Say You're Sorry

by Karen Rose

  He knew where they were going. As he’d been leaving the store, he’d overheard her say that Trish was supposed to come to the clinic and adopt a cat. The cop assured her they’d check on her friend when they were finished at the pet store.

  At least they’d soon know that Trish had been the true target on Thursday night. And, if I’m lucky, Daisy will think she’s no longer in danger and the fucking cop will go away.

  He’d go home now. Clear his mind with Zandra. And he’d figure out exactly how much trouble he was in with the hooker.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2:20 P.M.

  Gideon frowned up at the apartment building in a very unsavory part of town. “Your friend lives here?”

  Daisy shot him a reproachful look, complete with raised brows. “Not everyone can afford a house in Rocklin, Gideon. Trish can barely make ends meet with her waitressing job at the bar. She’s taking classes to be a dental assistant, but until she gets her diploma, money is tight.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting she wasn’t a hard worker. I was suggesting that this is not the safest part of town.” His frown deepened when the building door opened without a key. “The lock is broken?”

  “Has been since I’ve known her.”

  He scowled. “Do you come here often?”

  “No. She usually comes to my place. Irina has taken her under her wing, too. She’s shown Trish how to make birds’ milk cake.”

  Gideon followed her up three flights of stairs, the stairwell murky because three of every four lightbulbs needed to be replaced. “Trish must have made a good impression, then. I’ve been asking Irina for that recipe since I was a teenager.”

  Daisy knocked on the door. “Trish!” she called. “It’s me! Open up!” She looked over her shoulder at Gideon. “Irina mentioned that you’d asked about the recipe. She said if you’d have bothered to come to Sunday dinner, she’d have shown you, too.”

  “That’s just some bullshit right there,” he said mildly. “She’s just mad I didn’t come so she could matchmake.”

  Daisy smiled, her dimples appearing. “Are we going to tell her that we went on a date?”

  He smiled back at her, unable to resist. “Eventually. She’ll be unbearable for a while afterward, telling us how right she was.”

  Daisy held on to the smile for a few seconds longer before it dimmed, her mouth curving down in worry. “Trish? Open up! It’s me—Daisy! Are you okay?”

  “She might be gone.”

  “Maybe. I hope so.” She hesitated, then pulled a set of keys from a side pouch of Brutus’s bag. “I’m going to check on her.” From inside the bag, Brutus whimpered, and Daisy reached in to soothe her. And herself. “It’ll be okay. Please,” she whispered, “be okay. God, please don’t let her be drunk.”

  Gideon turned on the flashlight app on his phone and handed it to her. “Shine it on the locks,” he said, taking the keys from her hand when her hand trembled too hard to fit the key in the lock. He made quick work of them, two deadbolts and the lock on the doorknob. About the level of security he’d require in this neighborhood, especially as the main door had a broken lock.

  Looking up at him with open apprehension, Daisy knocked again. “Trish,” she called, opening the door a crack. “I’m coming in.”

  She pushed the door open and flicked on the light. Then Brutus began barking. A split second before Daisy screamed.

  “No. No. No, no, no.” She rushed into the room before Gideon could stop her, dropping to her knees next to a brunette who lay on the floor. Nude and covered in blood.

  Fuck. Two attacks in as many days was no coincidence. “Daisy,” he barked. “Stop.”

  Daisy’s hand froze in midair, her face alarmingly pale. Slowly she lowered her hand, clutching the edge of her bag with a white-knuckled grip. “Is she dead?” she whispered.

  The woman was most certainly dead. She’d been stabbed multiple times. At least seven that he could see. There could be more under all the blood. Nonetheless, Gideon pulled a pair of disposable gloves from his pocket and dragged them on as he crouched by the woman’s side. “Call 911,” he said tersely.

  “Is she dead?” Daisy repeated, her voice growing shrill.

  He glanced up long enough to meet Daisy’s terrified, shocked gaze. “Yes, honey,” he said as gently as he could. “She’s dead.”

  The blood covering the woman’s torso was dry, her skin gray. Her ankles were bound with duct tape and Gideon assumed her wrists, hidden behind her back, were also bound. Lying on her back, her eyes stared at the ceiling, unseeing, petechiae mottling the whites. The bruises around her throat were familiar—they were the same that Daisy wore. Only those on Trish’s throat were wider and accompanied by smaller oval bruises. Those and the petechiae indicated strangulation.

  Daisy’s hands shook as she searched her pockets. “Wh-wh-where did you get the gloves?” she choked out.

  “I keep a pair of gloves in my pocket,” he told Daisy calmly, because she was still patting her pockets frantically. “Take a breath, honey.”

  “Oh my God,” a woman gasped behind them. “Trish.”

  Gideon held up a hand to keep the woman from running into the apartment as Daisy had done. “Stop, ma’am. You can’t come in here.” He pulled his badge from his pocket. “Special Agent Reynolds, FBI. Please step back.”

  The woman nodded and backed away, clearly shaken. Gideon turned his attention to Daisy as he dialed 911 on his own phone. She was staring down at Trish, her expression blank. Brutus was fervently licking Daisy’s fingers and bumping her hand with her head, but it didn’t appear to be distracting her back to awareness. Daisy was going into shock. Gideon rose and was carefully walking around the body as the 911 operator answered.

  “This is Special Agent Reynolds with the FBI.” He gave the operator the address and asked her to send the police and an ambulance, as was protocol. Then he crouched next to Daisy, pulling off his gloves before gently urging her to her feet. “That’s my girl,” he murmured when she followed him up robotically. “I’ve got you. Come on, honey. Come with me.”

  Leading her out into the hallway, he stood sentry against the curious tenants who had begun to congregate. Pulling the door almost closed, he turned Daisy so that she hid her face against his chest. After texting Rafe the address, he dialed his cell. “I just texted you an address. Get over here now.”

  “On my way,” Rafe said. “Why?”

  “Daisy’s friend Trish is dead.”

  Rafe sucked in a harsh breath. “Fucking hell, Gid.”

  “I know. You need to hurry. I’ve called it in to 911 and the cops should be arriving soon.”

  “I’ll call in, make sure they don’t touch anything until I get there. How is DD?”

  “In shock.” She was shaking with silent sobs, her teeth chattering, the dog whimpering. “It’s . . .” Gideon trailed off, unwilling to give the avidly curious bystanders any more gossip.

  “Got it,” Rafe said grimly. “Be there in fifteen.”

  Gideon dropped his phone into his pocket and wrapped his arm around Daisy, pulling her closer. “Please stand back,” he said to the waiting group of tenants. They’d crowded the small landing and the stairs, both up and down. “The police will need room to work.”

  Surprisingly, they obeyed and so he stood there, holding Daisy until she looked up at him, her face drenched with tears. “Her necklace was missing.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “Her necklace,” Daisy whispered. “A turquoise cross. It belonged to her mother. She never took it off. It wasn’t around her neck.”

  A souvenir. Like the locket that had belonged to Eileen.

  Her hands clutched at his jacket, her eyes desperate. “He wasn’t after me that night, Gideon. He was after Trish.”

  Gideon wasn’t so sure about that, but he didn’
t refute her words. Not right now. He could only hold her while she fell apart in his arms. Because they’d all been wrong. They’d all misjudged the threat. The danger hadn’t been only to Daisy. Now her friend was dead. And they were no closer to the identity of her killer.

  He’d brutally killed Daisy’s friend and he would have done the same to Daisy if she hadn’t gotten away. He still might if he believed Daisy could identify him.

  And he’d killed Eileen.

  One look at Trish’s body had shredded any remaining hope Gideon had of finding his old friend. You’ll be begging my forgiveness before I’m done, Daisy’s attacker had said. They all do.

  There were definitely others. This changed everything. And nothing at all. The goal was the same. They needed to stay their course, needed to trace Eileen’s steps.

  Daisy lifted her face, her tears still falling unchecked. But her eyes were hard, her jaw set. “We need to go to Redding,” she whispered.

  He didn’t marvel that she’d all but read his mind. He could only answer, “Yes.”

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2:35 P.M.

  Zandra was jerked out of a restless sleep by the sound of a key turning in the lock. He’s back. Dammit, he’s back.

  She closed her eyes, unwilling to participate in his game. He’s going to kill me either way. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

  Because she was afraid. So damn afraid.

  “Hello, Zandra,” he drawled, then closed the door behind him. “Have we been thinking about our behavior?”

  She wanted to roll her eyes but refrained.

  “No?” he asked. “I was hoping you’d say so. I like your spirit, Zandra. I’m going to have such fun breaking you.”

  No. No, you won’t. She wasn’t going to give him any pleasure.

  He leaned over her, running his lips across her cheek. “If I take out your gag, will you tell me that you’re sorry?”

  She didn’t respond. Didn’t open her eyes. But her eye twitched as he licked a trail along her jaw.

  He laughed delightedly. “You are exactly what I needed, Zandra Jones. I’ve had a difficult few days, but you are a breath of fresh air, I have to say.”

  She heard the jangle of keys, followed by the creak of . . . hinges? She lifted her lashes enough to see what he was doing, relieved to find his back to her.

  He was opening a cabinet. She sucked in a breath through her nose as the contents became visible. Driver’s licenses. Dozens of them. And jewelry hanging from hooks.

  He was placing a driver’s license in what had to have been a groove in the shallow shelf because the plastic license stood straight up.

  “There you go, Trish,” he murmured, giving the top of the license a quick stroke with his thumb. “You did good. Protected your friend until the bitter end, no matter what I did to you. And now for the changing of the guard.” With dramatic flair, he removed the chain he wore around his neck and hung it below the second-to-last license. Hanging from the chain was a horseshoe, made of crystals. He gave it a tap, sending it swinging.

  Then he pulled another necklace from his pocket and held it up so that the turquoise cross hanging from the chain spun in the air. He put it around his neck and gave the turquoise a stroke.

  “Did you enjoy my little show, Zandra?” he asked, turning to her with a smirk. “You think you’re hiding from me, but I’ve had a lot of guests on that bed. I know all the tricks. Now . . .” He opened a drawer, and when he turned, he held a thin blade. “It’s time for me to get to work. The ‘S’ that I scratched into you yesterday is starting to heal already. I’ll just go over it again. And then you’ll be ready for the ‘Y.’”

  He removed the gag from her mouth and she coughed until her head pounded and her chest ached. “How loud can you scream, Zandra? I’m betting pretty loud. I hope you won’t disappoint me.”

  I won’t scream. I won’t.

  But she did.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2:45 P.M.

  Daisy only resisted the compulsion to rock her body because of the crowd gathered in the doorway of Trish’s neighbor, Mrs. Owens. Even though Daisy’s eyes were tightly closed, she knew that they watched her every movement, cell phones at the ready, waiting for anything newsworthy.

  Because Trish was dead.

  No. No, no, no. Daisy wanted to scream it, wanted to scream that it was a mistake. A trick. An awful joke. But it wasn’t a mistake. She’d seen the body. With her own eyes.

  The body. Trish’s body. All bloody and—

  Oh God. Trish.

  Daisy heard a sharp keening sound, then felt a warm palm cup her cheek.

  Gideon. “Hey,” he murmured. She turned into it, drawing Gideon’s scent into her lungs, needing it to fill her head. “Look at me, honey.”

  She forced herself to open her eyes, blinking away new tears when she saw his face, inches from hers. He was crouching in front of where she sat on a folding chair on the landing outside Trish’s door. The chair had been provided by one of Trish’s kinder neighbors—not the nosy woman avidly watching from her doorway along with the majority of the building’s occupants.

  Gideon tugged at her hand. “Let Brutus breathe, honey. You’re holding her too tight.”

  Horrified, Daisy dropped her gaze to Brutus, who, now that she could breathe, was desperately snuggling up under her chin and licking her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she rasped. “I didn’t know.”

  “She’s fine,” Gideon assured. “She was just whimpering a little.” He studied her face, frowning at whatever he saw there. “Rafe called Sasha and Damien. They’re coming to get you. Okay? You know Damien, right?”

  She nodded. “He used to give us piggyback rides,” she whispered. “Sasha and me. When we were little.” Now the oldest of the Sokolovs’ children was a big, burly cop with little girls of his own. “He gave us rides home from Irina’s Sunday dinner a few times. Me and Trish. He fussed at Trish for living in a building with no locks on the front door.” A sob forced its way out. “I wish she’d just moved in with me. She’d still be here.”

  He came to his feet, standing between her and the crowd. Blocking their view, she realized. She looked up at him numbly. “I keep wanting to wake up.”

  “I know,” he said quietly, keeping one hand on her cheek, taking her free hand in his.

  “He . . . stabbed her,” she whispered. “So much blood.”

  He brought the hand he held to his cheek and nuzzled her gently. The faint scrape of his stubble grounded her. It was real. He was real. Not like the nightmare they’d stumbled into.

  She choked on a sob. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But we’re going to find out.”

  “He . . .” She was crying now. Weeping. “I saw the marks,” she whispered, hyperaware of the crowd waiting for any tidbit they could gossip about. “On her throat. I did, didn’t I?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

  He’d strangled her. God. “When?”

  He sighed. “I won’t know until the ME—”

  “Estimate,” she interrupted on a hiss.

  He shook his head slightly. “Maybe eight hours. Give or take.”

  “She was supposed to get off work at one this morning.”

  “We’ll call her boss, okay? I promise.” He gave her hand a little squeeze. “Do you have any photos of Trish wearing the necklace with the turquoise cross?”

  “On my phone.” He let go of her hand so that she could find her phone in the side pocket of Brutus’s bag. She fumbled with it one-handed and he took it gently, tapping in her passcode. She frowned for a moment, then remembered she’d given it to him on Thursday night. Less than forty-eight hours ago. How was that even possible?

  He held the phone so that she could swipe through
the photo files until she found a selfie that she’d had taken with the two of them at the radio station’s New Year’s Eve party. The turquoise cross hung between Trish’s breasts, plainly visible against the pale cream of the sweater she’d been wearing that night.

  “This one,” Daisy whispered. She’d never see Trish smile like that, not ever again.

  “I’ll just e-mail it to myself and Rafe, okay?” Gideon said quietly. He did so, then slipped Daisy’s phone back into the side pocket of Brutus’s bag.

  A door slammed several floors down and heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs. Two uniformed police officers had arrived.

  “I’ll be back,” Gideon said softly, swiping his thumb over her cheeks to dry them. “Stay here.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I have to talk to these officers. Make sure they don’t disturb anything until Rafe gets here.”

  She nodded, still numb. Unable to do a thing. Except sit. And wait. And try not to think about what she’d seen. How Trish had suffered. God.

  The crowd had dispersed. Rafe arrived, along with the woman Daisy had met at SacPD on Thursday night. The forensics woman. Cindy Grimes. Cindy gave her shoulder a sympathetic pat and Rafe gave her a hug, before they disappeared into Trish’s apartment.

  Where Trish lay on the floor. Dead. It was . . . impossible. But it was true.

  Trish is dead. Because she’d been the target after all. Not me.

  Although if Rafe had asked Damien to come with Sasha . . . They still think I need protection. And that was something her mind couldn’t process at the moment.

  If we’d only protected Trish like they’ve protected me.

  I’m sorry, Trish. So goddamn sorry.

  FIFTEEN

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2:50 P.M.

  “Did they leave?” Erin Rhee asked when Gideon joined her and Rafe in Trish’s small apartment. Cindy Grimes from Forensics was taking photos of Trish’s body, her mouth set in a firm line as she worked.