He already knew how that felt—grief compounded a hundredfold by the knowledge that different choices might have changed the tragedy. He’d been the one to suggest he and Charlotte go out to dinner and leave Daniel with a sitter. He’d been the one who’d insisted that everything would be just fine. He’d been wrong. Daniel had died because of it.
He moved across the yard, his gaze shifting to the lake. The vista was as beautiful as he remembered—clear starry night, inky water sprinkled with moonlight, the lights of the town twinkling through the trees on the far shore. It was the people on the beach below that he was interested in, though. He could see them clearly—Wren leaning over Bubbles, Charlotte lying prone beside her. Clover sitting with his face turned to Bubbles’s house. The gunman had had a great view and an easy shot.
Had he known that before he arrived?
Was he familiar with this property, this view?
Adam had been on the Night Stalker’s trail for three years. He knew everything there was to know about the killer’s MO. The Night Stalker was intelligent. He was patient. He was meticulous. In his day-to-day life, he was probably a law-abiding, hardworking citizen. A bit of a loner, but not someone neighbors would worry about. He was the kind of guy who’d wave from across the street, smile and have pleasant conversations when he ran into people he knew.
He had a veneer of respectability that kept him safe.
He knew it, so why take risks by hanging around in a town as small as Whisper Lake? A town where everyone knew everyone and strangers were always noticed?
Unless he belonged there.
Unless he was as much a part of Whisper Lake as Charlotte and Bubbles.
The thought shivered through Adam, and he couldn’t shake it. If it were true, everything changed. There would be no more speculating about what the Night Stalker would do, whether he would go after Charlotte or go into hiding. If he lived in town, the likelihood that he knew Charlotte was high. Even if he didn’t know her, he could easily find out who she was. A drive down the road where he’d shot her, a look at the mailboxes. A question asked here or there, and he’d have her identity as well as the fact that she was divorced, living alone, her only neighbor an elderly widow.
An ambulance crew had arrived. He could see them making their way toward the beach, jogging across grass and sand, equipment bouncing in their hands.
To his left, branches broke as someone stepped through the thick line of bushes that edged Bubbles’s property. He didn’t pull his firearm. There was no way the Night Stalker would be bold enough to step out into the moonlight.
As he watched, River stepped into view, his coat opened to reveal his holster and firearm. Unlike most of the members of the Special Crimes Unit, River hadn’t been recruited from within the ranks of the FBI. He’d been a detective with the LAPD, a decorated war veteran and a well-known ballistics and blood-splatter expert. He’d been used as an expert witness in dozens of trials, and he was as good on the stand as he was in the field.
From what Adam had heard, River had been Wren’s top pick when she’d begun assembling her team. They had a history together—military careers that had crossed a few years before they’d retired.
Adam didn’t know the story. He hadn’t asked. Most members of the team were younger and less experienced. Gung ho and capable, but still earning their stripes. River and Wren were the exception. They’d made names for themselves long before they’d entered the FBI.
“Find anything interesting?” River asked, his gaze shifting from Adam to the beach and back again.
“Aside from tracks in the gravel? Not yet,” Adam replied.
“I took a look at them and snapped a few pictures. Just in case.”
“In case what?”
“The clouds roll in and a storm blows through and the evidence disappears.”
“Do you have an ETA for the evidence team?”
“The state wants to send their team in. Wren wants ours. Not sure if they plan to flip a coin or duke it out. One way or another, I hope they come to an agreement quickly. I’m anxious to input any information they collect into our data banks. The tracks are deep. I’m thinking they were made by a truck.”
“Late-model and two-door?” Adam said, and River smiled grimly.
“That would be my guess. We’ll see what the team turns up. How’s the old lady?”
“Hopefully healthy enough to resent being called that.”
“She didn’t look good when she was in the lake. Wren said she had a pulse?”
“She did.”
“Did you see any visible signs of trauma?” River asked, his attention shifting to the beach again.
“No, but I didn’t have time to look very closely.”
“We’ll have to make sure the medical team does due diligence. If they find bruises or defensive wounds, we’ll need to know about it.”
“You think she was attacked?”
“I think it’s odd that she ended up in the lake the night Charlotte was returning home,” River responded. “The fact that someone was up here playing sniper while you were down on the beach trying to save Bubbles is even more suspicious. I’ve never believed in coincidence. Even if I did, I wouldn’t believe this was one.”
He was right, and if Adam hadn’t been busy reacting to crises, he’d have already been thinking in that direction.
“Did you call the local police department? We need to have someone at the hospital when Bubbles arrives.”
“I did one better. I called Sam. He and Honor are heading to the hospital. He’ll stay there. She’ll drive here with the security equipment.”
“We may not need it. If the Night Stalker is sticking around, Charlotte is going to have to leave. Wren should be able to have a safe location ready within a few hours.”
River snorted. “Do you think you can convince Charlotte to go?”
“The bullet came within a couple inches of her.”
“And?” River walked to the driveway, and Adam followed.
“Charlotte isn’t a risk taker.” At least, she hadn’t been. A lot of years had passed since they’d been married. They’d both changed. Maybe she’d become more willing to take chances. Maybe she was no longer afraid of spiders or disgusted by the thought of eating hard-boiled eggs. Maybe she’d learned to rub her stomach and pat her head at the same time, or discovered the perfect recipe for fudge.
There were dozens of things he had once known about her that might no longer be true.
He’d spent nine days by her side. He’d noticed all the little ways she’d physically changed, but there were other subtler changes, too. Her smile wasn’t as open. Her gaze wasn’t as direct. She was less likely to speak and more likely to listen.
“She might not be a risk taker, but she’s a homebody and a fighter. She’ll want to stick close to the cottage and the lake, and I think she’d rather face this guy head-on than hide from him.”
“You might be right,” Adam conceded. “But what she wants isn’t as important as keeping her alive. We know what the Night Stalker is capable of. He’s already made two attempts on her life. He’s not going to stop until he succeeds.”
“Or until he’s caught.”
They’d reached the end of the driveway, and River gestured toward the road. “Where does this go?”
“It’s a ten-mile track from the crossroad to an old logging camp that shut down in the forties.” He’d explored the area when he was a kid, ducking into old shanties that still stood against the backdrop of the encroaching forest.
“Are there any side roads between here and there?”
“None,” Adam answered, suddenly understanding exactly what River was getting at. The shooter had driven in. He had to have driven out. “Did a vehicle pass you while you were waiting for the ambulance?”
“No, and I would have noticed if one did. I was standi
ng in the middle of the road.”
“So, he drove toward the logging camp,” Adam said more to himself than to River.
“Let’s see if we can find him.” River took off, and Adam followed, sprinting toward the cottage and the Cadillac.
FOUR
The ambulance had parked at the end of Charlotte’s driveway, its flashing lights splashing across gravel and grass as two EMTs lifted Bubbles into the vehicle. She didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes, didn’t seem to be at all aware that she was being taken to the hospital.
She was breathing on her own, though.
That was good news.
Please, God, let her be okay.
The prayer whispered through Charlotte’s mind, and she wanted to believe that God would hear and that He’d answer by allowing Bubbles to fully recover.
That was what Charlotte wanted to believe, but she’d learned the hard way that God didn’t always answer the way she wanted or expected.
She’d prayed desperately in the hours after Daniel had wandered away from his babysitter. She’d bargained with God, offering her time, her money and her resources in exchange for her son’s life.
In the end, she’d been left heartbroken.
She was older now, more mature. She understood what she hadn’t then—God’s plan didn’t always mean easy paths. A year after Daniel’s death, she’d attended church. Not for Christmas or Easter. Not because someone had asked her to go. She’d attended because she’d wanted answers. She’d needed to know if God was really there, if He existed. If He cared.
She’d found Him.
She’d found pieces of herself.
But she’d never forgotten that God didn’t bargain. Not even with desperate mothers who promised Him everything.
“Please, not this time,” she whispered as she jogged to the ambulance, Clover prancing beside her.
“Can I ride along?” she asked the EMT.
“Are you family?”
“I’m the closest thing she has to one.”
“All right, but your dog has to stay here.”
“Can you bring him into the cottage?” She tossed the question over her shoulder, knowing that Wren was right behind her.
“You can do it just as easily, because there is no way you’re going to the hospital.”
She turned, surprised and a little disoriented. She’d spent five and a half years on her own. She made decisions, did her own thing and didn’t rely on anyone for help. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. You’re not going,” Wren said. No heat in her voice. No emotion. Just a statement of fact.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Why would I be?”
“I don’t need your permission to go to the hospital.” She stepped away from the ambulance, though. She didn’t want to do anything that would postpone Bubbles getting the care she needed. Arguing with Wren while the ambulance crew waited would do that.
“We’re ready to roll. Are you coming?” the EMT asked, and she shook her head.
“Good choice,” Wren said as the ambulance doors shut and it sped away.
“Just because I didn’t ride in the ambulance doesn’t mean I’m not going to the hospital.” She headed toward the house, determined to put Clover inside, get in her Jeep and go.
She reached the Cadillac, its passenger doors still open, and grabbed her bag and purse from the back seat. She’d need her ID, her keys and her cell phone. She was still soaked, her skin so cold she couldn’t feel the chill anymore. Smart would be getting changed before she left, grabbing a coat and gloves and maybe even a hat.
Instead, she opened the front door, let Clover into the entry and closed it again.
“Going somewhere?” Adam asked.
She jumped, swinging around so quickly she felt dizzy.
“You just scared ten years off my life,” she breathed, her hand pressed to her chest, the skin aching.
“Sorry about that,” he responded, his gaze cold and a little hard. “Wren said you want to go to the hospital.”
“Wren is correct.”
“You know that’s not a good idea, Charlotte.”
“No, I actually don’t know that.”
“Someone just tried to kill you,” he responded. “Isn’t that proof enough that you shouldn’t be out in public places?”
“It’s proof, but it doesn’t change anything. Bubbles is one of my closest friends. She’s been here for me when no one else was.”
Something shifted in his eyes, the coldness replaced by what looked like sorrow. “Charlotte—”
“I didn’t mean you,” she cut in. She didn’t want to hear whatever he planned to say. She didn’t want to know if he had regrets, if he wished he could go back and change things.
She’d loved Adam for so many years it had been difficult to learn how to not love him. She’d done that, though. Done it and tried to forget what it was like to have someone care like Adam had. Now he was back, fitting into her life as perfectly as he always had, and all the memories of what they’d been were still there.
“Who else would you mean?” he asked, touching her cheek the way he used to every morning before he left for work, fingers drifting to her nape and kneading the tense muscles there. “We were everything to each other. I haven’t forgotten that.”
“Adam—”
“I need to go, but I want you to promise me you won’t leave the cottage while I’m gone.” He traced a line from her nape to the hollow in her throat, his finger resting there for a moment. Her pulse beat wildly, and it wasn’t because of fear or anger or any of the other emotions she could and should be feeling.
It was because he was an arm’s length away, and if she’d wanted to, she could have taken a step closer, let her hands settle on his waist, fit herself to him the way she used to.
“Promise me, Charlotte,” he murmured, leaning down and kissing her forehead, his lips warm, the contact light and undemanding.
And she could feel herself melting, sinking into him the way she always had.
“Okay,” she responded, and he nodded, his hand dropping away as he stepped back.
“Wren will stay here with you. Another member of our team will arrive shortly. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Where are you going?” she finally thought to ask, her brain starting to function again, her heartbeat slowing as he moved away.
He didn’t answer, and she would have followed him down the porch stairs and into the driveway, but Wren stepped between them, taking her arm and pulling her toward the door.
“Inside,” she said grimly, opening the door and nudging Charlotte into the entryway.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Saying that is only making me worry more.”
“We have a handle on things. All you need to do is stick with the plan.”
“I didn’t know there was one.”
“You just agreed to it. You stay inside. We find the guy who wants to kill you.”
“I didn’t agree...” But, of course, she had.
She’d looked into Adam’s eyes, felt the warmth of his hand against her skin, and she’d promised that she’d stay in the house while he was gone.
“That was sneaky,” she muttered.
“What?” Wren asked, walking into the kitchen and checking the lock on the window before she closed the shades.
“Adam...” She shook her head. She wasn’t going to go into all the details of what he’d done. She was sure Wren had seen and heard it all. She’d probably put him up to it.
“You think he manipulated you?” Wren asked, turning to face her. She didn’t look annoyed. She didn’t look amused. She looked curious.
“He did.”
“H
e didn’t,” Wren corrected, her dark eyes filled with sympathy and understanding. “He cares about you. The way he acted was a result of that, so if you think that he used your relationship to get you to cooperate, you’re thinking wrong.”
“Relationship? He’s my ex-husband.”
“And?” Wren walked into the living room, checked the windows there and pulled the curtains closed.
“We don’t have a relationship.”
“Can I ask you a question and get an honest answer?” Wren said, dropping into the recliner, her long legs stretching out in front of her. She had the tall lean look of a runway model, her hair always perfectly styled, her makeup understated and impeccable, but there was something comforting about her, too—a nurturing vibe that probably put most people at ease.
Charlotte hadn’t been nurtured as a kid, though. Her mother had been more interested in partying than parenting. Even before she’d divorced Charlotte’s father, she’d been on a mission to find herself and whatever faux joy that brought her. Charlotte’s father had been just as focused on himself, pursuing his real estate career with more passion than he’d ever pursued parenting. When they’d split, she’d landed on her grandparents’ doorstep, because neither parent wanted the responsibility of raising a teenager.
So yeah, being nurtured wasn’t something Charlotte had ever looked for or needed, and she couldn’t help wondering what Wren’s game was, what she hoped to accomplish by acting sympathetic and caring.
“That depends on the question,” she finally responded, grabbing a towel from the linen closet in the hall and wrapping herself in it. She was colder now than she’d been when she was outside, her body shaking with it.
“What was your marriage like?”
The question seemed to come out of left field, and Charlotte wasn’t even certain she’d heard it right. “What?”
“Your marriage. Did Adam beat you?”
“Of course not.”
“Mistreat you? Yell at you? Curse at you? Make you feel like you didn’t matter?”
“He made me feel like the most important person in his life,” she responded honestly. “We were best friends in middle school, a couple in high school. I thought...”
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