Protective Order

by Rita Herron

  “9-1-1 report. Fire in progress,” his captain told Griff over the phone. “Texting you the address now.” Griff stood as the message appeared on his screen. The address—Joy Norris’s apartment above the nail salon she owned. Damn. He hoped Joy wasn’t there. He’d dated her a few times, but learned she’d lied about her divorce being final. Griff didn’t tolerate lies, so he’d broken it off.

  “Be right there.”

  “I’m on my way,” Jacob said, tossing some cash on the table.

  Griff added a twenty to the pile, and he and Jacob headed to the exit.

  Not knowing how long they’d be at the scene, they drove separately. Jacob flipped on his siren and led the way. A mile from the salon, Griff spotted the smoke. The other storefronts nearby looked safe—for now. But the blaze had to be contained.

  Jacob’s tires squealed as he veered onto the curb. Griff pulled in behind him, then jumped out and met the crew from his firehouse by the truck. He quickly yanked on his gear.

  Jacob caught his arm before he went inside. Déjà vu of the blaze where they’d lost their father struck him. One look at Jacob, and he realized his brother was reliving that horrible day, too.

  “Careful, bro.” Jacob’s eyes darkened. “You’re gonna be an uncle.”

  “I’m always careful.” Then Jacob’s words registered, and he gave his brother a hug. “Congrats, man. You’ll be a great father just like Dad was.” He was already a great stepfather.

  Emotions clogged Griff’s throat, but he swallowed them back and headed into the burning building.

  * * *

  REESE TAGGART HAD been living a lie for the past three years. Hiding out from life. Hiding out from her real identity.

  Hiding out from him.

  Darkness surrounded her. Her sister had been the one who’d seen the colors. Tess had used soft, muted shades of blue and green and vibrant reds and oranges in her landscapes.

  When she died, the colors faded for Reese. Now the world was nothing but an ugly brown like the brittle ashes of her sister’s house when it had burned to the ground.

  She pounded the punching bag, giving it a sharp right hook, then swung around, lifted her leg and kicked it with all her force. Perspiration beaded on her neck as she went another round, releasing her rage and frustration on the bag as if it was the demon who’d forced her to give up her life and go on the run.

  The police had said they’d protect her. They’d looked for her sister’s killer. Issued an APB and BOLO and utilized every other kind of official method of tracking down Robert Bouldercrest possible. But he had virtually disappeared.

  No credit cards had shown up, no driver’s license in another state, no banking information, no posts on social media.

  Just like her, he’d changed his name and started over somewhere else.

  Had he already found another obsession? Or was he still looking for her?

  She slammed her foot into the bag again, then spun her body into a one-eighty turn and gave it a hard-left jab.

  “Looking good there, Ginny.”

  Virginia Bagwell—Ginny—was the name she’d assumed. This gym rat wanted to get personal. Just like Ian Phelps, her instructor at the shooting range, did.

  Not going to happen. She’d never trust another man again.

  Ian was a former cop and still had friends on the force. She’d actually considered asking him for help once. But too many bad memories had surfaced. Cops who hadn’t believed Robert was the monster she claimed him to be. Cops who hinted that she’d asked for what had happened to her.

  Besides, Ian had friends who might become curious about her and unearth her real identity. She couldn’t let that happen.

  No one would find out the truth, not until Robert was behind bars.

  Or dead.

  She preferred the latter. In fact, she’d been training for it.

  The gym rat sauntered over to her, mopping his sweaty face with a towel. “How about we grab a drink when you’re finished?” His killer smile and toned body had charmed the pants off half the women who belonged to this gym. She’d watched them croon over him, choose machines beside him to nab his attention. Even request personal training sessions.

  Once he conquered them, he dropped them like hot potatoes.

  But he was persistent, and if she ignored him, he’d simply go for the chase. That was the kind of guy he was.

  “Can’t. Got a date,” she lied.

  “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

  “Yeah. Long time now.”

  She turned her back to him and punched the bag again, knowing her knuckles would probably be bruised and bloody when she finished. Even the gloves didn’t protect her when she unleashed her rage. But she wanted to be strong. Had to be.

  If Robert came after her again, she’d be ready.

  * * *

  “JOY!” GRIFF TWISTED the doorknob and the door swung open. Heat blasted him, the fire already eating the floor and crawling along the worn carpet. “Joy!”

  Flames danced in the kitchen and living area. He maneuvered through the hallway, dodging the flames as he searched the apartment. Living room empty. No one in the bathroom.

  “Joy!” He darted through the doorway which was surrounded by flames and spotted Joy on the floor by the bed. Fire engulfed the curtains and crawled around the windowsill.

  His heart hammered as he dove through a fiery patch and bent to scoop her up in his arms. She was so still and lifeless that he didn’t think she was breathing. Flames nipped at his heels as he carried her through the house, down the steps and outside.

  The building crashed and exploded as he rushed to escape. It was chaos outside. More police had arrived. Neighbors, business owners and curiosity seekers had gathered to watch. Sirens and lights twirled against the night sky. Fire hissed and wood crackled. The windows blew, glass shattering and spraying.

  One of the medics met him, and Griff eased Joy’s body onto the stretcher. Her hair had started to singe. Smoke and soot stained her clothes and limbs.

  At least he’d rescued her before the fire had gotten her.

  The medic checked Joy’s pulse. Then her heart.

  His own hammered as the medic murmured that she was gone.

  Jacob jogged over to them, his face worried. “Griff?”

  He spoke through gritted teeth, “She was already dead when I went inside.”

  Jacob grimaced. “No one else in there?”

  “It’s clear.”

  “How did the fire start?” Jacob asked. “Did you smell gas or an accelerant?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Griff said. “I’ll have to wait until it dies out and cools down before I can go in. But if someone had set the salon on fire, the chemicals and acetone in that salon would have been a natural accelerant.” He hesitated. “Although why would someone want to burn down the nail salon?”

  Jacob shrugged. “We’ll look into that. Maybe she was in financial trouble and wanted the insurance money.”

  Griff mulled over that possibility. He didn’t remember Joy having financial problems, but small businesses were a tough go. Hers could be suffering.

  “Does she have family to notify?” Jacob asked.

  “No, just the ex.”

  A pinched look marred Jacob’s face as he examined Joy’s body more closely. “Look at that.” Jacob pointed out bruises on Joy’s neck.

  Griff’s blood went cold. “Dammit, this was no accident. She was murdered.” And the fire had been set to cover it up.

  Two hours later

  GINNY CHECKED OVER her shoulder as she unlocked the door to her Asheville apartment. She’d driven a different route home from the gym today and kept alert. Varying her routine had become a necessity for survival.

  Stalkers studied behavior patterns. Robert had certainly learned hers. Even after she’d tried to
break it off with him, he’d watched her from the shadows. He’d known where she shopped, ate, the trails she liked to jog, her friends, even the drugstore she frequented. She’d even caught him combing through her trash.

  She’d never considered he’d hurt Tess, but she’d learned her lesson. Since her sister died, she hadn’t allowed herself to get close to anyone.

  She couldn’t live with another person’s death on her conscience.

  She twisted the main lock on the door as she entered the foyer, then the two dead bolts. Still, she kept one hand on the .22 in her pocket as she searched the rooms. Satisfied no one was inside, she stowed her pistol in the drawer by the sofa, then poured herself a whiskey and carried it to the table.

  She opened her laptop and once again searched the internet and social media, hoping to find a picture of Robert somewhere. He’d hunted her like a dog that last month.

  It was time he learned what it felt like to be hunted.

  An hour later, her muscles ached from fatigue, and she flipped on the TV to watch the evening news just as she did each night. The weather report aired, then national news, then a special breaking story.

  A fire in Whistler, NC.

  She clutched her glass with a white-knuckled grip as the reporter interviewed Sheriff Jacob Maverick. He stood in front of a burning building, flames lighting up the sky. The street was chaotic, emergency lights twirling.

  “Sheriff, can you tell us what happened here tonight?” the reporter asked.

  Beads of sweat trickled down the side of the sheriff’s face. “We’re on the scene of a fire at Joy’s Nail Salon.

  “Although our local fire station responded immediately, the chemicals inside the salon caused the blaze to spread quickly. At this point, workers are trying to contain the blaze and keep it from spreading to neighboring businesses.”

  The camera panned to an ambulance, a doctor standing with the medics and a tall broad-shouldered fireman.

  “What about the owner?” the reporter asked. “Was she inside the salon when it caught fire? Were there injuries? Casualties?”

  The sheriff shifted. “Unfortunately, the owner of the shop, Joy Norris, was dead when we arrived.”

  A photograph of the woman flashed on the screen. “If anyone has information regarding her death or the fire tonight, please contact my office.”

  The number for Whistler’s sheriff’s department appeared, but the numbers blurred in Ginny’s mind as her gaze latched on to the woman.

  Joy Norris had shoulder-length auburn hair. Green eyes. A heart shaped face. And ivory skin.

  Ginny’s chest constricted. She was Robert’s type. And a dead ringer for Ginny herself.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, Ginny mentally reviewed the news report on the Whistler fire as she drove toward the small mountain town.

  Joy Norris’s death had been ruled a homicide. The sheriff hadn’t revealed details, but she was dead before the fire started. They hadn’t reported cause of death though, which raised her suspicions.

  She thumped her fingers on her thigh. Was she trying to make a connection where there wasn’t one?

  Determined to find out if her suspicions had merit, she followed the winding mountain road to Griffin Maverick’s cabin. She’d decided to approach the arson investigator instead of the sheriff. Although he was the sheriff’s brother, at least he wasn’t law enforcement.

  Winter was still hanging on, the wind roaring, the trees bare of leaves. As she parked in front of the rustic log cabin, she took a second to admire its sprawling front porch. It looked post card picturesque, much like the little town that was nestled amongst the Appalachian Mountains.

  The wind rolled off the mountain, creating a chill in the air. Yet the sound of the river thrashing over rocks drifting from the property in back added a calmness to the breathtaking natural beauty.

  She rubbed her hands up and down her arms as she climbed the porch steps, then knocked. After a minute, when she didn’t hear sounds inside, she rang the doorbell, mentally bracing herself. She’d planned her cover story on the drive. A way to finagle information without revealing her identity or her past or having to rely on the sheriff.

  She’d put all her faith in the law before, but they’d let her down from day one. Two years ago, she’d chased a similar lead/story and confided in a detective working the case in Charlotte. But he’d only paid her lip service. Then he’d accepted a bribe from Robert to find out where she was.

  She’d barely escaped alive and had been forced to change her name again. Thank God for the underground society who helped women like her.

  Like her. She’d thought she was strong and independent. Had never dreamed she’d be in this situation. Had had the ridiculous misbelief that domestic violence and stalking only happened to weak women.

  She was wrong.

  Crazies came in all sizes and styles, some of them cunning and handsome and so manipulative they knew exactly how to get in the mind of their victims and find their weaknesses. They preyed on women, women who were oblivious to the fact they were being targeted.

  Her downfall had been trusting others.

  No more.

  She took a deep breath, fluffed her layered bob, which was now a soft black instead of auburn, and adjusted the dark blue blazer she’d picked up at the thrift store.

  Finally, she heard a noise inside. Footsteps.

  She peered through the window and spotted Griffin Maverick shuffling toward the front door. His hair looked mussed, and he ran a hand over his eyes as if he’d just woken up.

  She should have called. But she’d suspected he might deny her an interview. And if Robert had set the fire the night before, she wanted to know.

  He swung the door open, blinking at the morning sunlight with a frown. Dear heavens, he was a handsome man. Tall, built like a linebacker, a broad face, shadow of a beard, dark hair, deep brown eyes with flecks of gold.

  “I’m sorry,” she sputtered, thrown by her reaction to him. Of course, any red-blooded female would be shaken by his raw masculinity. But she didn’t allow herself to fantasize that there might be a good man beneath the package.

  Not anymore.

  “Sorry?” he said his voice gruff. “What, are you lost or something?”

  She shook her head, willing her voice to be steady and not reveal the fact that she was about to feed him a big fat lie.

  Protecting herself and getting revenge were all that mattered. If she had to use this man to do that, then let the lies begin.

  * * *

  GRIFF STARED AT the woman in confusion. Strange, beautiful females didn’t just show up at his door early in the morning, not out here.

  Hell, he’d been up half the night working the crime scene and felt as scruffy as he must look.

  She lifted a dainty chin. “My name is Virginia—Ginny—Bagwell,” she said in a voice that sounded almost angelic. Or hell, maybe he was still asleep and dreaming. In deep REM.

  “I’m an investigative journalist,” she continued. “I’m writing a special series on arson, specifically arsonists and their motives, and would like to interview you for my piece.”

  Griff narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been up half the night working. Why don’t you contact my firehouse and talk to the captain? He has people who handle media coverage.” Griff hated the press. Being in the spotlight. Last night he’d left Jacob to handle the reporter at the salon so he could concentrate on his job.

  “Please,” Ginny said with a soft smile that probably disarmed most men. Or had them falling at her pretty feet. And he bet they were pretty and girly although you wouldn’t know it from the plain black flat shoes she wore. They were as nondescript as the black sedan she was driving.

  “I did my research,” she went on. “I know how well respected you are, that you’re a leader among your team. I saw the
story about the fire last night. You worked it.”

  Griff shifted. “So did other members at my station.”

  She clamped her teeth over her bottom lip, a lip so plump and ripe that for a moment Griff’s body stirred with desire.

  Good grief. What was wrong with him?

  Sleep deprivation. That was all.

  She fidgeted with the button on her jacket. “I’m sorry for bothering you. You obviously were up late. Maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee later? Or breakfast? How about it, Mr. Maverick?”

  She was persistent.

  “Who did you say you work for? A paper? Magazine?” Griff asked.

  A second of hesitation, then she breathed out. “I’m not with anyone at the moment. I’m trying to get an in at a TV network, and the only way to do that is to come up with a good story.”

  “You can get information on arsonists’ motives on the internet,” he said, sensing she was trouble.

  “I don’t want simple rote facts,” she said. “I want the real story from someone who’s worked fires, who knows arson, who’s been in the head of a fire starter and understands his actions.”

  He leaned against the doorframe. “Understanding means I sympathize with the arsonist, and I don’t. But I do recognize their motives. Human nature makes us want to know why people do the things they do, especially actions that hurt others. And knowing those motives can lead to finding the culprits.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” she said. “Please meet me for coffee later.”

  She extended a business card with her name and phone number in black and white. “I’m going to book a room at the local inn. Just let me know when you’re ready to talk.”

  Their fingers brushed as he accepted the card, and the sleeve of her jacket rode up slightly. Just enough to reveal a scar on the underside of her wrist. Puckered red skin. Raw looking.

  A burn scar.

  His pulse jumped. Ginny Bagwell might be researching a story, but she was holding something back. This was personal to her.