Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  “I love you, Sloane. . . . Give me another chance.”

  No. She wasn’t going to think of that, of him. The only chance she cared about was this one, this new beginning with Micah. She had it now. Maybe the first chance she’d ever had at real . . . love?

  She closed her eyes and breathed in the fragrance of the bouquet he’d sent . . . “To start our day together.” A day, a chance, and a hope—she’d let herself go that far—of something even more wonderful.

  There was a tap on the door.

  “Sloane? It’s Celeste, dear.” She peeked her head in.

  “Oh . . . hi.” Sloane felt her face warm as she tucked the card back into the bouquet. “Here, come in. I’ll just put these down somewhere.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Celeste said, shifting a small stack of envelopes from one hand to the other. She had a newspaper under her arm, probably to offer Sloane coupons. Celeste read the Times first page to last, faithfully. “I saw the florist van, so I knew you’d be up. I hated to disturb you on your morning off. I remember how hard-earned these mornings are.”

  “No worries,” Sloane said as her landlady followed her into the living room. Marty was standing on the table, a piqued look on his face. Breakfast was overdue. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late. Have a seat, please. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

  “Thanks, but no. I’m fully caffeinated.” She watched as Sloane scooped her cat off the table and set the roses on the kitchen counter. “I had this mail for you.”

  Sloane turned to look at Celeste, caught her expression. “Is something wrong?” She felt an anxious prickle. “Piper’s okay?”

  “She’s fine. All of us are fine. But . . .” Celeste opened the newspaper on the table. “It’s this. An article in the Times this morning. A feature about organized crime. Russians—it says they’re responsible for things that have happened in Sacramento, San Diego, and maybe even here in LA.”

  No . . .

  The blood drained from Sloane’s head as she stared at a black-and-white photo of Paul. She sank onto a chair.

  “It’s just that this man in the photo looks like someone I’ve seen before,” Celeste said, pulling out another chair. “A couple of weeks back. A man was sitting in a car at the curb beside our driveway. I’m not sure it was him. But it’s possible.”

  Sloane fought a wave of nausea. She stared at the article, unable to focus her eyes.

  “I’d just pulled up with Piper. We’d been to the store,” Celeste continued. “I asked if I could help him. He said he realized he had the wrong address. Then he asked for directions to the nearest Starbucks. He was good-looking, young. Polite. He complimented me on my roses.”

  Of course he would. Paul was a pro.

  “Have you seen any strange cars parked nearby?” Celeste asked. “If I remember right, it was an older midsize sedan, dark. Maybe a Toyota?”

  “No. I . . .” Sloane made herself meet her landlady’s gaze. She glanced down at the photo again, hating her deceit. “It doesn’t sound familiar.”

  Celeste’s finger traced down the article. “It says he’s a person of interest. That the authorities, including the FBI, are looking for him in connection with illegal gambling and possibly sex trafficking.”

  “Girls, too. Young ones. That’s Viktor’s real specialty.”

  “It must be frightening,” Sloane managed, guilt trying to strangle her, “even to imagine you might have seen him.”

  “It is.” Celeste swept a hand over her hair. “I feel like I have to call the police even if I’m not sure. To be safe. Because of Piper.”

  “Of course.” Sloane felt sick. That precious little girl. She reminded herself that Paul was gone. Also of what she’d told him last night. “No one’s bothered me in months.” It was the truth. And even if Paul had said otherwise, Sloane had no real connection to this dangerous business. There was no reason these criminals would bother with her.

  “Your name is mentioned in the article,” Celeste said.

  No, no . . .

  “At least I think it’s yours. There.” Celeste pointed to some lines halfway down the column. “It mentions a car accident in San Diego. It says a car was forced off an embankment. The passenger was a woman named Sloane Wilder. Was that you?”

  Sloane’s fingers moved to her scar. She tried to find the lines Celeste had indicated. “I had an accident there. But why . . . ?”

  “They think these mobsters were involved. They don’t give specific details here.” Celeste met Sloane’s gaze. “I only guessed it might be you because your rent application was under the name Wilder. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “Ah.”

  Relief sucked the rest of the blood from Sloane’s brain. Only a few people in LA knew that name. Celeste, the head of Hope hospital human resources, the ER manager who’d interviewed her, and Micah, of course. It had been months; maybe no one would even remember. Micah already knew about the accident.

  “Well,” Celeste said with a sigh, “I suspect there will be more information when the authorities hold that press conference this evening.”

  Sloane’s stomach churned.

  “I heard on TV, just before I came over here,” Celeste added, “that they’ve been able to communicate with that poor girl whose throat was cut. Through an interpreter—Russian. It’s amazing they put all this together,” she said, rising from her chair. “Apparently this young Times reporter has been working the angles for months.” She tapped the article. “A big stretch beyond his regular reporting. He usually gets a mention in the Lifestyle section. I think he took some pictures of a pumpkin patch last week.”

  What?

  Sloane pulled the page closer and found the shared byline.

  Cooper Vance.

  “Coop’s convinced a Russian inmate at State Prison is pulling the strings on criminal activity up and down the coast, including that attack on our Jane Doe. And those girls in the motel fire.”

  State Prison. Where he’d seen Sloane in the parking lot. Then probably told Micah. Who found her former name in the HR records. Or took it upon himself to look it up? Sloane’s heart stalled. Was this why Coop had been leaving those messages for her the past few days? He’d jotted down his number and left it with the ER clerk. She’d ignored it, certain he was trying to hit her up for information on the girl in SICU. But now . . .

  “I should go and let you ease into your day off,” Celeste said, gathering up the newspaper. Marty’s demanding meow rose from the kitchen. She laughed. “And feed your cat.”

  “Right.” Sloane made herself smile despite her troubling thoughts. “Hungry mode.”

  “Speaking of which,” Celeste said, walking toward the door, “I’m keeping Piper tonight and she’s invited Jerry to have dinner with us. To thank him for finishing our garden boxes. I’m making a pot roast. She’s planning an interpretive dance with a gardening theme.” She shook her head. “I have no clue. But you’re invited, of course.” She glanced toward the vase of roses on the kitchen counter. “If you don’t have other plans?”

  “Thank you. Really,” Sloane said as she followed her landlady into the small foyer. “But I do have something planned.”

  “I’m glad. You deserve something nice.”

  Sloane closed the door behind Celeste, then leaned against it, wrapping her robe tighter. She was being paranoid. Wasn’t she? Why would Micah feed confidential information to a newspaper reporter? Why would he help Cooper Vance dig into details of the Sacramento gambling, the accident in San Diego . . . and Paul? Had Coop discovered her connection to Paul? Did Micah know?

  It wasn’t possible. The flowers in her kitchen were proof. With a card he’d signed using the word love. Still, Micah hadn’t responded to her texts last night. Sloane had blown it off; she’d been too rattled anyway. But now she had to wonder.

  She headed to the bedroom and grabbed her phone off the nightstand. She’d call Micah to thank him for the flowers. She’d hear his voice and be reassured that everything was—
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  Her phone buzzed in her hands.

  A text. From Micah.

  Crisis responders needed after tonight’s press conference re: motel fire. Going in early. Could run late. Sorry. Know u understand.

  Micah switched his phone to silent mode, biting back a curse. This was the third time in an hour he’d let a call from Sloane go to voice mail. How was he supposed to talk with her—what could he possibly say?

  Know u understand.

  Really? How could she, when Micah didn’t?

  Please, Lord . . .

  He’d lain awake half the night, chewing on what Coop had said. About Paul Stryker, his ties to organized crime, and his engagement to Sloane. She’d agreed to marry this guy? They’d once shared an address, according to Coop’s research. Or at least this low-life Stryker had used Sloane’s address on paper. Micah didn’t know why he found some comfort in the latter idea, when the fact was that she’d lied. Or kept secrets, anyway. Which amounted to the same thing. And now she’d made the front page of the Times.

  Micah could well imagine how upset she’d be when she saw her name in the news article. It was there because of Coop. His blasted greed for a byline.

  He glared at the reporter’s name in black and white. They’d even updated his bio pic. He still looked like . . . what? A traitor? Because he suspected Micah’s feelings for Sloane and marched ahead anyway?

  Yes.

  Coop had apologized before laying out his discoveries, but Micah knew him well enough to suspect the reporter would be ecstatic if he could prove Sloane was a Bonnie to Paul Stryker’s Clyde. Or even a modern-day Patty Hearst, kidnapped and brainwashed into working alongside a bagman for a Russian mobster who trafficked in underage girls. And left at least one lying in an alley with her throat sliced. Micah wiped his glasses on his shirt, trying to lose the gruesome image.

  Sloane wasn’t a participant in any of that—he wouldn’t believe it. She’d made a mistake in hooking up with a bad guy. It would be easy to similarly judge Micah’s behavior after his return from the Middle East. He hadn’t been choosy enough about the company he kept. It had taken him a while to divulge any of that to Sloane; he could understand her reticence. But still, shouldn’t he be able to ask her about all of that now? Talk it over, sort it out? Uncomfortable, sure, but doable. Considering how much he’d come to care for her. But . . .

  “. . . it wasn’t the first time Sloane got that drunk. Her coworkers saw it as a big problem.”

  Sloane was a problem drinker. An alcoholic probably. That, combined with her poor choice of partners, ultimately made her at least partially responsible for the deaths of two innocent people and the reported maiming of a coworker. Micah couldn’t get past that. He’d turned it over and over in his mind those sleepless hours last night. He tried to pray—couldn’t. This was far too much like what happened to Stephen. It stirred too much pain. Too much anger. He needed time to sort it out.

  He’d never once seen Sloane impaired; in fact, she’d been the first to say, “No thank you” when alcohol was offered. What Coop had learned from the San Diego Hope staffer was hard to imagine, but she was so guarded and insistent on her privacy. Almost to the point of isolation; Sloane hadn’t been a joiner when it came to hospital socializing. Wasn’t that a sign of addiction? Those thoughts and more kept him awake last night. Far beyond his resentment of Coop’s greedy ambition. Even beyond the news that Sloane had been engaged to such a high-profile loser. In the end, Micah couldn’t come to grips with—

  His doorbell rang.

  It rang a second time before he could take two steps. And then again.

  “Micah, it’s Sloane.”

  31

  “I, UH . . . Thank you for the flowers,” Sloane said, afraid she was going to pass out. Her heart was beating in her ears like a bass drum. Why on earth had she come here? Micah had clearly changed his mind about seeing her. “They’re beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you liked them.”

  His quick smile was a mismatch to the discomfort in his eyes. He obviously wasn’t on his way to meet the crisis team: unshaven, mussed hair, wearing a faded UCLA sweatshirt and old jeans . . . no shoes.

  Micah swept the door wider, clearing his throat. “Come in. I apologize for the mess.”

  “It’s okay,” Sloane said, following him inside the seventh-floor condominium. She tried her best not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t offered a hug, even the smallest of touches. “I didn’t exactly give you a warning.”

  Their plans had included meeting here today, but she’d never seen it before. It was nice, modern, and very different from Celeste’s cottage. Glossy concrete floors, high ceilings with open beams, and geometric throw rugs. Micah’s notion of messy was nowhere near hers. Unless you counted a couple of dishes on his coffee table and his guitar lying across the couch. The Martin. Her throat tightened at the memory of their first date, how she’d discovered the calluses on his fingertips from the strings.

  “Want some coffee?” Micah asked as they walked into the open living room. He glanced toward the kitchen area. “I have a pot going.”

  “No thanks.” Sloane’s breath snagged as she saw that Micah’s “mess” also included a copy of the Times. Lying front page up on the stone-top table next to his coffee mug. She turned to look at him and saw his fleeting grimace. “I didn’t come for coffee,” she said. “I think we need to talk.”

  “Right.” He gestured toward the leather couch. “Make yourself . . .” He seemed to catch himself. Neither of them were anywhere near comfortable. “Have a seat.”

  Micah lifted the guitar, propped it against the couch, and sat beside her. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your texts. Or phone calls,” he said, his expression out of sync with his words. No apology there. He looked sullen, wary . . . angry? This was bad.

  “Did you really get called in for the crisis team?” Sloane asked.

  Micah glanced down at his hands. “I called them—volunteered.”

  “Is this because of the Times article? My name in there because of the accident in San Diego?”

  He met her gaze. “You know it’s more than that, Sloane.”

  She made herself ask. “What did Coop say?”

  “You were engaged to that guy. Paul Stryker.”

  “I was,” she heard herself say. “But it ended—I ended it—almost two years ago. The relationship was a mistake. I can’t tell you how much I regret it.” The ache in her throat was making it hard to talk. “When you asked if I’d been married, I should have told you that.”

  “But it was ‘complicated.’” Micah glanced toward the paper. “Because of all he was involved in.” There was accusation in his tone.

  “Yes.” Sloane sat forward. “I swear I had nothing to do with any of that. I knew Paul played poker, but I had no idea how far it went. I thought he was in trouble for money he’d borrowed.” Her teeth caught her lower lip; she couldn’t say anything more about all that had happened recently. “I’d have sent him away even sooner if I’d known what he was up to. I meant what I said about regretting it. I wish I could go back and do it over.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Micah said, meeting her gaze. “But it isn’t only that.” He dragged his fingers down his stubbled jaw, groaned. “It’s like Coop’s suddenly laying all this stuff out and—”

  “When?” Sloane interrupted, a new emotion crowding in. “When exactly did he tell you about Paul . . . and about me?”

  “Last night. But he’d been working on story leads for months. Piecing things together, ferreting out details. That’s what Coop does.”

  “Then he went to Sacramento. And San Diego,” Sloane said, beginning to feel queasy. “Places I’ve lived, worked. How could he ‘ferret out details’ about me without knowing about my name change?”

  “He did know.”

  Sloane’s lips tensed. “How?”

  “I think . . .” Micah’s brows bunched. “He saw you at the prison. Got curious, I guess.”

  “You told
him about my stepfather?”

  “I did. But only after he mentioned seeing you. He was there because of another prisoner. One of the Russians. He got your information from a source he’s cultivated there at the prison.”

  Sloane felt invaded, sick.

  “Coop saw the name change on the visitor log,” Micah explained. “Then told me.”

  “You said you’d seen it on HR records because of your marketing campaign.”

  “I looked it up.”

  Micah wished he could have avoided admitting that, but it was the truth. He saw her stiffen beside him. “I had access to the records because of your nomination. But I looked it up because of what Coop told me.”

  “I see.” Sloane had perched on the edge of the couch and begun to tremble. Her eyes pinned him with the look Coop had once called “shooting fire.” That first time they’d all tangled in the ER parking lot after the incident with Zoey Jones. It seemed a lifetime ago. Everything seemed distant now—out of reach.

  “So,” Sloane continued, “you and your reporter buddy think you have it all put together? You invaded my privacy to find all the scoop-worthy dirt. You proved I hooked up with a loser and changed my name because I was running from the Russian mob.”

  “Sloane, hold on.” Was any of this fixable at this point? Should he even try? “I didn’t know Coop’s research in Sacramento would have anything to do with you,” he insisted. “Or that he’d end up asking questions at San Diego Hope. About you. And your accident.”

  “What?” The color drained from her face. “You mean he got my medical records? That’s illegal.”

  “No—not that,” Micah said in a rush, almost wishing it were that instead. “Coop spoke with an ER staffer. Off the record.”

  “What did he say?” Sloane lifted her chin a little, that tough-girl look he thought he’d seen the last of. “Tell me, Micah.”

  Please, Lord. I’m not ready. . . .

  “What exactly did this employee say about me?”

  Micah took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “He said you were drunk the night of the accident. So incapacitated that one of your teammates had to drive your car,” he explained, hating this. If only he’d had more time to think it through. And then what? No. He had to do it. “He said it wasn’t the first time you were in that condition. And . . .”