With her heart in her throat, Maryse watched him slip past a row of shrubs beside the house, then head toward the car. The farther away he got, the more her stomach twisted up in knots. As he reached the vehicle, he turned abruptly and disappeared completely into one of the yards. No wave, no acknowledgment of her presence. And even though she understood why, she couldn’t help but wish he’d at least glanced over his shoulder.
Then there was nothing but stillness. Even the cold winter breeze had died down.
She shifted her attention to Dee White’s house, scanning the perimeter for any sign of Brooks. She saw none. In fact, the house was silent, too.
And all the quiet gave her too much time to think. Too much time to chew at the fact that Brooks had said if Camille was in the house. Too much time to wonder why money had come up, but no ransom demand had been made, and to worry about why this couple seemed to know about her brother, but hadn’t mentioned him outside of the note they’d left behind.
It didn’t make any sense, no matter how she came at it.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. So long as Camille is safe. So long as Brooks can get her out.
Her eyes searched the property once again.
“Please hurry,” she murmured, her whisper dragging against the chilly air.
Finally, she caught a flash of gray—just the same color as Brooks’s sweater—beside the fence, and she exhaled, sure it was him. For a second, relief eased her worry. But a heartbeat later, it came back with a vengeance. A second flash followed the first, and there was no mistaking it for Brooks. It was something metallic. Something dangerous.
Another gun?
The thought was enough to spur her to action. She fled the relative safety offered by the wide oak and ran toward the house, her feet flying over the snow-covered grass. She reached the house’s front yard in moments. She strode up the path to the front door. And there, she paused, unsure what to do next. Try to come up stealthily and hope to use the element of surprise? Call out to Brooks and possibly alert not only whoever was following him, but also whoever was inside?
If you haven’t done that already.
Another flicker from the side of the house took away the illusion of choice.
What she had to do was hurry.
Drawing the gun from her pocket as she moved, Maryse pushed herself to the exterior wall of the house and moved in the direction of the metallic gleam.
* * *
Brooks took a cautious step toward the back porch.
Something isn’t right.
The house was too quiet.
During the accidental phone call, Dee White had been anything but calm and collected. Even her brief, angry monologue had been enough to tell him that she wasn’t the kind of person who would sit around sipping tea in silence. She was likely the kind of criminal who would be rash and unpredictable, and she’d be wearing a hole in the floor in frustration as she waited for Greg to get back to her.
So what does that mean for right now?
Had she left, as she’d said she was going to do? Or had she had Camille held elsewhere from the beginning? Either thing was a possibility.
And either will leave us back at square one, too.
Brooks took another concerned step forward, then froze as the distinct sound of boots crunching on snow carried to his ears. Quick and steady, and definitely headed his way.
Automatically, he dropped into a defensive stance, arms wide, hands open, knees loose and ready to spring. He inched back, careful not to let himself get into a position where he could be cornered against the house.
The footfalls slowed.
Brooks tensed.
The footfalls stopped.
He leaned back, waiting for an attack.
Instead, an icy breeze kicked up, sending a waft of honey-scented air his way. It only took him a moment to place the newly familiar smell.
“Maryse,” he hissed, his voice low.
The snow crunched again, quickly this time, and she appeared at the edge of the house. He noted the look on her face—fierce but scared—then spied the weapon in her hands. When she saw him, the gun dropped to her side.
“Brooks?” His name was almost a gasp.
“Just me.”
“You’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” he assured her. “What happened?”
“I saw someone following you. Or I thought I did.”
Brooks scanned the yard. It was as empty as it’d been for the last few minutes.
“Looks clear,” he said.
She let out a laugh that sounded forced. “I overreacted, I guess.”
A tickle of guilt bagged at Brooks’s conscience. He’d assumed she would be safe and out of harm’s way, and that using her as a lookout would be unnecessary.
“It’s my fault for not telling you what to do if you did see someone,” he said. “But I don’t think anyone’s here. Outside or inside.”
Her eyes pinched with worry. “No one?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I took a look through all the windows I could find, and I didn’t see anything. No lights, no movement. I was just about to try to find a way in to confirm.”
Her eyes flicked toward the back door. “I think that’s going to be pretty easy.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s open.”
Brooks followed her gaze. Sure enough, the door sat ajar by just a few inches. Hadn’t it been closed just a few seconds earlier? The not-quite-right feeling hit him in the gut again.
“Give me the gun, Maryse,” he commanded in a low voice.
She held it out, butt-end first. He took it, positioned himself in front of her, then swept the yard again, arcing the gun across the whole area and searching for anything out of the ordinary. He took a step forward.
Need a better view.
“Wait here a second,” he said.
He moved a few feet farther out, his feet touching the edge of the snow. He could see the entire flat space, and most of the neighboring yards, too.
Still nothing. So why can’t I relax?
He started to turn back, but before he could spin around completely, a small figure—not much larger than a child—came flying out from the side of the house. It collided directly with Maryse, knocking her to the ground.
Cursing the fact that he’d dropped his guard, Brooks fumbled for a second with the gun, trying to get a clear shot. He realized immediately it was unnecessary. The figure was a tiny woman. Barefoot and—judging by the scant amount of clothing she wore—unarmed. If it hadn’t been for the element of surprise, he doubted she would’ve been able to overpower Maryse at all.
Quickly, Brooks shoved the weapon into his waistband, then strode over and grabbed the woman by the back of her sleeveless T-shirt. He yanked her off with as little roughness as he could manage, then dragged her to the wall, kicking and shouting muffled curses.
When he lifted her up, he saw why she couldn’t do much more. A strip of duct tape covered her mouth, and she had a huge almost-black bruise on her temple. Her eyes were wild and bloodshot.
She continued to thrash and flail, finally jerking her head back so hard that it smacked the wall behind her.
Brooks cringed and relaxed his arm, expecting her to go limp. But the woman wasn’t done. She lifted one of her bare feet and slammed it to his knee. Once again, she had surprise on her side.
Brooks stumbled backward, nearly falling over. He caught himself on the wall, then cursed as the woman bolted. He moved to chase her down, but Maryse beat him to it. Her long, slim legs carried her quickly over the snow, and she caught up before the other woman made it even halfway across the yard. She slammed into her, knocking her to the snow. The two women rolled over the cold ground, and in the ten seconds it took Bro
oks to reach them, Maryse already had the smaller woman pinned to the ground.
“You can take over anytime,” she said, sounding winded.
Brooks bent down, grabbed the still-flailing woman’s arm, pinned her wrists together, then nodded. “Okay. You’re good to let go.”
Maryse eased off, and Brooks yanked the would-be escapee to her feet. She kicked out one more time, but he held her firmly, and she finally sagged in defeat.
Brooks tipped his head in Maryse’s direction. “You all right?”
She was already pushing to her feet, and she nodded. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Wishing he could give her the attention rather than her ragged attacker, he turned back to the underdressed woman. “You done?”
Her bloodshot eyes were still furious, and Brooks knew no matter how complacent her body seemed, she was still seeking a way to fight back.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Don’t know why I thought this might be done the easy way.”
He threw a belated look toward the neighbors’ houses to check if anyone was watching, then pulled her over the snow and back toward the house. Careful to keep his hold on her, he brought her into the relative shelter of the rear wall, then lifted a hand and pulled off the duct tape.
“Got something to explain?” he asked.
The woman spit, then yelled, “You son of a—”
Brooks slapped the tape back in place. “That’s about enough of that.”
She mumbled something, her nostrils flaring.
“All right.” He worked to sound patient. “How about we try this again? More reasonably.”
He reached up to free her mouth again. For a few seconds, she just flicked a glare between him and Maryse, who’d followed closely behind. Then she drew in a breath, exhaled it...and started yelling all over again.
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, or what the hell you think you’re doing, but if you think I’m going to—”
The tape went back up, and Brooks shook his head. He waited until she seemed calm before speaking again.
“I’m willing to talk,” he said. “Really. But it’s hard to do if you’re screaming and swearing at me. If you want to have a conversation—nicely—nod once. Otherwise, the tape stays on until the cops get here.”
It was a bluff, of course, but she didn’t need to know that.
“Well?” he prodded.
She glared long enough for Brooks to count to twelve, then finally nodded. He freed her mouth again, and this time when she took a breath and spoke, it was in a cold, brittle tone.
“This is my house. I have more than a right to know what you’re doing here,” she said.
Maryse inhaled sharply enough to echo through the air, and she stepped closer, clinging to Brooks’s arm as she asked, “This is your house?”
“Whose did you think it was?”
“Does that mean you’re Dee White?”
“What about it?”
“Are you her?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Where’s my daughter? Where’s Camille?”
Dee White’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Maryse LePrieur. How did you find me?”
“Please. You just have to tell me where she is.”
“You’re too late.”
Brooks tensed at the answer, and he heard the catch in Maryse’s voice when she asked her next question.
“What do you mean?”
Dee White shook her head. “She’s gone. He took her.”
Brooks opened his mouth to ask for more information, but—quite abruptly—the woman began to cry. Big, racking sobs that made him pause and rethink his approach.
“All right,” he said gruffly. “Let’s move this party inside and see if we get some answers.”
Chapter 9
Maryse’s body was alight with a need to shake answers out of Dee White. Literally take her by the shoulders and do it.
She’d never in her life considered herself to be an aggressive person, and it had never occurred to her to try to extract information using force. Of course, she’d also never been away from her daughter for more than a few hours, either. And she’d never had Camille’s life—or her own—lined up in the crosshairs.
But God help me, she thought as she moved through the crowded kitchen, if that woman doesn’t stop crying and start talking...
In the five minutes since they’d entered the home, the overblown waterworks hadn’t subsided. And Maryse wasn’t buying it. She didn’t believe for a second that the fury Dee White exuded had turned to concern or remorse, or whatever it was that had the tears rolling. It was an act. Another barrier between her and Cami. And she wanted to call it out. She’d ordered Brooks—in sign language—to let her do it. He’d refused. He hadn’t even acknowledged the gestures.
He’d suggested—verbally and in a too-gentle voice—that she might be close to the edge. Then he all but insisted that she put a bit of physical distance between herself and Dee. Just for a few moments. And he’d suggested the tea. What he’d really meant was that she wasn’t detached enough to be reasonable. And it was the exact reason she was standing near the stove, waiting for a kettle to boil, when she would rather have been by Brooks’s side, demanding to know the truth.
Her eyes sought the clock on the wall. Another full minute had gone by, making the total wasted number six.
Brewing tea for the woman who had Camille. Who took her.
Maryse’s stomach knotted up.
Where was Cami now?
How had she looked when Dee saw her?
Had she asked for Maryse?
The tumble of questions made tears prick at her eyes, and her body bristled with tension that she couldn’t diffuse. Brooks might be in there, trying to find the answer to the first one, but would he ask the second and third? Would he be thinking of her child’s welfare the same way she was?
She shook her head.
He was a good man. But he didn’t have a personal attachment to Camille.
The kettle’s whistle put a temporary hold on her negative thinking. She lifted the pot, poured the water over the waiting tea bag, then sloshed it directly into the mug. She refused to let it steep. Or to offer the woman milk or sugar. This wasn’t some pleasant afternoon party where they needed to play nice. Dee White could just take her tea as it was served.
She stalked from the kitchen back to the living room, half expecting to find Brooks seated beside Dee on the couch, his arm wrapped around the other woman, comforting her.
The mental image made Maryse stop so short that the hot liquid spilled over the side of the cup, scalding her hand. She bit back a yelp and settled for a wince. And it wasn’t just about the pain. It was about the scenario itself.
I’m jealous.
The realization stung.
It was an over-the-top reaction, especially when it wasn’t even something that she knew was happening. But that didn’t stop the tickle of green-tinged emotion from being real.
Maryse stood just outside the living room door, pondering what it meant. She appreciated Brooks and his help. She liked him. And there was no denying the intense attraction or the way she felt when they kissed. But jealousy? It was a stretch.
She tightened her grip on the mug and forced her feet to move forward. And she was ridiculously relieved to find Dee on the couch with her feet curled under her body, but Brooks standing beside the table with his arms at his sides. Not even in touching distance.
Maryse let out a breath, then stepped toward the table. As she brushed by the big off-duty cop, he pressed a hand to her hip very briefly.
“Better?” he said.
“Hoping to be,” she replied pointedly, setting down the mug in front of Dee.<
br />
The other woman lifted her eyes. They were still red. Still angry. Maryse glanced Brooks’s way, thinking he had to see it, too. But his expression was sympathetic, his shoulders relaxed. Did he actually believe Dee White’s act?
Maryse’s chest tightened with worry.
“Do you want me to give a recap, so you can drink that tea and relax?” Brooks said, his voice full of compassion.
“Please,” said the woman on the couch.
He nodded at Dee. “Ms. White was just telling me about the ordeal she went through.”
What about Camille! Maryse wanted to scream.
Brooks bent down, lifted the mug up, then turned the handle toward Dee. “Go ahead.”
The woman took a tiny sip, then sighed like he’d done her the biggest favor in the world. In response, he smiled a kind, full-mouthed smile that made Maryse squeeze both of her hands into fists. But she kept her lips pressed tightly together and held in her anger, even when Dee smiled back.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Maryse thought her head might explode. But then Brooks shifted on his feet and touched the weapon at his waistband, and she remembered what he’d said about being an award-winning actor in another life, and she knew, suddenly, what he was doing.
They were still on the same page.
Thank God.
Brooks turned his easy smile her way, and she saw the slightest hint of tension in his eyes as he spoke. “Ms. White, her boyfriend and his brother have been on the run for a while now, trying to keep ahead of some bad debt.”
“Bad debt?” Maryse repeated, careful to keep her voice neutral.
Brooks nodded. “Not your average credit-card kinda debt, though. The knee-capping, finger-breaking kind that needs a whole new identity.”
“And?”
“And these guys—very bad men, from what I understand—felt that Ms. White and her friends owed them something more than money.”
“Camille.” Her name came out a whisper.
Maryse didn’t know how her daughter connected to the men in question, but she was sure all the same that it was true, even before Brooks nodded a second time.
Silent Rescue Page 9
