had come out raspy and rough. “But not too long. I need to see the place where that pet thing is going to be held tomorrow morning so that I can plan. We’ll drive over before it gets dark.”
She nodded once, removing her hand from his, leaving him feeling cold. “All right.”
He sat unmoving as she carried the dog to the back of the small apartment that served as a bedroom, then heard her say, “Shazam, Brutus.” But he had only seconds to wonder at her words before the shower turned on, making him visualize images that were entirely inappropriate.
Stop it, he commanded himself harshly, pushing away from the kitchen counter to pace. He was here to work. To protect her. Nothing else could happen. Still, he drew a grateful breath when the water shut off, leaving the apartment blissfully silent.
EAGLE, COLORADO
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 11:45 A.M.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked the woman sitting alone at the bar. Hank had accompanied their guests on the shuttle into Vail, which was about forty minutes away. They did this route often enough that they knew the limo and shuttle drivers.
Hank always volunteered to ride along with the shuttle here in Vail, claiming it was because the shuttle driver was too “little” to haul all those heavy bags.
He doubted it, though. He’d seen the way Hank looked at the woman, like she was a pork chop and Hank a starving man. Hank looked at all the female drivers that way.
He didn’t care if Hank was being unfaithful to Barb. It was sleazy, especially with Barb being pregnant, but a lot of men in their line of work had a woman in every port. What was important was that he had two hours to kill and he knew just what to do with them.
The woman at the bar looked up at him wearily. “Look, hon,” she said in a voice that dripped of magnolia and mint juleps. “I don’t want to be rude to you, but I’m having one helluva bad day. My ex-husband is being a jerk and I have cramps to boot. You’re welcome to sit here, but I’m not going to be good company and I don’t want to ruin your day, too.”
He found himself smiling at her, which was a little disappointing. If she’d been rude, she would have been perfect. But . . . he didn’t invite nice women home to his basement. “I hope you feel better. I’ve got ibuprofen if you need it.”
Miss Mint Julep smiled back. “That’s so sweet of you, but I’ve already taken some.” She lifted her glass, which appeared to be full of bourbon with a mint garnish. She was actually drinking a mint julep. “A few more of these and I won’t care about the cramps.” She pointed to the other end of the bar, where a younger woman sat putting on lipstick. “She might be more to your liking.”
Dropping her lipstick in her handbag, the woman in question sneered at both of th
em. “Like I’d ever,” she snapped and hopped off the stool. “I’ve got a plane to catch.”
“How rude,” Miss Mint Julep said with a frown.
“Indeed,” he murmured. Rude, thus perfect. She was wobbling on precariously high-heeled boots. “Looks like she’s had too much. I’m going to make sure she gets to her car.”
Miss Mint Julep smiled, popping her dimples. “Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?”
“I try, ma’am.” He followed Miss Rude from the bar, feeling for the sedative in his pocket. He liked this bar because it had really old cameras. And it didn’t matter anyway. He’d switched out his everyday wig for what he liked to call his “rock star” look. With a few facial prosthetics, his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him.
Miss Rude was staggering to her car, obviously tanked. He’d be doing the world a favor by getting her off the street. Hell, he could be saving lives, right now. He chuckled at that and jogged a little to catch up to her. “Miss?”
She spun on her high heels, teetering. He couldn’t have asked for a better setup.
“I said, fuck off,” she said, managing to be withering while incredibly intoxicated. She grew more perfect by the moment.
“No, you said ‘Like I’d ever.’ And that you had to catch a plane.”
She blinked. “What? Leave me alone.” She flicked her hand, as if he were a bug.
“Let me help you.” He stepped up, pulled the syringe from his pocket, and plunged it into her neck. He really hated the winter. Not a lot of visible skin, so he had to stick his needle as best he could. To any onlooker, it would appear that he was helping her to his car. Or the car he’d “borrowed” from the shuttle driver. She wouldn’t be needing it for a while since she was doing the horizontal tango with Hank.
He lowered the woman onto the backseat of the shuttle driver’s four-by-four, folding her into the large duffel bag he’d positioned specifically for this purpose. The woman fought initially, but he’d slapped duct tape on her mouth and bound her hands and ankles within thirty seconds.
