True Shot

by Joyce Lamb

  “Bitch disabled my truck. Where do I send the bill for the repairs?”

  Flinn’s rage boiled over. “I’m not paying to fix your fucking truck, you fucking moron! You didn’t get the job done!”

  “You didn’t tell me the bitch knew how to drive like goddamn Vin Diesel.”

  “I told you not to underestimate her. Did you hear me say ‘woman’ and decide you could take her without any effort?”

  “Look, dude, it didn’t work out. Not my fault. Now, are we going to settle this like adults or do I need to get angry?”

  Flinn snorted into the phone. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, dude. I’ll have your licenses pulled by the end of the day. Enjoy your unemployment.”

  Flinn slammed his phone closed and fired it at the nearest wall.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sam’s eyes grew heavy as she watched the thick, green foliage of Georgia fly by in a 55-miles-per-hour blur.

  It hadn’t taken them long to swipe another car. They’d parked at a gas station and waited for a trusting soul to leave his keys in the ignition and his car running while he ducked inside for a doughnut, coffee, cigarettes or something else he would dearly regret. As soon as Mac and Sam reached the next town, they visited a busy mall parking lot, where they traded that car, an older-model white Chevy Cobalt, for a dark blue Honda Accord. Sam hot-wired the Honda while Mac searched it for any wayward cell phones, then switched license plates on both the Cobalt and the Accord.

  Now, they were back on the road, Mac behind the wheel. The even, quiet roar of the tires, interrupted in regular intervals by subtle, horizontal seams in the pavement, insisted on lulling Sam to sleep. She fought it as long as she could, only to slip into a past her conscious brain didn’t remember . . .

  The tiny gray room, everything about it cold and metallic, seemed to close in on her on all sides. A large mirror occupied the upper half of the unpainted concrete wall she faced. She imagined police detectives lined up on the window side, watching her, discussing her.

  “That’s Samantha Trudeau. Killed the man who killed her daddy.”

  The scent of blood turned her stomach, and she swallowed convulsively, refusing to glance down and acknowledge the spatter on her hands and arms, across the front of her white T-shirt. Every cell in her whole body seemed to twist with fear, weighed down by guilt.

  The door to the chilly room opened, and in walked one of the officers who’d arrested her. He didn’t look much older than her nineteen years. Crew-cut blond hair, crisp navy uniform, freckles and some lingering acne. Despite their shared youth, his deep brown eyes looked old, as though they had seen too much in too little time. A year ago she couldn’t have related in any way. She could now.

  “Detective Don Stewart, Miss Trudeau. We met earlier.” He pulled out the folding chair across the scarred, metal table from her. “I’m going to take your official statement. Let’s start from the beginning.”

  “I want to make a phone call.” She needed her father. Her real father.

  “Not until I’ve gotten your statement.”

  “Then, can I have a lawyer?”

  “You haven’t been arrested. Really, Miss Trudeau, you’re making this more difficult than it has to be. Just tell me what happened. Start at the beginning.”

  “I already told you. Robert Radnor killed my father.”

  “Clearly, you don’t understand what I’m asking you. I want to know what happened after you arrived at Mr. Radnor’s office with a loaded gun.”

  She pressed her lips together, fighting for a composure long gone. “The sequence of events began when he killed my father.”

  “Miss Trudeau—”

  A harsh knock cut him off, and a tall, thin man in a dark suit entered the interrogation room.

  “I’m in the middle of taking a statement,” Detective Stewart snapped.

  “Not anymore,” the other man said, smiling gently at her. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Stewart got to his feet. “Who the hell are you?”

  Still smiling, the man in the suit retrieved a badge from his belt and flashed it at the officer. “FBI Special Agent Flinn Ford. I’d like a word with Miss Trudeau.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Your lieutenant will explain, Detective.”

  As Stewart stormed out, Sam warily watched as the FBI agent walked around the side of the table toward her. He had light brown hair thinning at the crown and eyes so dark they looked black. She guessed his age at late thirties to early forties. The way he assessed her, as though inspecting a car for sale, sent a chill through her. If he tried to kick her tires, she’d kick back.

  Instead, he extended a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Trudeau.”

  She didn’t take his hand. Who knew what kind of horrors lurked in the mind of an FBI agent?

  His smile broadened into amusement. “No touching, eh?”

  Part of her wanted Detective Stewart back. Reading him was easy. This man was slick, smug, the kind who’d call himself a straight shooter but would shoot crooked at every opportunity.

  “Has a medical professional examined your injuries?”

  She lifted a hand to run light fingers over the swelled flesh around her eye. The memory of Radnor’s fist smashing into bone burst in her head like a dying light bulb. “It’s fine.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I’ve been to the ER.”

  He pulled out a chair but didn’t sit. “You’re in some trouble, Samantha. I can call you Samantha, can’t I?”

  “I want to call my dad in Lake Avalon, Florida. His name is Reed Trudeau.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to hear what I have to say first.”

  “I’d rather talk to my dad.”

  “I have a way out of this trouble you’re in, Samantha. Would you like to hear it?”

  She would, very much. But she also knew better than to trust this man. She didn’t trust anyone, not anymore. Except her sisters. And the man she’d called “Dad” her whole life. She was such a fool. She’d wanted answers from the side of the family she’d never met. Her self-centered, closemouthed mother hadn’t provided answers, so she’d sought them on her own. She’d been desperate to find the man who’d helped give her life, the man who’d helped give her the ability to experience other people’s crappy, soul-sucking memories. She’d just wanted answers.

  She refocused on the FBI agent, realizing he waited for her response. What had he said? He had a way out for her. She didn’t believe him.

  He angled his head. “You understand what I mean, don’t you? I have a way for you to avoid spending the rest of your life in prison.”

  Her heart jittered. “I haven’t been convicted of anything. I haven’t even been arrested.”

  His smile didn’t waver, all white teeth. “Let’s go over the facts, shall we? You confronted Mr. Radnor, a well-respected lawyer in this Wisconsin town of sixty thousand people, in his office with a loaded gun.”

  “He killed my biological father, Ben Dillon.”

  “And the good folks of Janesville have never heard of him.”

  She waited, unsure of his point.

  “People here liked Mr. Radnor,” he said. “He did good work for many of them.”

  “He was an asshole.”

  One corner of Flinn Ford’s mouth ticked up. “A well-liked asshole whom the good people of Janesville respected. And who are you to those same people?”

  “I’m the biological daughter of the man Mr. Radnor killed.”

  “You’re the young woman who helped her father try to blackmail Mr. Radnor. You’re a liar, Samantha. A con artist. And a killer.”

  She had no response to that, so she just stared at him as blankly as she could while black spots splattered her vision. A killer. Oh, God, she was a killer.

  He finally sat down with a creak of metal. He was so big that the chair looked like something out of Barbie’s Jailhouse. “The FBI was watching Mr. Dillon. Why do you thi
nk the federal government would be interested in a common grifter?”

  “He crossed state lines.”

  His smile blossomed into a full-blown grin. “You’re smart. Excellent. Ben Dillon first came to the FBI’s attention when he took his con-artist ways from Illinois into Wisconsin. And then we noticed something about him. Something special.”

  She couldn’t stop her shoulders from stiffening.

  “His cons had an extra element to them,” he went on. “The common grifter cons people who are gullible, stupid, softhearted or any combination of those traits. Mr. Dillon, however, targeted intelligent, wealthy men in positions of power. That takes something extra.” He paused for dramatic effect. “It takes psychic ability.”

  Her stomach knotted tight. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Mr. Dillon would have told you that that response would have been more convincing if you hadn’t said it so quickly.” He folded his pale, manicured hands on the table. “It won’t do any good to deny it, Samantha. I already know all about Mr. Dillon’s psychic gift. I also know that you share it.”

  “No, I don’t.” She struggled to control the shakes.

  “You used that empathic gift on Mr. Radnor yesterday afternoon at the sidewalk café.”

  “It wasn’t to—”

  “You’re on FBI surveillance tape, Samantha. You and Mr. Dillon. You bumped into Mr. Radnor and used that contact to learn of his fondness for underage girls, which you and Mr. Dillon used to trick him into propositioning you so your father could take incriminating photographs that he could then use for blackmail.”

  Oh, God, that was a completely different scenario than the one Ben had laid out for her. And yet it made perfect sense.

  “Mr. Dillon was wanted for many crimes,” the agent said. “Did you know that?”

  Her face grew warm. “No.”

  She wasn’t surprised. Not now. Yesterday’s events put in stark relief the differences between her biological father and her father in Lake Avalon. The man who’d raised her in Florida loved her without condition, in spite of the many rebellious reasons she’d given him to scowl and rant. Ben Dillon of Chicago gave her what she couldn’t get in Florida: answers. He assured her that her psychic ability was a gift, not a curse. And then he turned around and tricked her into using her gift for financial gain.

  Her stomach flipped all over again at the wrongness of it all. He’d told her Robert Radnor was the worst kind of man, that they were going to stop him from victimizing girls and young women. The glimpse she’d gotten inside Radnor’s mind had shown her that Ben was right. She’d gone along with his plot to expose the predator, excited to use her gift to do good things. Ben never once mentioned the word blackmail.

  “He should have protected you, Samantha,” Agent Ford said. “He should have done everything in his power to take care of you, his long-lost daughter. But he used you, didn’t he? He used you and your ability to try to cheat a good man out of his money.”

  She swallowed hard. “Mr. Radnor was not a good man.”

  He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a level meant for secrets. “I can get you out of here, Samantha. I can offer you a new life. A place to call home.”

  “I already have a home.” And she wanted to go back. So bad. She missed Charlie’s sarcasm and Alex’s innocence. Missed Dad’s warm bear hugs and deep, reassuring voice. His strong sense of right and wrong. He wouldn’t have liked Ben Dillon. Not at all.

  “What was the gun for, Samantha?” The FBI agent’s voice, deep and sharp, cut into her thoughts.

  “I wanted to scare him.” She answered without thinking.

  “The gun was loaded, and you knew it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You pointed it at him and shot him. Point-blank.”

  “That’s—”

  “You shot him, Samantha. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You shot and killed Mr. Radnor. With your father’s gun.”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “You’ve already said yes, Samantha. You’ve already confessed.”

  Those words smacked her in the forehead. Confessed? She hadn’t confessed. No way. Had she?

  “I asked you if you shot him, and you said, ‘Yes.’ That’s a confession.” He nodded toward the security camera in the corner. “It’s on tape.”

  The blood drained out of her head, and white sparkles twinkled at the edges of her vision.

  Flinn Ford wasn’t done. “I said I would help you, remember, Samantha? You have choices. You can stay here and face a judge and jury that will without a doubt sentence you to life in prison for the murder you just confessed to, or you can come work for me at the FBI.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Sam woke to sun streaming in through the windshield. Narrowing her eyes against the glare, she raised a hand and peered around. Mac wasn’t in the driver’s seat. The car sat in a parking area that faced an open, grassy lot. A Little League game appeared to be under way on a baseball diamond in the far corner of the fenced-in area.

  The Accord’s windows were down, a light breeze blowing in while it shuffled the fronds of towering palm trees. She twisted in the seat to take stock of her surroundings and saw the parking lot belonged to a two-story, off-white Mediterranean-style building with large, arched windows.

  The sound of a car horn bleated in the distance, and the excited shrieks of kids drew her gaze back to the ball game. Moms and dads watched the kids from the sidelines. One female spectator idly rolled a baby stroller back and forth while she cooed at the fussing baby inside.

  Sam couldn’t imagine that kind of existence. Even though she’d forgotten 99 percent of her past, she knew instinctively that her life had nothing whatsoever to do with baby strollers and walks in the park.

  Make that: She’d forgotten 98 percent of her past. She’d just remembered the part where Flinn Ford shrewdly hooked his talons into her and never planned to let go. And she’d been a naïve little idiot, too scared and too out of her league to know how to defend herself. Maybe she’d been that naïve little idiot her whole life.

  Suddenly needing more air than what made it through the windows, she shoved open the car door and got out. She walked to a nearby bench and sat down, wondering where Mac was and why he’d left her alone and asleep. Someone so easily could have compromised her position. God, civilians could be so—

  “Sam!”

  She jerked her head up, startled at the sound of her name, then relieved to see Mac jogging toward her, a white plastic bag dangling from one hand. At first, she was struck by how incredibly good he looked. All that lean muscle filling out well-worn jeans and a black T-shirt, his dark hair disheveled in the breeze, his jaw shadowed with a rapidly darkening beard. His eyes were so warm, so kind—

  Then she remembered their situation, and irritation quickly chased away her appreciation of his good looks. She rose to meet him. “Where were you?”

  “Running a couple of errands. Didn’t you see my note?”

  A note? For the love of Pete, were they in high school? “I didn’t see a note.”

  “I left it on the dashboard for you.” He glanced back at the Accord, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Damn, the breeze must have blown it onto the floorboard. Sorry about that.”

  He flashed his innocent, puppy-dog smile, an expression that sharply contrasted his ferocity when he’d slammed Arthur Baldwin up against the wall that morning.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Jacksonville, Florida. Oh, and I picked up some dinner.” He hoisted the bag. “Hope you like Mexican.” He took a quick glance around. “Maybe we can find a picnic table. Don’t know about you, but I’m sick of the car.” He spotted a table under a large jacaranda tree and gestured. “Over there okay?”

  She nodded as she fell into step beside him. The breeze blew hair back from her face, and she could swear she smelled the salty scent of ocean water in the air.

  He flashed her a sideways
grin as he settled the plastic bag on the picnic table and started fishing through it. “I got us some chips and guacamole, too. The woman at the library—she’s the one who recommended the place—said the guac there is the best on the planet. Which might not be the most reliable endorsement, because the place is called Burrito Planet.”

  Her dream about Flinn eased to the back of her mind. For now, she decided, she would share in Mac’s enthusiasm for the simple things in life, like guacamole and talking to strangers. “Do you strike up a conversation with everyone you meet?”

  “Occupational hazard. It’s amazing what strangers will tell you when you show some interest.” He set two bottles of water on the table, then lined up four wrapped burritos, each the length of a paperback novel and as thick as his muscled forearm.

  “We’ve got ground beef, chicken, grilled veggies and Bar-bacoa, which is shredded beef. What’ll you have?”

  She couldn’t help but smile at how much the man loved his food. “Which do you want?”

  “I’m a gentleman, which means you get to pick first. Or, you could try them all. You probably don’t remember what you like.”

  “I’ll start with the chicken.”

  “The Burrito Planet guy said that’s their best one.” He handed it over. “I’m opting for the ground beef. He said that one’s spicy enough to take the varnish off your chest.” He grinned. “I think English might be his third or fourth language.”

  She laughed as she cracked open her bottle of water and took a long drink. It was so odd to have such an innocuous conversation, yet it felt so right. She just hoped that her unsettled stomach could handle what she was about to put in it.

  Across from her, Mac chomped into his burrito and mmm’d deep in his throat, a low, sexy sound that had her body growling in response.

  “What were you doing at the library?” she asked quickly before her head could road-trip down a path she wasn’t prepared to explore.

  “I sent Charlie an e-mail.”

  She stopped unwrapping her burrito. “You what?”