by Amy Vansant
She shook her head. None of this felt right. “The neighbors must have heard the gunshots.”
“We’d have heard sirens by now. It’s a nice neighborhood. They don’t think gunshots are gunshots.”
“What about Charlotte?”
“I’ll put a call in to her grandmother. She’ll come get her.”
“Luke’s mom?”
“Grace’s mom.” He shifted the body on his shoulder. “Estelle’s never going to forgive me for this.” He moved to leave and then paused. “I saw him this morning.”
It took Shee a moment to register the shift in topic. “Who?”
“I saw a maroon minivan this morning at the hotel with a man sitting inside. I saw the same van parked down the street on my way here.”
“Then we should go—”
“It’s long gone by now.”
Shee huffed. “If he followed me from there it means he probably hasn’t been watching Grace. He probably doesn’t know about Charlotte.”
“That’s why we have to get her out of here now.”
Mick headed outside as Shee held open the door. Her mind raced.
Who wants me dead?
Down the street, a boy yelled for his friend. The call snapped Shee from her trance.
“Are you okay?” asked Mick, returning empty-handed. “I’m going to grab Charlotte and go. Are you good with the cleanup?”
She looked down at the blood pooled on the porch. Grace’s body was gone, tucked away in Mick’s trunk.
She nodded. “I’ll get the hose.”
&&&
Chapter Thirty-Six
“If it makes you feel any better, Charlotte thinks my sister died of cancer,” said Shee as the plane circled Palm Beach International Airport.
Mason tilted his head and stared at the ceiling. “Wow. Yeah. That makes me feel a lot better.”
“Sarcasm isn’t going to—”
“Wait. How’d you pull that off?” Mason stared at her. “Charlotte believed her mother went from fine to dead in an hour? From cancer?”
Shee shrugged. “She was eleven. I guess Mick and her grandmother sold the story.” She stretched her back. It felt as though her butt had fallen asleep. “Please understand the whole arrangement was supposed to be temporary, but then Mick found out there was a bounty on my head and—”
“And you hit the road.”
“Yes. For what I thought would be a month. It turned out to be fifteen years.”
“Mick kept an eye on her in the meantime?”
Shee cringed. “Um...”
“No?”
“Not exactly.” She held up her palms, trying to calm him as if he were an angry buffalo preparing to charge. His expression didn’t look dissimilar. “He was busy looking for who killed Grace and who was after me and we didn’t know if maybe he was a target...”
Mason’s blue eyes lit like natural gas flames. Shee worried if she dropped one more unpleasant fact, his training might kick in and he’d snap her neck with his pinky or something.
He closed his lids and took a deep breath.
“So Charlotte grew up with Estelle?” he asked without opening his eyes.
Shit.
“Estelle died not long after Charlotte showed up.” She mumbled the words, hoping they were inaudible.
Mason lowered his shoulders. His fury seemed to have shifted to resignation.
Shee worried she’d broken his brain.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Somehow, his new calm felt scarier than all the muscle tightening and teeth gritting.
“Well...” She searched for a shred of good news. “She was safe. She remained in Estelle’s house, and from what I understand, the neighborhood brought her up—”
“Like a stray cat?” His tone hit a crescendo. He jerked it back to earth by hissing the word cat.
Shee swallowed.
Now that you mention it...
“I only just found out about that bit,” she added.
He nodded. “Of course. You were running around the country, saving everyone but your own daughter.”
Shee flinched.
Ouch.
She reminded herself she didn’t have the right to be offended. “I guess that’s fair. But...”
“But what?”
She paused.
I’ve never said these words out loud before.
Her bottom lip trembled and she pressed it against the top one to stop it as she stared at her lap. “I thought I was a curse. I didn’t want to get her killed—the way I’d gotten Grace killed. The way Mick looked at me—”
No. Too much. She couldn’t go there again and tried to start over.
“You have to understand—”
“I don’t have to understand any of this.” Mason ran a hand over his hair.
He fell silent and as the speakers crackled and the captain announced their arrival, she felt herself morphing back into a persona non grata.
Where I deserve to be.
Shee wanted off the plane. She wanted to grab Mason, shake him, beg him to forgive her. She couldn’t sit, trapped, staring at the pain and betrayal in his eyes any longer. No more than she’d been able to watch it in her father’s eyes.
When the plane landed, they marched to the overnight parking garage without exchanging another word. Mason’s icy silence gnawed at Shee, but some tiny part of her felt freed. The worst thing she could imagine, telling Mason about Charlotte, had happened. The thing that had given her anxiety dreams for twenty-seven years was over. Now, whatever he decided—
“Wait.” Shee’s hand shot out to grab Mason’s arm.
He stopped. “What?”
She pulled him to face her. “Pretend we’re talking.”
“We are talking.”
“There’s a car parked across from our aisle, four down, at your seven. It belongs to a private investigator who stopped by the hotel yesterday.”
“What? When?”
“When you were at the beach with Archie.”
He looked daggers at her. “Do you tell me anything?”
“I wasn’t sure I could trust you yet.”
“Right. Because I’m the one with a history of lies and subterfuge.”
“Can we not do this now?”
Mason tapped his closed fist against his forehead. “Is he dangerous?”
“No. He’s a shiny new P.I., and seems pretty useless, but I want to find out who he’s working for. He could have been the one to send someone to Viggo’s.” As she spoke, her anger grew.
Screw this day.
She dropped her bag to the cement. “You know what? I’m going to confront this joker right now.”
“Shee, wait—”
She dodged to avoid Mason’s attempt to stop her and strode across the parking lot toward Logan Sandoval’s car. His engine started and she broke into a sprint.
No you don’t you, sunova—
Shee threw herself across his trunk, trying to sound as much like a collision as possible. He slammed on his brakes. Rolling to the driver side, she found her feet and pounded on his window.
“Open this window, you little shit!”
Logan peered through the glass at her, grimacing. He put the car in park.
The window lowered.
“Can I help you?” he asked, entirely too smugly for a boy about to have a hurricane of frustration released on his ass.
“Cut the bullshit, Logan. Why are you following me?”
At the sound of his name, Logan’s eyes bulged as if someone had tweaked them from behind like a clown horn. He grimaced, shoulders slumping. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
Shee reached inside and grabbed the young man by his shirt collar, jerking him toward the open window.
“I am not in the mood—”
“Get off me!” The young man slapped at her face and Shee jerked back to avoid contact. She struggled to hold his collar as he wrestled to pry off her fingers.
“Get off me, you craz
y b—”
“Hey!” Mason’s roar sounded an inch from Shee’s head.
Logan stopped wrestling and went pie-eyed at the sight of the SEAL.
“Cut it out. Both of you.”
Shee and Logan remained entangled, still but straining, gazes locked.
Mason tapped Shee’s arm.
“Shee, I swear to—”
“Fine.” She released the kid.
“She started it,” said Logan, adjusting his stretched collar.
Shee slapped her chest with a flat palm. “I started it? You’re following me.”
Shee didn’t want to calm down. Logan was such a welcome distraction she wanted to beat the snot out of him and hug him at the same time.
“Who are you?” asked Mason.
“Logan Sandoval, teenage detective,” spat Shee.
Mason shot her a warning glance and she crossed her arms against her chest.
Fine.
Logan found his wallet and held it open for them to see. I’m a detective. Licensed. Just doing my job.”
“Someone hired you to follow me.”
He offered a withering stare. “Duh.”
Sonova—
Shee reached for the kid again and Mason blocked her with his elbow.
“Just follow?” he asked Logan.
Logan rolled his eyes. “Yes, just follow. What do you think, I’m an assassin?”
Shee snorted a laugh. “You’re not even a detective.”
“Who hired you?” asked Mason.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Did you arrange Minneapolis?” asked Shee.
Logan’s expression twisted. “Minneapolis?” He looked at Mason, appearing genuinely confused. “Did she get hit in the head or something?”
Shee leaned into Mason. “Give me five minutes with him.”
“Easy.” Mason pushed her back from the car, inserting himself between her and the detective, resting his massive forearms against the side of Logan’s window. “I get it, Logan. You’re just doing your job.”
Logan sat up and adjusted his shirt. “Exactly. Thank you, man. I—”
Before he could say another word, Mason grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head toward him. He pressed the young man’s throat against the edge of the lowered window.
Logan struggled, gagging, and then slapped on his steering wheel as if trying to tap out. That hand found the horn and laid on it.
Mason snatched the boy’s wrist and jerked his horn-pressing hand out of the car. The parking garage went quiet again, but for the sound of Logan gagging.
“Feel that pressure on your windpipe?” asked Mason.
Logan nodded as best he could.
Mason continued. “Windpipes are pretty fragile. Tell us who hired you.” He eased pressure.
“You can’t just kill me in the parking lot,” croaked Logan.
“I can’t?” Mason looked at Shee. “Did you see any signs about that?”
“Don’t leave your luggage unattended, stay to the right—no, you know what, nothing about killing detective wannabes.”
“Spit it out,” growled Mason.
Logan coughed, straining to keep his throat from the edge of the glass. “I don’t know.”
Mason pressed down.
“I swear! I don’t know!”
“How did they contact you?”
“She called.”
“She? Could you tell anything about her? Old, young?” asked Shee over Mason’s shoulder.
“Accent.”
The kid’s eyes flashed white like those of a frightened horse, and Shee could tell the bulk of the boy’s discomfort had shifted from his Adam’s apple to the wad of hair twisted in the SEAL’s grip.
“What kind of accent?”
“Like, islandy.”
“Islandy?”
“Like, Jamaican or something.”
Shee felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She slapped Mason on the back.
“We have to go.”
He turned. “That’s all you need?”
Shee found her bag behind Logan’s car, grabbed it and headed for Mason’s truck. She stood at the locked door as Mason released Logan and followed.
Logan pulled out of his space and left.
She motioned to the door with the hand not speed-dialing Angelina. “Open. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the hotel as fast as you can drive.”
Mason’s Ford beeped and Shee hopped inside.
He joined her. “What’s going on?”
“We have—”
Shee stopped.
Crap.
She looked at Mason as he reversed from the parking space.
He’s going to kill me.
“What is it?” he prompted.
“There’s something else I didn’t tell you,” she said.
Shee’s head bounced on the headrest as he hit the brakes to glare at her.
“Are you kidding me?”
She shook her head.
“Did you just remember we had twins?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“No...”
Shee heard Angelina answer her side of the line as she met Mason’s stare.
“...but the rumors of Mick’s death have been greatly exaggerated.”
&&&
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Something’s different.
Mick opened his eyes.
This dreamworld is new. This isn’t a memory.
Through slit eyes he scanned what he recognized as his room, but everything felt off.
Wrong, but somehow, more real.
He tried to sit up.
So weak.
When did I get so weak?
He tried to swing a leg out of bed but couldn’t move them.
Am I paralyzed?
A memory flashed through his mind. A crack, pain exploding in his head—
I was shot.
He strained to remember more details.
Viggo. His friend Viggo was there. He’d gone to see him—
“Ooh, mi suh late.”
That voice.
He’d heard it in his nightmares.
Rustling in the other room. The sound of his front door closing.
Mick looked around his bed for a weapon. Anything. On the table beside him sat a box of tissues and a ceramic mug. Silver metal tubing surrounded him like a fancy little fence.
This isn’t my bed.
He willed his left arm to move toward the mug. His hand rose and floated in that direction.
I am seeing this. This is real.
Fingers shaking, he tried to loop his index finger through the handle of the mug. He felt it slide through. He felt the smooth ceramic.
Success.
He took a few breaths and jerked the mug toward him. The liquid inside splashed to the floor. The mug clanged against the side of the bed.
He winced.
Dragging the mug toward him with as much speed as possible, he hid it beneath his sheets. Its cool surface rolled against his leg.
I feel it.
That had to be a good sign.
Something entered the room. He caught a blurry flash before closing his eyes to play possum. His brain processed the image.
Panic swelled in his chest.
The Shadow and the Sun.
His tormenter had arrived, bigger, split into light and dark.
Maybe I’m still dreaming?
Decades of SEAL training rushed forward to squelch his fear.
He didn’t have time to be afraid.
Even if I’m dreaming, I’m going to kill this thing this time.
Mick cracked open one eye and saw something move toward a large cabinet.
Not a shadow.
A woman.
Dark skin. Hair piled in coils on her head. Heavyset. Tall. Nurse’s scrubs.
Familiar.
He tried to log every nuance, everything that might be useful down the road.
&nbs
p; I know you.
The woman fiddled with keys, letting herself into the cabinet. She pulled out an IV bag, muttering to herself as she waddled toward him.
She changed his infusion and then cocked her head, her eye casting downward, like a bird spotting the movement of a worm in the grass.
The spilled liquid. She’s seen it.
She bent lower.
“Waah dis now...?”
This is it. My chance.
Mick jerked his arm from beneath the sheet. The sheet slid away. The mug appeared. He swung, straining to arc his weapon over the metal guard rail.
He lowered the mug as hard as he could against the nurse’s head.
Yes!
The ceramic bounced on her thick coils, never making contact with her skull. The mug slipped from his fingers and hit the floor, shattering.
The woman jerked upward, eyes blazing with anger.
Left with no other option, he rolled at her, swinging with his untested right fist.
“No!” she barked, easily blocking his punch.
She grabbed his throat with her other hand. He tried to fight her off, every movement feeling as if he were under water.
So slow. So weak.
Sharp nails dug into his wrist. She smacked him in the face with the back of his own hand. Pressure on his throat gagged him. She lowered her face to his, coffee on her breath. Her skin smelled of cinnamon. He recognized the scent from his nightmares.
She hissed in his ear.
“You can’t wake up yet, Mister Mick. Nuh for a year and a half. You suffer the way he did, just the same, that’s the rules.”
He? Rules?
He gasped for breath.
Who is she talking about?
He couldn’t fight her. Instead, he’d take her words deep into his brain and think. He’d find something that made sense. Come up with a new plan.
The nurse dropped the silver sidebar and raised a knee to hold down his arm closest to her, a surprisingly agile move for a woman so large. One hand still on his throat, she used her other to start the new IV.
“Your daughter’s here, Mister Mick. She’ll be next.”
Mick gasped, half in shock, half for the air her meaty paw denied him.
Shee’s here?
It hadn’t been a dream.
No! Shee!—
Even as he fought, the fog rolled over his eyes.
&&&
