Her temple started to pound. She’d set Nick free. She’d collected the pieces that had been broken with their engagement and she’d rebuilt herself stronger. She was proud of her career and her life since Nick. Inviting him back into her world would only tempt her, and being with Nick was too complicated.
Then again, what if he was correct and her life was in danger?
She reached into her pocket and fingered the jewelry case. Just give it to him.
“Libby?” Nick was still watching her. “What do you think?”
“I think I have to be in court to argue a pretrial motion.” She placed the jewelry box between them and tried to ignore the look in Nick’s eyes: anger dusted with hurt. “I’m cleaning out old things. This belongs to you.”
He sat back in his seat as if the sight of the case repulsed him. “I told you a long time ago that I don’t want it.”
“And neither do I.” She shrugged on her trench coat and reached for her bag.
“But you kept it. You kept it all these years.” He said it with a quick snap, his words betraying a depth of raw hurt.
Libby halted. “I meant to return it.”
“Ah, sure. When the time was right and the gesture was calculated to hurt the most.”
She swallowed. “I’m due in court. Thanks for the tea.”
“You paid for it.”
“Then thanks for nothing.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed out of the café where the air was clearer and the rain had almost stopped.
She inhaled deeply and felt the scattered thoughts in her head organize. How ridiculous to think she was being targeted by a homicidal maniac. Things like that didn’t happen in real life, and they certainly didn’t happen to people like Libby.
She didn’t bother to turn around as she stalked to her car and turned the key in the ignition. But as she pulled away, she saw Nick watching her from the sidewalk, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. A tightness gathered in her chest at the thought that she’d succeeded, that he’d turn around and drive right back to Pittsburgh. Decide she wasn’t worth the effort.
There was that ache in her heart again.
Chapter 2
Libby paused before entering her office. Nothing out of place, no surprises or strange packages on her desk. She exhaled and realized that she’d been holding her breath since she’d come out of the stairwell.
She felt shaky inside her own skin and she had to get a hold of herself. Nick was overreacting, that was all. What was it her father had said? Nick shoots first and asks questions later, and that’s an ass-backward way to live. She hadn’t appreciated his insight at the time, but he’d been right. Her father had always been right about Nick.
In hindsight she could see why the relationship was doomed from the start. As the daughter of a prominent judge, Libby had a privileged upbringing. She’d enjoyed countless dinners at the country club, rubbed elbows with powerful men and women at political fund-raisers and enjoyed a private school education. Her father had taught her and her sister the importance of good manners and grace. Nick had had no such opportunities, and her father took note. “Have you noticed,” he’d casually remarked one evening, “that Nick holds his fork like a barbarian?”
Libby had bristled with a mixture of defensiveness and mortification. Before their next dinner she’d taught Nick how to hold his fork properly and smiled over her glass at her father when Nick executed the European style like a pro. But later her father had remarked how funny it had been when Nick had used the dinner fork for salad. “You come from different worlds,” he’d said. “It’s only natural that he’d feel out of place in ours.”
The differences ran deeper than table manners. Libby could happily spend a weekend curled on the couch with a book while Nick played rugby with his friends. He had an almost bottomless supply of energy, excelled in most sports and hated school. She had no patience for basketball but could recite entire soliloquies from several Elizabethan and Jacobean playwrights. Mutual affection carried them far, but their paths would have inevitably split.
She switched on the light to her office and hung her coat on the standing rack in the corner. She wouldn’t pretend that she hadn’t gotten goose bumps to think about a killer leaving her photo at a crime scene, but she’d read the letter, and there were no overt threats made against her. She’d take extra precautions, that’s all. She could stay with her sister. Cassie was a single mother who’d just given birth four weeks ago. Libby had stayed at her place last night, and maybe she’d invite herself over again tonight. Cassie would be grateful for the help.
She halted. And what if Nick was right, and someone was after her? Would she be placing her sister and nephew in harm by staying with them? Libby felt the familiar stirrings of a headache. No more thinking about absurd possibilities. She’d sleep in her office if she had to.
She rounded her desk and stared at the piles of work. With a heavy sigh she sat in her chair and reached for the top pile, State v. Bailey. Mr. Bailey was charged with first-degree murder, and he could walk if she didn’t try to figure out a way to save the day at the suppression hearing that afternoon. She pulled a court decision from the file and grabbed a highlighter and pen.
“Busy, Libby?” Greg leaned against the door frame to her office, clasping a thick stack of papers. “A few of us are going to moot Kate. She’s got an appeal coming up.”
Greg LaFrance was a chief attorney in the Appellate Bureau. He was always trying to recruit other attorneys in the office to practice appellate court arguments. His efforts were so notorious that one or two colleagues readily admitted to hiding when they heard his footfall. Had she not been so distracted, Libby may have done the same.
She looked up momentarily and then returned her gaze to the case she was reading. “Sorry. I’m due in court at three.”
“Too bad. We’re going to have to find another judge to play the hard-ass.”
Greg was grinning, but Libby gritted her teeth. She placed the pen in her hand on the desk firmly and looked up at him. “What’s that mean?”
He blinked. “Sorry?”
“You called me a hard-ass.” She folded her arms. “I want to know why.”
Greg cocked his head to one side and looked at her as if she’d completely lost her mind. She didn’t appreciate that at all. “Are you serious?”
“Yep. Let’s hear it. Why am I a hard-ass?”
Poor Greg looked as if he was bargaining with some deity to make the earth open up and swallow him whole rather than answer that question. He was probably her closest friend in the office, but their friendship was limited to pleasantries about plans for the weekend or politics. They didn’t have lunch or coffee or crack jokes at the photocopier. Most days Libby was far too busy for chitchat. But now? She wanted to know why he’d just used that awful term, the one that made her muscles tense with irritation until her shoulders practically rose to her earlobes. The one that she’d been called too many times to count.
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Libby,” Greg said gently. He thumbed the stack of papers and rolled them into a loose cylinder. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Do people think I can’t take a joke?” she demanded. “That I don’t have a sense of humor? Is that what that means?” Even as the words hung in the space between them, the irony wasn’t lost on her. Good one, Libby—demand to know why he thinks you can’t take a joke. That’ll show him you’re not uptight.
His eyes were wide, and he tapped the cylindrical papers against his stomach in agitation. “Of course they don’t think that. We’ve always had lots of fun together. Or we used to. You’ve been busy lately.”
She raked her lower lip with her teeth as she thought. “Is it because I don’t go out to happy hours anymore? You know I don’t like those social things, Greg. I’m not good at small talk.” Much as she’d tried, Libby had never felt comfortable making idle conversation.
She realized she was imploring him to validate her, and she
didn’t know why she cared about her reputation around the office. She was a great prosecutor—what else mattered?
“You’re all business, Libby. There’s nothing wrong with that. We admire you.” Greg ran a finger under his collar to loosen his tie. The gesture made her feel like a big jerk. She’d made him uncomfortable. “Everyone wants you to moot them because you ask the tough questions. You see the things that we miss. That’s all.”
He shifted to his other foot and looked away, and Libby felt a pang in her chest. She was taking out her problems on Greg, and that wasn’t right. She relaxed her arms. “I’m sorry, Greg. I’m having a bad day.”
“Is it because of your father?” Greg’s forehead creased with concern, and Libby felt even worse for the interrogation she’d just put him through. “You know, I appeared before Judge Andrews many times. He was a good judge. Fair. Smart. My dad died a few years ago, and I’ve been thinking about him a lot.” Libby waited for him to say more, but he let the thought drop.
“Thanks, Greg. And I’m sorry about your father.” Strange, she didn’t remember his father’s passing. “How long has it been?”
He sighed. “It was three years in January.”
Libby tightened her mouth. That explained it. That would have been just about the time she went to the doctor and her entire world fell apart. She’d gone to find out why her periods were so irregular, and he’d informed her she couldn’t have children. “Early menopause,” he’d explained with clinical detachment, “as a result of the cancer treatment you received as a child.”
That news had sent her into a tailspin. Libby had dreamed of having a large, loving family and the pleasant chaos that would bring to her normally orderly life. Noisy holiday dinners. Busy weekends. Laundry piles. The opposite of her rigid upbringing. She’d grieved never knowing what it felt like to carry a life inside her, or decorate a nursery. She’d grieved the little hands and feet. She’d spent sleepless nights sobbing that she’d never be called Mommy, gripped with an ugly self-pity that she couldn’t shake. Shame had been a constant companion, and she’d indulged in long self-evaluations before the mirror, taking inventory of everything that was broken and wrong with her. First cancer, then this, as if cancer alone hadn’t been adequate punishment for some unknown sin.
Nick had been in Quantico. She’d never told him. She’d meant to, when the time was right and he’d be receptive to hearing that his fiancée couldn’t give him the children he’d always wanted. Until then she’d tucked her secret in a corner of her mind, only to discover that the longer she kept it hidden away, the stronger her grip on it became. An infertility diagnosis meant their relationship was doomed. But if she never told him the truth, he couldn’t reject her, could he? Instead, she could reject him, make the breakup look like her idea. She’d found a measure of comfort in controlling the source of her heartache.
All along, she’d assumed she’d been carrying on as usual during the daytime, keeping her personal business personal. Greg’s revelation now filled her with a new sense of shame. She’d been so self-absorbed that she’d been oblivious to the suffering of others.
“Time flies,” she said carefully, and then lowered her gaze to his feet. She hadn’t sent a card or flowers. She hadn’t even asked him how he was doing. How could he still stand to be in the same room with her?
“It sure does.” His tone was wistful, but after a brief pause, he brightened. “Hey, if you ever want to talk sometime... I know you’re busy, but if you can break away from your files for a little while for lunch...”
“Thanks, Greg.”
He tapped his knuckles on the door frame and gave her a sad smile as he left. Libby clasped her head in her hands. She had screwed up with Greg, big time. She would make it a point to do something nice for him soon. Maybe she’d even take him up on that lunch offer. Her treat.
A knot formed in her stomach as she glanced at the clock. She had a hearing in less than two hours and it promised to be a rough one. Unlike Greg, Judge Hayward had not been a fan of her father, and Libby often had the sense when she appeared before her that the judge was making her pay for some crime her father had committed a long, long time ago, when he had been a prosecutor and she a public defender. Maybe Libby was just being sensitive; in a way, it seemed perfectly natural that a public defender would have different politics from a prosecutor.
She returned to reading her case, highlighter in hand, and was jotting down some notes on a piece of paper when she heard a woman in the hallway outside her office shriek, “Nick! Long time no see!”
Libby froze. No. Just...no.
Surely she’d been greeting a different Nick. Surely Nick Foster, who’d worked closely with the prosecutors in the District Attorney’s Office during his time as a member of the Arbor Falls P.D., had not been so brash as to follow her back to her office. Then she heard his voice. “Good to see you, Sheila. I thought I’d surprise Libby.”
For a frantic moment Libby considered diving under her desk. She settled on popping a breath mint just as he strolled into her office. “Well, well,” she said coolly. “Let me guess—you’re heading back to Pittsburgh, and you thought you’d say goodbye?”
* * *
“You’ve always been lousy at guessing games.” Nick paused and looked around the office. “You hid your visitor’s chair.”
“The state took them back as part of some budget-saving measure.” She sighed and turned back to the paperwork on her desk. “There was a giant yard sale on the town green.”
“Liar.” He walked to the gray filing cabinet in the corner, looked behind it and removed a chair. “What’s the matter, Libby? Don’t you want visitors?”
“Visitors occupy space I don’t have.” She didn’t make eye contact as he plopped the chair directly in front of her desk and sat down. Then she looked up and sighed dramatically. “Did you need to do that?”
“This is where visitor chairs go,” he explained as he pulled out his BlackBerry and checked his email. “In most offices, at least. In yours I guess they go behind the filing cabinet.” He winked but was rewarded with a scowl.
“I’d throw it out a window if they opened,” she muttered.
He’d followed Libby to the office, watching for any pursuing cars. State police officers were stationed at the District Attorney’s Office as a matter of routine. They stopped him at the door, but Nick flashed his FBI credentials and informed them of the threats against Libby. “If you see anything suspicious, anything at all, give me or Sergeant Dom Vasquez a call.”
The stairwells had been secure, as had the elevators. Nick walked the four flights of stairs to the fifth floor and surveyed the surroundings. The office was as busy as he remembered, and nothing struck him as unusual or concerning. Despite all of these assurances, Nick couldn’t get his pulse down.
Libby was in danger. She’d unceremoniously dumped him, cruelly told him that she had no feelings for him. The way she’d returned that ring just now...he’d had to fight his anger. She’d treated their engagement as if it had meant nothing at all, and he suspected she’d been unfaithful. Well, sometimes he suspected it. Most often he repressed his suspicions because the thought of Libby with another man made him want to do something destructive. Something he would regret and have to pay for. Then again Libby was principled above all else. She drove the speed limit and did things the hard way. “Cheating” wasn’t in her vocabulary. No, he decided as he watched her, she probably hadn’t cheated.
He clenched his fists. She’d dumped him, and still the thought of anyone hurting her made him nearly wild. Not that he was still attracted to her. Definitely not. His primitive caveman self simply hadn’t caught on to the fact that she was no longer his, that’s all. That explained his decision to call out of work for a few days so he could stand guard beside her. His supervisor had threatened to discipline him for taking vacation on such short notice. Let him. This was a matter of honor, nothing more or less. Territorial paleolithic stuff.
Nick frowned t
o himself as he checked his BlackBerry, sorting through the day’s messages. He was relieved to see that his inbox contained nothing of real importance, although one of his larger cases was moving forward quickly. There was another message about his upcoming transfer. He was required to spend a three-year rotation in a major FBI office, and he was hoping to be placed in Washington, D.C. He’d learn his placement soon.
He returned the BlackBerry to his pocket and rested his arms on the chair, which had seen better days a long, long time ago. “You know that the arm of this chair is split?” He ran his thumb over the crack. “You should ask for a new one.”
“It’s not in the budget. They’d just hand me a roll of duct tape.”
He watched her as she read. Hardworking, serious Libby—had she always been that way? He didn’t think so. She’d always been smart and studious, just like her father, but she’d balanced her seriousness with spontaneity. Nick would never have wanted to date a woman who’d shut herself off the way this Libby seemed to.
“Wanted to date”—who was he kidding? “Fallen completely in love with” was closer to the truth. Blindly, stupidly in love.
He couldn’t tell what she was reading, but she was intent. She chewed her lip when she was lost in thought; he’d always found that adorable. Nick leaned back and exhaled, suddenly feeling like he was sitting on a stack of thumbtacks. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“What?” She didn’t bother to look up.
“Sit still like this. All day. My skin is crawling.” He rubbed his arms, partly to prove his point and partly because he hadn’t meant it as a figure of speech. His skin felt like it was covered in something vile.
The Seven-Day Target Page 3
