Say You're Sorry

by Karen Rose

  The cult.

  He’d planned to tell Daisy as much as he could while she put the puzzle together. Anything not to have to see her face when he told the story. But he hadn’t. He’d tried, but he couldn’t make the words come. He did not want to see pity in her eyes. Ever.

  He wanted to see interest. Respect. Gratitude wouldn’t be bad. He’d liked seeing that in her eyes after he’d talked to her father. Who’d texted him three times this afternoon, apologizing every time he’d asked if his daughter was all right. Gideon didn’t mind answering. He could be a buffer for Daisy, at least for today. She had too much on her mind to be stressed out by her father, even if he really seemed to care about her.

  Daisy made a small sound of delight—the same sound she made every time she’d fitted another piece of the puzzle together. But she didn’t stop to celebrate. She kept going, her blue eyes barely blinking.

  He found himself wondering if she made that sound at other times. If she’d make that sound with him. In the bed that took up the back wall of the apartment. He closed his eyes, willing his body to stand down, because that noise she made lit up every nerve he had.

  He needed to stop torturing himself. She was off-limits. Period. In another situation, he might have felt okay with asking her out. Like if you’d gone to Irina’s Sunday dinner and met her like Irina wanted you to. But he hadn’t and now he was meeting her when she was vulnerable.

  As am I. He was dreading the moment when she pieced the man’s face together. Dreaded knowing who had married Eileen after Edward McPhearson was dead. He hoped it would be one of the kinder men, but his gut was telling him it wouldn’t be.

  Gideon forced himself to look away from her to his laptop, where he’d been composing an e-mail. He was calling in a favor, pure and simple. If his former colleague couldn’t help him quickly, he’d have to get into the sketch artist’s queue at the field office and that could take forever.

  Hi Tino—I hope you are well. I have a favor to ask. I’ve attached a photo of a twelve-year-old girl. She’s a person of interest in my investigation, who could be in danger. She’s currently thirty years old. Can you work your magic and send me a rendition of what she’d look like now? I need this ASAP, of course. If you’re too backed up to turn it around quickly, can you let me know? I’ll find someone else to do it, but your work is the best I’ve seen.

  Thanks,

  Gid

  He’d scanned the photo of Eileen from her first wedding, editing out the man at her side. Seeing McPhearson’s face wasn’t necessary for Tino to do his age progression, and Gideon didn’t want anyone asking too many questions about Eileen’s first husband.

  Because I killed him. And he was not sorry. Not even a little bit.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 5:55 P.M.

  Daisy blinked at the sudden flood of light. Gideon had rolled her crafting light to the table. A look over her shoulder showed the sun had dropped below the horizon.

  She lifted her eyes to Gideon’s face. “Oh no. We were supposed to go to the pet store so that you could scope it out before dark.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “This is more important. We can leave early tomorrow morning. Did you know your stomach’s been growling?”

  Daisy felt her cheeks heat. “Sorry. I get . . . sucked into stuff like this.”

  He shook his head, then went to the microwave. It smelled like he was heating up the pirozhki and her stomach growled again, loudly.

  “Don’t you dare apologize,” he said, taking the food out of the microwave. “Watching you work a puzzle is better than ninety-eight percent of the shows on TV.”

  “What shows are the two percent that are better?” she asked, teasing him.

  “Fixer Upper and . . .” He turned to face her, bowl in hand, hesitating. His wince accentuated an epic blush that was far too attractive. “Buffy.”

  She grinned at him, because his being a fan of the vampire slayer was the last thing she’d expected. “Another blonde who’s not too stupid to live.”

  His expression grew pained. “I never said that about you.”

  She softened her tone, so that he’d know she’d been teasing. “No, you didn’t.” Sliding off the stool, she stretched her back. “Although sitting on that stool wasn’t smart. Now my back is killing me.” She replaced it with the chair Rafe had vacated. How long ago, she wasn’t sure. Sinking into the chair, she flashed Gideon a grateful smile when he handed her the bowl of pirozhki and a fork.

  “So your fingers don’t get messy,” he said, gesturing to the puzzle. He moved his chair so that he sat next to her instead of across. “You’re making progress.”

  She hadn’t yet finished the man’s face. She had his eyebrows and forehead, his left cheek and half of his mouth, his right eye, and his chin. But she was close.

  “The light’s going to make it easier to put the rest of his face together, so thank you,” she said, her gaze back on the table. “I didn’t even realize it had gotten dark. What time is it, anyway?”

  “Almost six. You were sucked into it for three and a half hours.”

  She frowned. “I should be done by now. I can do a six-hundred-piece puzzle in two hours. To be fair, though, this is not a normal puzzle.” She sorted through the remaining pieces that went with the man’s face. “I just hope we aren’t missing any.”

  “We have software we can use to extrapolate,” Gideon said. “Do what you can.”

  A soft bump to her ankle had Daisy looking down to where Brutus gazed up, all bat ears and hopeful eyes. She scooped her up and nuzzled her. “Are you feeling ignored, girl?”

  Gideon frowned. “Girl? She’s a girl? Why did you name a girl dog Brutus?”

  “I couldn’t think of a girl name that was as mean. She’s little and sweet. I wanted her to feel big and tough on the inside.”

  Gideon didn’t look convinced. “If you say so.”

  “Don’t diss the dog,” she said lightly. “She helped me fight off that man last night.”

  He nodded once, one side of his mouth bending up. “Fair enough.”

  Wishing she could see him really smile, she set Brutus on the floor and forced her eyes to the puzzle. She tried to find the man’s left eye, but there were no more eye-type pieces. “I think we’re missing an eye.”

  She felt Gideon’s response before she could lift her eyes to his face, which had grown abruptly pale.

  “Gideon?” Daisy slid her hand over the exposed skin at his wrist. He’d taken off his suit jacket, but his shirt was still buttoned to his throat, sleeves buttoned at the cuffs. His tie still knotted tight.

  She contemplated loosening the tie if he didn’t snap out of it. “Gideon?” She gave his arm a hard shake. “Agent Reynolds.”

  He looked down at her, his eyes strangely . . . off. “Look for a patch,” he murmured.

  It took her a second. “Oh. I said we were missing an eye. I meant the pieces.” She studied him cautiously. “But you didn’t. You meant that he’s actually missing his eye. Because you’ve just figured out who this is.”

  He swallowed hard. “Just see if there is a patch. Please.”

  The please had been uttered politely. Formally. It broke Daisy’s heart, because Gideon did know who this man was and he was afraid. The big strong man sitting next to her was afraid.

  She focused on the remaining pieces, quickly finding the patch now that she knew what she was looking for. She should have figured it out sooner, she thought, mentally chiding herself. There was a dark diagonal line over the man’s forehead. She’d thought it was a flaw in the photo, but now she knew that it was the cord that held the patch in place.

  “Yes,” she said, putting the pieces together and sliding them into place on the man’s face. “You know who he is,” she repeated.

  He nodded, then opened his mouth, but no words came out
. He tried again and finally answered. “His name doesn’t mean anything, though, because it isn’t real. Finish his face and we’ll get him out on the wire.”

  That this man terrified Gideon years after he’d known him was significant. It was another wedding photo. With the girl he’d once known. “Why did Eileen tear up this picture?” Daisy asked as she searched for the man’s nose.

  “Why do you think?” Gideon asked hoarsely.

  “Because he abused her,” Daisy said, anger flattening her voice. She sorted and matched faster, putting together the pieces of what Gideon had left unsaid. Did he abuse you, too, Gideon?

  God, she hoped not, but it might explain the sick pallor on his face.

  “He’s not the man who attacked me last night,” she said, not looking up from the table. “He had both his eyes.”

  Gideon said nothing so she let him be, putting together the nose, then starting on the mouth. It had been important before, but now the need was urgent.

  She sat back, regarding the face that stared up at her. He was stern, unsmiling, his mouth turned down into a near scowl. He did not look friendly.

  “What’s the name you knew him by?” she asked Gideon quietly as she pulled her phone from the pocket of her sweatpants. She snapped a photo and texted it to Rafe.

  Gideon’s jaw had grown hard and unyielding, but that was preferable to the lost, panicked expression he’d worn before. “Ephraim Burton,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Daisy texted that to Rafe as well, then added: This is likely an alias. Our friend knows him. She didn’t use Gideon’s name because she wasn’t sure what he wanted kept secret. He’d been so upset when he’d thought Rafe had told her about Eden.

  Rafe’s response was instantaneous. Is our friend ok?

  Curious choice of question. Rafe obviously knew Gideon’s backstory. Yes, but shaken up. This is not the man I saw last night. He had both eyes.

  Got it. Good job, Poppy ☺

  Daisy sent Rafe a thank-you, then turned her attention to Gideon. He looked wrecked. “I wish I had some booze,” she said. “I’d offer you some.”

  He laughed bitterly. “I’d take it.” Standing, he paced to the kitchen and back. He stopped, meeting her eyes, his intense. She thought he might tell her who the man was to him, but he didn’t. “Tell me about the hobbies,” he blurted.

  Daisy respected self-distraction. It had been one of the strategies of her sobriety. “I’ve always painted. I can remember my mom painting with me, before she died.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Four, so my memories are sparse. I remember spilling a big cup of purple paint on the sofa and crying because I thought I was in trouble. Mom gave me a brush and helped me spread it around on the cushion. It became ‘art.’” She smiled fondly. “She got a new cushion and gave me the painted one.”

  “She must have been nice.”

  “Yes.” She’d considered using a mention of her mother as a springboard to learn more about his, but his response had been so stilted that she decided against it. “My father encouraged my painting after Mom died. I’ve always used it as an escape.”

  “But you majored in journalism, not art.”

  “I’m not good enough to paint professionally. And I didn’t want to lose my joy in the one thing I loved by making it a job.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, instead pacing to the wall that she’d converted into a giant canvas. “I think you are good enough, but I get wanting to keep something for yourself that makes you happy.”

  Daisy glanced down at the face of the scary man in the photo, wanting so badly to ask what he’d done to Gideon. But she didn’t. She wanted to ask him what made him happy, but she didn’t do that, either. He’d regained some of his composure and she wouldn’t deny him that.

  “Have you ever tried to paint?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s just the doing that’s important.”

  He started pacing again, circling the little table in the dining nook. “Why pottery?”

  She chuckled, embarrassment creeping onto her cheeks. “I saw the movie Ghost and always wanted to try the pottery wheel. I took a class at the community center.”

  He smiled at that, and her heart eased, just a bit. His smile grew rueful as he inspected a misshapen lump of clay that was supposed to have been a vase. “Harder than it looks, huh?”

  She laughed. “Much. The stuff I made at the center was better. I just got the wheel for home to practice technique. And because I like the feel of the wet clay.”

  He looked up with a puzzled frown. “Why?”

  She frowned back. “I’m not sure. I just do. It makes me . . . calm.”

  “Calm is good,” he murmured, stroking the edge of the misfit vase, then staring at his clay-covered finger, the lost look returning.

  Daisy got up to get him a towel from the kitchen, gently cleaning the clay from his finger. Earning her a long, probing stare from those green eyes. There was a question there, but she didn’t know what he was asking, so she didn’t try to answer.

  “I’m better at sewing,” she offered, unsure now of whom she was trying to distract—him or herself. “I made costumes for the drama club at the community center. They’re doing Little Mermaid. I did Ursula and all the mer-tails.” He said nothing, so she added lamely, “It was a lot of mer-tails.”

  For several pounding beats of her heart, he stood there in silence, staring down at her. But when he spoke, her pounding heart stuttered.

  “He beat me,” he said quietly.

  For a second she couldn’t breathe, trying to wrap her mind around his words. “The man in the photo?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. She didn’t know what else to say. “Ephraim Burton?”

  He nodded once, but that was plenty. He didn’t turn away from her as she’d expected, but continued to stand there, staring at her. As if he wanted something from her. Or needed it.

  Tentatively she reached for him, cupping his jaw in her palm, feeling the soft brush of his beard against her flesh. Closing his eyes, he shuddered out a breath and leaned into the contact.

  She, too, released the breath she’d been holding. “How old were you?” she asked in the quietest murmur she could muster, because she was afraid he’d pull away. She needed this connection, just as much as he did. Maybe more.

  He swallowed audibly. “Thirteen.”

  More silence. More pounding of her heart. Finally she ventured, “It was bad?” she asked, even though she knew the answer to that question, too. It had to have been severe to cause such an extreme reaction. But then, Gideon Reynolds had seemed off-balance since he’d walked into the interview room the night before.

  He nodded. “I almost died.”

  His reaction to seeing the man’s face made a lot more sense. “Was he punished?”

  “No,” he whispered.

  “So he’s still out there.”

  Another nod. Then he covered her hand with his, pressing her palm against his face before letting her go and stepping back, his expression gone blank.

  She let her arm fall to her side, waiting for him to speak. Allowing him to regain control. She knew what it was like to feel helpless, to be subject to the control of others.

  “You sent the photo to Rafe?” he asked briskly.

  She was unsurprised that he’d steered them back to the case. “I did. I didn’t mention your name.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Now what?” she asked him.

  He tugged on the cuffs of his shirt and checked the security of his still tightly knotted tie. “How do you feel about Thai?”

  She smiled up at him. “Very favorably. I know a good place. Let me change out of these sweats and we’ll go.”

  NINE
/>   SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 6:30 P.M.

  Daisy came back into the room wearing well-worn jeans and another turtleneck sweater. That she needed to cover her throat made Gideon angry all over again, but he bit it back because she looked . . . apprehensive. He wouldn’t have minded so much except that the look was aimed at him. He’d nearly lost it there for a moment, seeing Ephraim’s face.

  Of course, when he’d last seen the bastard, he’d had two functioning eyes. The knife had plunged into Ephraim’s eye after Gideon’s had swollen shut.

  That he hadn’t been trying for Ephraim’s eye was kind of immaterial.

  And he wasn’t going to think about the bastard anymore. He was going to go out and have dinner with a woman who’d made him smile more than once today.

  Who’d grounded him when he’d found himself back in the terrified mind of his thirteen-year-old self. She hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t asked questions he didn’t want to answer. She’d simply been there, providing him with human contact when he’d needed it most.

  So he was going to get his shit together so that he could do what he came here to do—keep her safe. “How do you want to do this?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, a twinkle in her blue eyes. “Um, chew, swallow, repeat?”

  He grinned. “Smartass. I meant how should we get there?”

  She pulled her coat from the closet where all the sports equipment was stored. “We should walk. It’s like two blocks, Gideon. Plus parking’s a bitch on Friday nights.” She perked up. “Unless you get ticket forgiveness as an FBI agent.”

  “Nope.” He laughed, although he had used his badge to slide around speeding tickets once or twice. Not that he’d admit that to her. “It’s supposed to rain. You need an umbrella.”

  She moved some of the sports equipment around. “Found one.”

  It was, of course, neon green with glitter hearts, and Gideon found that made him happy for no good reason. “Did you make that?”