Over the Line: On the Run Novel

by Lisa Desrochers

  Also by Lisa Desrochers

  Outside the Lines

  Over the Line

  Lisa Desrochers

  INTERMIX BOOKS, NEW YORK

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  OVER THE LINE

  An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2016 by Lisa Desrochers.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about The Berkley Publishing Group, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-40954-5

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  InterMix eBook edition / April 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Also by Lisa Desrochers

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my family

  Prologue

  Lee

  Seven years ago

  Papa’s baritone washed over me and gave me tingles as we sang “Happy Birthday” to Mama. She fingered the tendril of loose hair that spiraled next to her ear and smiled at him with hazel eyes the exact color of mine. When she looked at him that way, it made my heart all warm and gooey. Someday, I wanted the person I loved to look at me just like that.

  Everyone in the restaurant smiled and sang along as if we were one big, happy family, and when we got to Mama’s name, they all sang Natalie right out loud. No one stumbled or muttered under their breath. Everyone knew who she was.

  Uncle Joe and Aunt Ada were at the table next to ours with Tommy Fingers, Gino, Jimmy D, and some women who I’d seen before but didn’t know. This was the Bienville, Mama’s favorite restaurant. Everywhere I looked was a familiar face smiling at her. I’m sure Papa knew everyone there. I’m pretty sure there was no one in Chicago he didn’t know.

  But at our table, it was just us: Papa at one end, all debonair in his suit and tie, with his thick sable hair combed back from his broad forehead and dark, deep-set eyes; Mama at the other, with her long sandy waves pulled up on the back of her head, in a lacy cream-colored dress that made her look like a princess. The boys were on the other side of the table from us girls, all in their Sunday Mass clothes. Sherm was in a booster seat next to Mama, Grant in the middle, and Rob on Papa’s right, where he’d always been since he turned eighteen a few months back. Every day, he looked more like Papa. Next to me, Ulie knelt in her chair and warbled out “And many moooooore!” with a flourish as everyone in the restaurant clapped at the end of the song. She looked like some kind of red bird, with feathers all over the dress she’d made special for Mama’s birthday dinner.

  The whole place went quiet when Papa stood and walked slowly around to Mama’s end of the table, a small, wrapped box in his hand.

  “This is from your adoring children,” he said to her, leaning over her shoulder from behind and kissing her cheek.

  Mama smiled at each of us in turn as she took the box from Papa. Sherm squirmed out of his booster and climbed into her lap.

  She hugged him close. “Did you pick this out?” she asked, holding the box in front of him.

  Even though it was a lie, he gave her a toothy grin and an eager nod as he grabbed it out of her hand. Ulie designed it and Rob and I went with Papa to the jeweler to have it made.

  The waiter circled the table, refilling our champagne glasses. Everyone but Sherm had one, even though I was only sixteen and the twins were fourteen. Papa said it was all right and the waiter smiled a little nervously and brought the bottle and six glasses.

  No one ever argued with Papa.

  Grant gulped his down, then pulled a face. Ulie imitated it and tried to recruit the rest of us in her relentless torment of her twin brother.

  “Pay attention,” I said with the superior glower I reserved for my younger siblings. “Mama’s opening her present.”

  Sherm’s pudgy four-year-old fingers had a hard time getting a grasp on the wrapping paper, so Mama pulled a corner loose for him. He ripped the paper off and Mama kissed his cheek as she took the box back and opened it. Inside was a heavy gold pendant on a chain. Five birthstones shimmered in the dim lighting of the restaurant: a topaz for Rob, an emerald for me, two rubies for Ulie and Grant, and a diamond for Sherm.

  “Oh, my!” Mama gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth.

  Papa lifted it out of the box and clasped the chain around her neck. She dangled the pendant in front of her face and admired it.

  “This is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me. I love you children bigger than the moon.” Her eyes shone at each of us as bright as the moon as she said it.

  If I’d known that was going to be our last happy moment, I would have found a way to capture that light and hold it in my heart forever. I would have made it bigger and brighter and kept her alive inside it. I would have locked it away where no one could ever take it from me.

  If I’d known the Savocas were about to murder my mother and ruin my life, I’d have found a way to ruin theirs first.

  Chapter 1

  Lee

  The woman across the desk from me pushes her glasses up her nose and scrutinizes my résumé. “Northwestern. Impressive.”

  The relocation consultant at WITSEC Safesite would have a conniption if she knew I put that back on my résumé. When my four siblings and I were going through the whole Witness Protection “re-creation” process, part of that was finding ways to make us hirable. She asked me what my interests were. When I told her I had a degree in computer science and liked working with numbers, she said they could hook me up with a position in data entry. That’s not the kind of numbers I was talking about. I politely declined and she helped Lee Davidson craft a résumé that in no way reflects Lee Delgado’s experience.

  “We don’t want to raise any red flags,” she’d chirped with a smile when she thought we had something workable.

  But finance is all I’ve ever wanted to do. When I went back for my MBA in accounting, I imagined someday working my way up to comptroller of some Fortune 500 company. Money is what I’m good at. It makes sense. It never changes the rules halfway or turns into something different. It’s constant and dependable. So when we got
to Florida, I made my own résumé.

  “Thank you,” I respond, forcing my hands to stay in my lap. My cuticles are already raw and bleeding.

  I know exactly how stupid it is that I have a degree from my actual alma mater listed. Even though I changed it up a little, listing my undergraduate degree as accounting instead of computer science, every time I send out my résumé, I feel like I may as well be skywriting Look for the Delgados here! But I busted my ass for that degree. I spent another year and a half working toward my MBA at Northwestern’s Kellogg School of Management. I hate that it was all for nothing.

  The problem is, the only person to blame for that is me. I did this to myself when I double-crossed Oliver Savoca.

  “We were hoping to find someone with more practical experience,” the woman says from the other side of the desk, lowering her eyes back to my résumé.

  That, I couldn’t put on my résumé. My only “practical experience” is managing Papa’s finances. Not only would listing money laundering be an enormous, flaming “red flag,” but I don’t think cooking books for the largest crime organization in Chicago is going to get me hired anywhere legit. Especially after Papa’s racketeering trial was the top story on all the national news affiliates for weeks. Felix Delgado is a household name. No one is sorry he’s doing time for his crimes. And no way in hell would anyone ever hire his bookkeeper daughter.

  I lean in a little, feeling another metaphorical door preparing to slam in my face. “I’m a quick learner, and my attention to detail borders on obsessive. If you hire me, you won’t be sorry.”

  She bounces the end of her pen on her lower lip a few times as her eyes flick from the résumé to me and back. “I have to be honest with you, Ms. Davidson. You seem like a nice person, and I’m sure you’d make a great employee, but I have several other applicants who are more qualified. I don’t want to string you along.”

  I hang my head as that familiar sick feeling rolls through my stomach.

  She stands and I know I’m done. “If I hear of anything more entry-level, I’ll be sure to pass your information along.”

  I gain my feet. “I appreciate that.” She moves to the door and opens it and I shake her hand as I pass. “Thank you for your time.”

  She smiles then closes the door, leaving me alone in the hallway. Not exactly a slam, but it may as well have been.

  I cross the lobby of the small office building to the glass door and push through onto the sidewalk. The sweltering Florida air wraps around me like a hot, wet blanket, suffocating me under its weight. I will never get used to this. Before I’ve even reached my neon green VW Beetle parked across the street, my shirt is stuck to my body with sweat. If this is the second of June, I can hardly wait for July.

  Instead of turning south, back to Port St. Mary and home, I accelerate up the highway ramp northbound, toward Tampa. It takes a few loops around the block before I score a parking spot on the street in the middle of downtown. I shiver at the contrast when I step inside the white-cement-and-glass building. Most public buildings in Florida aggressively air condition to stay ahead of the oppressive heat. The federal courthouse is no exception.

  I stride toward the older woman sitting at the reception desk. “My name is Lee Davidson.” Even after five months in hiding, that name still doesn’t roll off my tongue quite right. “I’m here to see Deputy Buchanan in the US Marshal’s office.”

  She smiles up at me from her seat. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I was hoping he might have a moment to speak with me.”

  When we first arrived in Florida, Wes Buchanan was the one who met us at the airport in Tampa with our car, the keys to our house, and our new cell phones. When my phone rang an hour later, as Rob was driving us south on highway 75 toward our new home, I jumped.

  We’d just come from the WITSEC Safesite facility in Virginia, outside D.C. We’d had no communication with the outside world since we’d left Chicago in the dead of night almost two weeks earlier. The relocation team was clear that any attempt to communicate with our family or acquaintances would result in revocation of our protection by the Department of Justice. All I could think when my phone rang was that they’d found us already, only one hour into our new lives. When I tentatively answered, it was Deputy Buchanan. He wanted to reiterate that he was our connection back to Justice for anything we needed. He called me every day for the next few weeks, checking in.

  A month later, when Rob showed up in his office demanding an untraceable phone, Wes called me and asked to meet. He was worried about Rob—that he might not be fully on board with Federal Witness Protection—and asked me to keep an eye on my older brother. Since then, we’ve met a couple times a month, usually for lunch.

  I know he’s interested. I can see his struggle. I’d bet money that Deputy US Marshals dating their charges is strictly against DOJ policy.

  I won’t deny encouraging him. He’s attractive and I’m just so goddamn lonely.

  “I’ll check if he’s available,” the receptionist says, plucking the phone out of the cradle. She dials and says something into the line. When she hangs up, she gestures toward some chairs in the lobby. “He said he’ll be right down.”

  I bypass the seating and retreat to the steps outside to wait. It’s only a few minutes later that the glass doors swing open and Wes steps out.

  When he sees me, a smile creeps over his strong face, making his deep dimples pop. His ocean blue eyes shine into mine as if I’ve made his day. He’s not quite as tall as Rob, and a few years older, probably in his late twenties, but he’s ripped and I have no doubt he could give my oldest brother a run for his money in a fair fight. He fills out his tailored suit nicely, especially through the biceps, chest, and legs.

  “Did I forget a lunch date today?” he asks, the smooth Louisiana drawl rolling off his tongue and sending a shiver over my skin despite the swelter.

  I start toward the road. “No, but I need your help.”

  He follows, the heels of his black cowboy boots thudding heavily off the marble stairs behind me with his solid weight. When we get to the sidewalk, he gestures up the street. “Since you’re here, let me buy you lunch.”

  We start toward the Sunfish Café, which has become our regular haunt.

  Once we’re settled into seats and the waitress takes our order, he locks me in his gaze. “Anything you need, Lee. Just tell me and I’ll make it happen.”

  The genuine concern in his expression pulls at my heart. He is one of the truly good guys.

  “I really wanted to do this on my own, but it’s been months and … I need a job or I’m going to go crazy.”

  His eyebrows arch, creasing his broad forehead, as obvious relief slides over his face. “That’s it? A job?”

  “It’s not as easy as it sounds.” There’s a defensive edge to my voice I didn’t intend.

  “So you’re staying?” he asks, rubbing his stubbled chin.

  It takes me a second to understand the question. As it clicks in my head I realize, to my astonishment, that I’m starting to accept this as home. Which is probably the reason I’ve never told Wes about Rob’s trip back to Chicago a few months ago. They’d drop Rob from the program and relocate the rest of us.

  “Yeah, we’re staying.”

  The tension through his shoulders eases as he relaxes back into his seat. “I thought you were going to tell me you wanted to relocate.”

  A smile ticks at my mouth. “Don’t worry. We’re not going to blow your budget.”

  He reaches across the table, his thumb brushing across the backs of my fingers, curled around my water glass. “It’s not my budget I’m worried about.”

  My heart quickens at his touch.

  We talk about job options over lunch and he tells me he’ll have something for me by the end of the week. As we walk back to his office, he presses his fingertips into the small of my back. He looks straight ahead as we walk, keeping his expression carefully neutral, but one finger finds bare ski
n and brushes along the waistband of my skirt. The contact sets off a chain reaction in my body—some deep, instinctual drive that I can’t classify. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched by anyone that I feel like one of those baby test monkeys they removed from their mothers. When the scientists put anything soft into their environment, they clung to it.

  Not that Wes is soft. He’s all hard muscle and testosterone. But I feel myself wanting to cling.

  “Where are you parked?” he asks.

  “Half a block up Polk,” I say with a nod of my head that direction.

  He guides me around the corner and we keep walking. About a block from his office, he lowers his hand, leaving me feeling suddenly chilled in the sweltering Florida afternoon.

  I turn to face him at my car. “Thanks for lunch.”

  “I’ll let you know when we’ve got something for you.” Those blue eyes go liquid and deep. He lifts a hand, brushes his fingertips down my forearm. But just when I’m sure he’s going to kiss me, he hauls a shaky breath and backs off. “I’m glad you’re staying.”

  I work to keep my voice even. “For now.”

  I follow with my eyes as he strides quickly down the sidewalk toward his building without looking back.

  ***

  When I get back to the sea-ravaged fisherman’s cottage that my family has called home since early January, my older brother Rob and his girlfriend, Adri, are burrowed together on the wicker loveseat on the long front porch. Rob’s got a bare foot propped on the rail and an arm slung over Adri’s shoulder. Their foreheads are together and they’re so deep in conversation that neither of them seemed to have heard me drive up.