Say You're Sorry

by Karen Rose

  Too bad she’d been a bitch to him on Thursday. The bitter end for her had been bitter indeed. And he felt so much better.

  Lady Luck had smiled on him. Twice.

  The first time had been when he’d taken a break from his work, sitting on her sofa to watch her writhe on the floor. To give her an opportunity to reconsider her lie about not knowing where Daisy lived.

  He’d picked up her backpack, curious as to why it was so heavy. It had been filled with textbooks. She’d been a student, it seemed. He’d taken each book from the backpack, stacking them on the coffee table next to some magazines. He’d been pretty sure which trinket he was going to take to remember her, but sometimes he found the coolest things in the bottom of a woman’s purse—or backpack.

  Unfortunately, the only thing at the bottom of Trish’s backpack was a bunch of pencils and pens. He’d tossed the backpack aside—and that was when he’d seen it.

  A magazine on her coffee table. But it wasn’t the face of the celebrity du jour that had caught his eye. It was the mailing label. Eleanor Dawson. With an address. And now he was standing in front of this pretty little Victorian.

  Which—second stroke of luck—was only three blocks from his own house.

  He’d taken the magazine with him, ripping off the mailing label before tossing the magazine in his fireplace. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know he’d seen Daisy’s address, or they’d be back on their guard.

  He studied the three-story Victorian. He’d wanted one like that, but they’d been too expensive. This one, though, had a trio of mailboxes out front. So the place was separated into apartments. Daisy’s was number 1. So perhaps she was on the ground floor? That made it more convenient. He hated climbing through second- and third-story windows.

  At that moment a car stopped in front of the house. He turned his back, pretending to be watching Mutt, but a glance over his shoulder revealed a woman getting out of the car and jogging up to the front door. She was tall with a long blond ponytail. Definitely not Daisy. This woman moved aggressively, even though she was clearly inebriated.

  She also sang aggressively, he thought, wincing at her butchered tune. Queen. “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Her serenade abruptly ended as she switched to calling out, “Sasha’s home!” Then she slammed the front door.

  He’d been tempted to peek in the lower windows and see if Daisy was in her apartment, but he feared the drunk songstress had woken her up. The last thing he wanted was for her to report a Peeping Tom to the police.

  He tugged on Mutt’s leash. “Come on, Mutt. Let’s go home.”

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 4:00 A.M.

  Daisy woke slowly, her neck slightly sore from falling asleep on the sofa, but she didn’t care because her body was weighted down by Gideon’s, his even breaths warming her breast. Her arms tightened reflexively around his broad shoulders, but he didn’t respond. He was solidly asleep.

  She didn’t have to check the time to know that it was about four A.M. Her body had become accustomed to waking at four within a week of her starting with the morning show. Tad had complained about it every day and he’d been doing the show for five years. She had to wonder now if he was trying to get her to complain as well so that he could report her to the station manager.

  Asshole. Spreading lies that she’d faked the attack for ratings. Bastard.

  But she wasn’t going to think about Tad the Bastard now. Not when she had her arms full of a sleeping Gideon Reynolds.

  Gideon. God. The things he’d endured. Her throat hurt at the memory of his voice breaking, the way he’d cried on her shoulder. Waking up in a hospital like that, at thirteen years old. In pain. And alone.

  He must have been so scared. Her heart hurt just thinking about it.

  The pain in her chest began to give way to a burning fury as she thought about the men who’d so cruelly tormented his family. Eileen, too. She’d like to get her hands on them. Show them some real pain so that she could get answers for Gideon.

  Where was Eden? Where was Ephraim Burton? How many of the men there had watched Ephraim beat a thirteen-year-old boy nearly to death? Of course, first they had to find Eileen. She might know where to find Eden since she’d also escaped. I hope she escaped. I hope she got away. I hope she’s safe somewhere.

  And if they never found Eileen? If she was alive, she might have deliberately lost the locket, wanting to separate herself from the community of Eden as much as she could. I know I would, in her place. She’d likely gone under.

  Gideon’s sister had gotten out, but Daisy assumed that she’d also been unable to tell them where to find Eden, or Gideon would have already uncovered the community and delivered the abusers to the police. And there was nobody else to ask.

  Unless . . . The thought made her blink in surprise. What if there were others who’d escaped? Others that Gideon knew nothing about?

  How would they even find each other out in the real world?

  Absently she stroked his hair, like silk under her fingertips. A cult like Eden wouldn’t allow its members to know that they could get out. She wondered what the leaders had told the members when Gideon disappeared.

  Probably that he’d died.

  So what if others had managed to escape? Where would they go?

  As far away as they could, was her first instinct. But Gideon hadn’t. Instead he’d stayed in Northern California, requesting an assignment here after his job had taken him away.

  To be with the Sokolovs, he’d said, and Daisy was sure that was true.

  But he’s also been looking for them, she realized. She was somehow positive of that fact. A man like Gideon couldn’t allow such evil to continue to exist. Which explained why he’d been so interested in Daisy’s attacker. The locket was a lead, maybe the first he’d had.

  And if that lead went nowhere, a solid plan B was to search for others. Other lockets. Other tattoos. A hunt.

  Excitement rippled over her skin as she eased her body out from under his. Tempting as the warmth of his body was, Daisy loved a good hunt.

  He made a rough noise as she tried to move, the arm he’d wrapped around her waist tightening. But he continued to sleep. Gently she pried his hand from her waist and kissed his knuckles. Then she rolled away, sliding to the floor as she pushed him back on the sofa. She got a pillow and blanket from her bed and made him more comfortable.

  He was beautiful, she thought, brushing her fingertips over his beard, which was softer than she’d imagined. Leaning in, she pressed a kiss to his temple, wishing she were kissing his mouth instead.

  There was something between them, call it chemistry or whatever. But she could soothe him. And he her. She could take care of herself, but it was so nice not to have to.

  So nice to have someone to walk with in the rain, even if they had battled reporters.

  So nice to have strong arms around her when she was shaken and for him to trust her enough to do the same. That had been the most powerful thing of all—that Gideon trusted her with his story, with his pain.

  She was going to do whatever she could to help him. And maybe try out some of those investigative journalism skills she’d studied in college, what seemed a lifetime ago.

  Sitting in the armchair with her laptop, she opened a browser window and typed: tattoos olive trees angels with flaming swords. Saying a prayer, she hit ENTER.

  THIRTEEN

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 6:15 A.M.

  Gideon woke with a start, his hand going to his hip, his heart skipping a beat. It’s gone. His gun was gone. And it was dark.

  And he had a raging hard-on.

  His mind raced, trying to remember where he was. He lay on a sofa, a light blanket draped over his body, a soft pillow under his cheek. He bolted upright, the blanket sliding down to pool in his lap.

  “It�
��s on the coffee table.”

  The husky voice was like a caress, soothing his racing pulse, but making his cock even harder. Daisy. He’d fallen asleep on her while still wearing his gun. He never did that. He always secured his weapon while he slept.

  I’ve got you. She’d whispered it in his ear right before he’d drifted away.

  He’d fallen asleep. On her. He never did that, either. He’d slept in the company of only a handful of people in his life since leaving Eden, and that had always been in a bed all by himself. He’d slept in the other twin bed in Rafe’s room, but it had taken years for him to be comfortable enough to do that. After that, just the roommates he’d had at Quantico and on missions or stakeouts thereafter.

  He didn’t sleep with people. The women he’d dated had never been invited to stay the night. They knew it up front—he’d never been anything but brutally honest—and while many of them had wanted more, they’d been satisfied with what he’d been able to give. And when they’d stopped being satisfied, they’d moved on. No harm, no foul. No hurt feelings for the most part.

  He’d known Daisy Dawson less than forty-eight hours and he’d already slept with her. On her. He’d spilled his guts to her. And cried on her shoulder.

  He knew he should feel ashamed, but he still didn’t. A bit . . . unsettled, maybe. But no shame. With what he hoped was a surreptitious move, he adjusted himself, then pushed the blanket aside and swung his sock-clad feet to the floor. His shoes were placed under the coffee table, his holstered gun atop.

  She sat in an overstuffed armchair that hadn’t been here when he’d rented from Rafe, her feet tucked beneath her, her pretty face illuminated by the glow of the laptop on her knees. Brutus was snoring softly on the arm of the chair.

  “What time is it?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. The pillow wasn’t bad, but he’d much preferred when his head had been pillowed by her breasts.

  “Six fifteen.”

  “Wow. I slept a long time.”

  Her lips curved. “You needed it.”

  He guessed he had. Yesterday, rehashing his past with Daisy, had been draining in the extreme and he hadn’t slept a wink the night before, worrying about his conversation with Molina. And worrying about what it meant that Daisy had caused him to blurt out truths he hadn’t intended to share. “Did you sleep at all?”

  “Yep. I did wake up once when Sasha came in. She was singing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ at the top of her lungs.”

  He chuckled. “She was drunk, then.”

  He could see her eyes rolling in the glow of the laptop. “She can only hit the high note when she’s plastered. But I fell back asleep until four. My body wakes up at four every morning, even on weekends. I’m in the studio at five on weekdays, but I don’t try to change my wake-up time on days off. It’s too hard to get back to it on Monday. I’ll need a nap after the adoption clinic.”

  He frowned. “Right. That’s today.”

  Her brows lifted. “Yes, that’s today. Why are you frowning?”

  “Because I need to go up to the Redding bus station today.”

  Her face fell. “To look for Eileen. Of course. I can ask Rafe to come with me, or even Damien or Meg.”

  Rafe’s oldest brother Damien was a cop in West Sac, his sister Meg a deputy with the county sheriff’s department. Any of the Sokolov cops would be acceptable replacements, but he didn’t want anyone to replace him.

  He wanted to be the one to protect her. Which was ridiculous. But real.

  He found his cell phone still in his front pocket. She apparently hadn’t been brave enough to remove anything but his shoes and holster. That he’d slept through that was testament to how exhausted he’d been.

  Or maybe how much you already trust her.

  Checking his e-mail, he found the reply he’d been looking for. It wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. But it also was, because he didn’t want to leave her. Which was also ridiculous. He sighed, frustrated with himself.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I sent an e-mail to a friend in Philly, a police artist. He also worked with the Bureau field office, which was where I met him. I sent him the photo of Eileen.”

  “So he could do an age-progression sketch. Good idea. What did he say?”

  “That he can’t get to it until this afternoon. I don’t want to ask around up in Redding without a more up-to-date sketch, in case she escaped recently.”

  “I can leave the adoption clinic early,” she offered. “Maybe we could arrive up there by the time you get the sketch?”

  He shook his head. “That’s not necessary. The ticketing office at the bus station closes at one this afternoon and it’ll take us two and a half hours to get up there, so we can’t make it up there in time today. We’ll have to wait until they open tomorrow, which means we can leave anytime after the pet thing is done.”

  Her eyes widened and even in the dim light he could see that he’d delighted her. “You’re actually going to take me with you? I figured you’d be all”—she dropped her voice to a rusty, commanding bass—“‘No way, you must stay!’”

  He laughed. “I figure you’re safer with me up there than staying here alone.”

  That the Sokolovs would never allow her to be alone went unsaid.

  Her smile dimmed as she studied him in the semidarkness. “Did you ever tell the police what had happened to you once you woke up in the hospital?”

  He went still, his insides freezing. Which also took care of his hard-on. “Yes. But they couldn’t find the community. I didn’t know where they were and the cops weren’t going to authorize an all-out air search for a group no one had ever heard of on the word of one beaten-up teenager. I told them it was a town called Eden. I didn’t know then to call it a cult. I think the detective believed me, but he said that there was no town called Eden anywhere nearby. He said they sent out someone to search, but . . .” He shrugged.

  “So you searched for them on your own.” She’d said it as a statement, not a question.

  “You sound sure that I did,” he said.

  “I am. You wouldn’t have let your mother and sister suffer if you could have stopped it. I take it you couldn’t find them, either.”

  “No,” he said, humbled by her confidence in him. “I’ve been searching for seventeen years. All I know about the location is that I could see Mt. Shasta in the distance.”

  She grimaced. “That doesn’t really narrow it down, does it? You can see the mountain for a hundred miles on a clear day.” Her brow wrinkled. “That’s, what? About thirty thousand square miles of search area? What about your view of the mountain? Which way did the sun rise or set? That will narrow it down.”

  He hated having to go through this again. But he’d do it for her. “It changed a few times. The community moved a few times before I was thirteen. The mountain was to the west when I left, but they could have moved again before the cops got out there to look.”

  “What about satellite photos?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve spent countless hours poring over them, comparing the images season to season, year to year. I’ve seen no settlements that aren’t accounted for on existing maps.”

  “Then they’re camouflaged somehow,” she murmured.

  “That’s what I think, too,” he said. “The homes were small, just a few rooms each. Some had lofts where the kids would sleep.”

  “Very Little House on the Prairie,” she said wryly. “Except, of course, for the slavery, the polygamy, and the rampant pedophilia.”

  He almost smiled. “Exactly.”

  “Could they have earth homes?”

  “They might now. They didn’t then. The homes were basic plank construction. Concrete foundations. They’d break down the houses and move the used lumber to the new site and rebuild.”

  “And the foundations would be easy enough to
cover with dirt when they moved on. How many homes? And were they grouped close together?”

  “Maybe twenty or twenty-five homes, and yes, they were very close together. My mother used to complain that she could reach out her window to borrow a cup of sugar from the woman next door.”

  Daisy shrugged. “It wouldn’t be all that hard to hide under a camo tarp. Most of that land up there is heavily forested wilderness, a lot of it evergreen.”

  “You know that area?” he asked, surprised.

  She nodded. “It’s not too far from where our ranch was. Can I see your map later?”

  “My map?”

  “The one you’ve used to mark off the places you’ve checked.”

  Again she sounded certain that he’d have one, and she was right. “It’s at my house. We can go there and pick it up on our way.”

  She smiled at that. “I get to see your house?”

  He felt a thrill of anticipation at being able to show it to her. He was proud of the renovations that he’d done so far. “Do you want to?”

  “Yes. I do.” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing curiously. “Did your sister remember any of the details of her escape?”

  His gut abruptly tightened again, and he sucked in a pained breath. “No.”

  She went quiet. “Not your story to tell?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Gideon. Can you at least tell me how old she was?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “She would have been married for one year.”

  He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  “Okay,” she murmured. “I can imagine the rest.” She raked her fingers through Brutus’s fur, petting the dog gently, and Gideon couldn’t tear his eyes away. He wished that she’d pet him that way. Again. Because she had the night before. She’d stroked his hair and his beard and his back. So very gently. Nothing in his life had ever felt so nice.

  “Gideon? Gideon?”

  He yanked his gaze from her hand petting Brutus to meet her eyes. “What was that?”

  “I asked if you’ve talked to any of the other escapees from Eden?”