by Vella Day
Every key witness she ever known who'd been placed in the program had suffered from loneliness, loss of control, and depression. Even after the criminals were behind bars, their lives were never the same.
“Someone wants you dead.”
“I can't think about that now.” She didn't have the strength to deal with a killer, even though she needed to. She looked up at him. “What happens to the Caravello family? They murdered my best friend. Have you arrested anyone?”
Anne-Marie had been the most alive, energetic person she'd known. She didn't deserve to have her life ended so abruptly.
“We don't have absolute proof the family is involved. It's speculation.” He looked toward the door, and then the floor.
She wadded the edge of the sheet in her hand. “Yeah, right. We both know that's not true. After Caravello was sentenced, he warned me I'd pay for convicting him. So don't tell me about idle speculation.”
“All the more reason to move you.”
Could she give up the life she loved? Not easily, but if meant she'd stay alive long enough to see the bastard executed, then yes she could. Not to mention her mother and brother would be in jeopardy if she didn't hide. “Fine, I'll do it your way, but I want to talk to my mom first.”
His jaw clenched. “You can't contact her until the killer is caught.”
“Like hell.” She of all people knew the justice process could be terminally slow.
“For your mother and brother's protection, we informed them you had also died in the explosion.”
“You what?” Susan choked on her saliva. Coughing sent her chest into spasms, and pain shredded her body. “You don't understand.”
Emotion flicked across his face. “You think I don't know how upset your family is that you're dead? Trust me, I do. I had a brother once.”
Sympathy swamped her, but their situations were surely different. “My mom's first defense for anything that upsets her is to drink and take medication to help her forget. She's attempted suicide once before. I couldn't live if I lost her.”
He pulled his lips in a thin line. “It's for the best.”
Bastard. If he believed he could keep her from her family, he was dead wrong.
**
Jake Yarnell waved a hand toward the new two-story brick safe house as he pulled into the drive and mentally thanked the man in charge of placement. The new housing development was surrounded by horse farms and tree-shaded streets. Not that he'd be there long. As soon as an agency-approved Florida doctor gave her permission to drive, the Bureau would send him back to D.C. With her determination, he'd be gone by the end of the week.
“So how do you like this place?”
Despite sleeping for much of the trip, dark rings shadowed her eyes. If misery had a face, it would be hers.
Susan leaned her head back against the car seat and closed her eyes. “Why did we have to drive all the way to Florida? I don't want to sound ungrateful but couldn't you have found a place in say, North Carolina?”
“I wish we could have placed you some place closer, but we figured the farther you are from Washington, the safer you'll be.”
“Did I need to come here because someone broke into my office two days ago?”
“In part.”
He'd been in the business long enough to know unless they caught the killer first, the man wouldn't stop until she was dead.
“Agent Yarnell?”
He wished she didn't snarl his name. “Jake. Please. Until this case is solved, we can't have neighbors hear you call me agent. It raises questions.”
“Jake, then.”
Most of the people he'd protected treated him with awe, but not Susan Chapman. Her life had all but collapsed around her, and she must have decided to take out her frustrations on him. He mentally shrugged. It was part of the job.
He cut the engine, slid out, and removed the luggage from the trunk. He followed her up the brick walkway and unlocked the front door. “The sooner you're settled, the less suspicion we'll bring to our doorstep.”
She planted herself in front of him and blocked the entrance. “I think I can manage on my own. You don't need to stay.”
He raised an eyebrow at her sudden independence. “You know the rules. I don't leave until the doctor clears you.” Her injured hand would make doing simple chores like cooking and dressing difficult.
“Do you always follow the rules?”
“I try to.” At least when it suited him.
She held his gaze for a moment, rolled her eyes, and then stepped inside. She stopped in the foyer and surveyed the open kitchen and living room. When she stepped into the kitchen and ran her uninjured hand on the shiny granite counter top, her shoulders relaxed. The upscale place seemed to meet with her approval. Good. One less hurdle to jump.
He set down the luggage in the foyer. Jake liked how the sunlight streamed in through the living room window. The large stuffed chairs across from the leather sofa looked comfortable enough to hunker down on and watch sports on the large TV.
She ambled over to the living room and studied the artwork on the wall before turning around. “I understand we didn't fly here because someone could have hacked into the passenger manifest, and I totally get that I can't call my mom because the phone lines aren't secure, but what's wrong with me sending a letter to one of my friends in Ohio to forward to my mother? She needs to know I'm alive.” She closed the space between them and looked up at him, her palms held open. “Surely, the FBI doesn't suspect the U.S. Postal service of being corrupt.”
He wanted to give in to her to ease her suffering and to see her smile, but regulations prevented him from taking the chance. “As I mentioned before—”
She stepped back and dropped her gaze to the ground. “I know, I know. If my mother knows I'm alive, the person responsible for these deaths might harm her and my brother. Not to mention put one of my friends in danger too.”
He was relieved not to have to argue with her. “You nailed it.”
Susan shuffled back to the brown leather sofa and plopped down. She grabbed the blue sofa pillow to her chest and drew her knees close. He wanted to tell her things would get better, but the right words wouldn't form.
She looked over at him. “You said the FBI would open a bank account for me since they froze my assets. When will you do that?”
This question was easy to answer. “How does tomorrow sound?”
“Good, I guess.”
She still hadn't grasped the magnitude of how events would unfold. “Don't worry about the details. I'll take care of everything. Your hardest job is to remember you are no longer Susan Chapman. She's dead. You are now—”
“I know. Taylor Daniels; a woman without a family, without money, without a job.”
Her dejected tone cut him. He knew all about growing up without a family, but now wasn't the time to swap sad stories with her. “It comes with wanting to stay alive.”
The usual platitude left a bitter taste in his mouth despite the statement's truth. Having to rip people out of their lives headed his This-Sucks list, yet he continued to do it time and again because in the end, it helped keep people safe.
Jake moved over to the comfy looking beige chair opposite the sofa and sat, watching the lines tighten around her eyes. She reminded him of his grandmother's last days. If he could soften the tension rippling up Susan's face, he would. He admired her reputation as a tough prosecutor, but in this new place, she was fragile, so different from the she-wolf he'd expected.
She raised a bandaged arm, immediately squeezed her eyes shut, and lowered her hand to her lap.
Poor woman. Soon she'd be alone, frightened, and unsure of what would happen to her. Susan's, or rather Taylor's life, would never be the same.
She rubbed her chest and winced. “If I can't practice law, what am I supposed to do for a living?”
“I don't think you'll be here that long. We'll get this guy soon. Don't worry.” Another platitude he was sure wouldn't fool the savvy wo
man. He tossed her a confident smile. “Why not relax and try to heal for at least a week? Watch TV or read.”
“I have to do something useful with my time, and reading or watching television won't help me regain my life.”
“Maybe not.”
To give her time to come to grips with creating a new life, he picked up a Tampa Bay magazine from the glass coffee table. The front cover photo was of the Bay and its seven-mile long sidewalk. He flipped though the glossy pages. When he glanced up at her, her eyes were closed, and her breath ragged.
His job was to protect, not soothe, but something inside him lured him into wanting to make her recovery easier. “You want something to drink?”
Her eyes flew open. “No.” She swallowed hard as if she were trying to deal with the enormity of her situation. “But, thank you anyway.”
He stood, and as soon as he poured a glass of water for himself, his cell rang. He glanced at the caller ID. His boss' name, Stanton Lowry, flashed on the screen. Not good. “Jake.”
“We've had another incident,” his boss said.
Jake steeled his body, willing his tired muscles to relax from the long drive. He walked over to the open bar, his back to her and lowered his voice. “Hit me.”
“Janet Starkey was found murdered this morning. That makes eight jurors dead.”
He slid onto one of the stools and shot a glance at Susan. She twisted toward him and pinned him with her probing blue stare.
He dragged a hand down his unshaven chin. “Wasn't she under protection?”
“Yup.”
“Which means—”
“No one's safe anymore.”
2
Jake stashed his phone in his hip pocket and trudged back to his chair. Susan waited for him to tell her about the call, but he stared off into space instead. The way he flexed his fists frightened her. “What was that about?”
“That was my boss.” He chugged the rest of his water like a man who hadn't had a drink in months.
“And...?”
His jaw clenched. “Janet Starkey, another juror, who we just put in a safe house was murdered this morning.”
A lump formed, and Susan had to swallow before she spoke. “Murdered?”
Every crime scene photo of mutilated bodies she'd shown in court passed across her mind. The victim's cold eyes and the ruthless manner of death etched a notch in her heart. Would she be next? The blood shot to her stomach and her hands shook.
“Mrs. Chapman?”
She forced her analytic and objective mind into action and answered him with a detached tone. “I remember Janet. She was a school teacher. Very sharp.”
But Janet was so much more—a woman, a mother, and a caring citizen.
“This is bad. Richard Thomason moved her less than two days ago.” Jake straightened. “There shouldn't have been any way to find her.”
She pushed aside the fear festering in her belly. “How did she die?”
“Hit and run. Janet was crossing the street and a car came out of nowhere.”
Susan's heart dropped to her stomach. “How horrible.” She refused to think of herself as a possible victim and grabbed hold of her lawyer self. “Maybe it was a coincidence.”
“I don't believe in them.”
Neither did she. She needed more information, more facts. “What did the police findings show?” This woman's family and friends would be grieving as much as she was over Anne-Marie's unnecessary death.
“There were two witnesses who both said the man drove straight toward her. Not only did he...” He studied his steepled fingers, acting as if she were some wilting flower. “You really don't want to hear this.”
“Tell me.”
He clamped his jaw tight and caught her gaze for a long moment as if deciding how much information to spill. “The man hit her once, backed up, and then ran over her again.”
The horror slammed into her. “Not a coincidence.” Her voice trailed off.
“No.”
Her heart pounded in her chest as she shot a glance at the front door and tightened her hold on the pillow. “So how did the Caravellos find her?”
“That's what I'd like to know.”
She leaned back against the sofa and checked the clock. “Do we need to move again?” She hated how her voice wobbled. She prided herself on being strong.
Jake's shoulders relaxed. “Not yet. As long as I'm around, you should be safe.”
She didn't like the should be part.
He jumped up and paced between the living room and the kitchen's open bar. “Let's look around and get you settled.”
The avoidance tactic wouldn't work on her, but for now, she wouldn't argue. She needed a bath and a few hour's rest even more than she needed answers.
As she reached up to slip off her bulky, buttoned down sweater, her muscles rebelled and sent a searing pain across her chest. “Crap.”
Jake was at her side in an instant. “Let me help you.”
“I can do it.”
She hated being helpless and relying on others. Her father had taught her the only person she could count on was herself.
He placed his glass on the coffee table. “You don't have to do everything alone, you know. Let me feel somewhat useful.”
He'd given her an out. “Thanks.”
She turned her back and let him ease the sleeves down her arms. At his tender touch, an involuntary tingle shimmied down her spine. “I can take it from here.” She slowly stood and pasted on a smile, hoping the bandage across her cheek hid the heat in her face.
“Pick a room, and I'll bring up your suitcase.”
One of the FBI female agents had purchased a few essentials for her. No telling what she'd chosen, but she hoped the clothing would be the easy-on-easy-off type.
Susan hiked up the wooden stairs to the second floor, stopping twice to catch her breath before she entered the first available room. It didn't matter what the rest of the townhouse had to offer; a bedroom was a bedroom. The muted brown and green décor gave off a spa-like atmosphere. Coordinated ocean watercolor pictures hung above the white wrought iron bed, and a set of candles sat atop a pine dresser, their vanilla scent alleviating the smell of fresh paint. To her surprise, there was an attached bath. The combined space was only half the size of her bedroom at home, but the plush carpet and nice accessories would help ease the tension squeezing her into this unwanted situation.
She hadn't stood under a hot shower since the explosion and couldn't wait to get clean, though she wasn't sure how she was going to wash her hair when every time she raised her arms her chest throbbed.
Jake down her suitcase. “Need anything else?”
Someone to help me, care for me, and be there for me. “Just some quiet time.”
“You got it.”
Quicker than a blink, he disappeared, and her sense of security plummeted. Before she undressed, she locked the bedroom door and closed the drapes that opened to the wooded backyard.
She hadn't wanted to look at her injuries since the incident, but she couldn't avoid the inevitable any longer. After stepping into the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror startled her. Despite the hospital's attempt to clean her hair, the blonde strands hung in greasy clumps to her shoulders. A large bandage clung to her sunken cheek, and red marks that looked like a bad case of road rash covered her right side. She sucked in a breath. With trembling fingers, she peeled away the bandage.
A wide gouge created a line from her eye to her mouth. “Dear God.”
She ran a finger along the raised, ugly welt—a scar that would take years to fade unless she had plastic surgery. Even then, her face would never be hers again.
The nurse told her she needed to change her bandages daily and that she could shower, but afterwards she'd have to keep her wounds covered until the doctor removed the stitches.
Fighting the tears, she removed the rest of the sterile pads and gauze. The many stitches over her breast hurt the worst. It was a miracle she'd survived
the blast at all.
She turned on the water to let it get warm before stepping under the relaxing flow. The pulse of water stung her sensitive skin, yet soothed the ache and pushed aside the reality that someone wanted her dead.
Once she towel dried, she entered her bedroom and searched her suitcase for something suitable. Unable to hook her bra, she decided on a heavy shirt and sweatpants. If the situation hadn't been so serious, she would have laughed at her frumpy appearance. In D.C. she never went out without makeup, her hair uncombed, or in an outfit that didn't accentuate her curves. The bastard who blew up her car had stolen her desire to care.
Next she searched her luggage for the bandages the hospital had provided. She pawed through her clothes, twice, in fact, but came up empty-handed. Where were they? Maybe she'd imagined the nurse had given them to her. Whatever. That meant she'd have to go downstairs to see if Jake had seen the care package from the hospital.
As she reached the bottom step, Jake shut off the large screen TV, and his mouth spread into a slow smile. “You look a lot better.”
The man was blind. She quickly covered the stitches on her left cheek. “I feel better, but I need to find my bandages. I can't go out in public looking like Frankenstein. I'll scare people.” Okay, so some pride still resided in her bones. “The nurse said I needed to keep the wounds covered to avoid infection.”
“You're anything but a monster. If you—” His cell rang and he held up a finger. He put the phone to his ear. “Yarnell.”
**
“It's me. Peter.”
Christ. Jake lowered his voice. “I gotta keep it short. We can’t chance a trace.”
Jake's gaze shot automatically to Susan. Peter Caravello was the last person he expected to call, especially given the circumstances.
“I'll be right back to help with the bandages,” he told her as he headed outside. She didn't need to hear this conversation. Someone in the Caravello family had possibly attempted to murder her and killed her best friend instead.
“I need your help,” Peter said. The roar of background traffic on the other end made it difficult to hear his friend's shaky voice.
