“But . . .” He drew the word out.
Brooke grimaced. “But nothing. Unlike Misty, I seem to have a harder time meeting someone.”
“Meeting someone or committing to someone?”
“Meeting someone worth committing to. And anyway, the commitment issue wasn’t mine.” She hopped up and went to check the chicken in the oven.
“So whose was it?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s in the past.”
“Hmm. And the brother?”
“That would be Paul.” She smiled. “He’s the best and I love him. He’s a pastor, believe it or not.”
“A pastor? Where?”
“Here. In Greenville.”
“What led him to that?”
“I think a lot of his search for God came from a . . . dissatisfaction with the father figure in our lives, so he went looking for a better one. He jokes that he found himself spending so much time with God that he figured he might as well get paid for it.” She shook her head.
Asher laughed. Then blinked as though the sound surprised him.
“He was my spiritual influence,” she said. “He’d found peace and life, and I wanted to know how he’d done that. It took a while for me to believe it could be real, but I discovered that it could. Doesn’t mean everything in my life is perfect, but at least I know I’m not alone in dealing with it.”
“Have you called to tell him about what happened with Sharon?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Brooke planted her hands on her hips. “You’re awfully nosy, aren’t you?”
“How else am I going to find out what I want to know?”
“Right. I didn’t want to worry him. He’s a . . . well, he can be a helicopter brother, and I prefer to just stay quiet for now. So how well did you know Isaiah?” she asked. Two could play the change-the-subject game.
His eyes glittered with what she thought might be humor for a brief second. Because he knew exactly what she was doing. The humor faded. “Isaiah was one of us. Part of my unit.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m glad you were there for him in the end,” he said, all trace of laughter gone. “Not glad you were hurt, but glad he wasn’t alone.”
“He was so concerned about being labeled a traitor. His last words were to make sure Miranda knew he wasn’t a traitor.” She bit her lip. “What if—” No. It was a crazy thought.
“Don’t stop. What if what?”
“What if he wasn’t the traitor, but someone in your unit was? And they set him up to take the fall?”
Asher reared back. “What? No. No way.”
“I know. It’s a harsh thing to say, but I keep going round and round about it and it’s the only thing I can come up with. If Isaiah wasn’t a traitor and there’s evidence that says he was, then he was set up. It’s pretty simple, if you ask me.”
Simple? Hardly. “I know those guys and there’s not one that could do that.” He wouldn’t believe it. Not for a second. And yet he wouldn’t have thought Mario Ricci could have done what he’d done either. Still . . . “We ran missions together—good ones and a couple that went sideways. Every man in that unit has saved my hide more than once, including Isaiah. I can’t see it.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
The words were calm. Curious and nonjudgmental, but she might as well have shouted them. “Can’t. Won’t. What difference does it make? They like to blow off steam and they can be loud, obnoxious, and rowdy, but none of them would do anything that could be considered traitorous. Except Ricci, of course. His actions have gone against everything I’d ever believe him capable of, but the others? No way.”
“But . . . what if?”
“There is no what-if.”
“Asher—” The rumble of the garage door opening stopped her. “That’s Heather.”
He sniffed. “And I think the food’s done.” Grateful for the timely interruption, he rose to take the dish out of the oven, and while the friends greeted each other, he added the pasta to the chicken and set it on the table.
Heather tilted her head toward Asher. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too.”
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” Heather said, dropping her purse and mail onto the counter. “It’s been a very long, tedious shift, and to come home to this is an answer to prayer.”
“Then let’s eat,” Brooke said. She went to the refrigerator and pulled out the fixings for a salad while Heather set the table. They worked together, not having to ask each other anything, they just knew what to do. Kind of like the guys in his unit.
“You two do this a lot?” Asher asked.
“A couple times a week,” Heather answered with a smile.
It didn’t take them long to demolish the meal, and Asher soon leaned back, his stomach full and his eyes heavy. If he’d been at home, he would have moved to the couch and slept—for as long as he could have anyway. He didn’t dare fall asleep here.
“So tell me, what’s going on?” Heather asked. “When you texted, you made it sound like it could wait, but apparently you downplayed everything and then you wouldn’t answer your phone.” She shot a reproving glance at Brooke. “The simple text you sent saying you’d explain when you saw me was decidedly not acceptable.”
“I didn’t want to distract you from doing your job,” Brooke said. “And Asher’s been with me every minute.” She sent him a grateful smile and his heart thudded an extra beat.
What was it about her that drew him like a magnet? She was pretty, but not drop-dead gorgeous like Heather. While he noticed Heather’s beauty, and even liked her personality and quick wit, it was Brooke he was drawn to. It was confusing—and bemusing.
He cleared his throat, then finished off his iced tea and leaned forward. “I think we need to talk about the elephant in the room.”
Brooke sighed. Nodded. “All right.”
Heather’s gaze bounced between them as they related what had happened, but she didn’t say anything. Only her expressions betrayed her shock.
Asher turned to Brooke. “Mario Ricci broke into your home.”
Heather gasped and Brooke frowned. “What?”
“Uh . . . nothing.”
“You know Mario?” Asher asked.
“Not really. Let’s just say I know the name.”
Brooke narrowed her eyes. “Okay.” She glanced back to Asher. “And yes, he broke into my home.”
“It appears that he was looking for something other than cash or stuff to fence.”
“Again, yes. But what else could he have been looking for? I don’t have anything.”
“There’s another possibility,” he hedged.
“What?”
He really didn’t like this one, nor did he want to share it with her.
“Come on, Asher, tell me,” Brooke said. “I need to know.”
“It could be he had no intention of leaving without you and was just seeing what he could find while he waited for you to get home.”
She paled.
“So if he was after something besides goods that he could easily unload on a fence,” he continued, “I’d say we need to know what that something is in order to ensure your safety.”
“Well, if he’s still alive,” Brooke said, “we need to go to Memorial. You have a connection with him just from serving in Afghanistan, if nothing else. If you play that up, you might be able to get him to talk.”
He doubted it but could see it would mean a lot to her if he’d try. He hesitated, then caved. “All right, we can head to the hospital whenever they say he’s awake.” A pause. “If he wakes up.”
“Yeah. If.”
“Wait a minute,” Heather said. “You mentioned Memorial. I had a GSW victim come through surgery. The only one tonight. Are you saying that’s the guy who attacked and tried to kill you?”
“If his name is Mario Ricci, then yes,” Brooke said.
“Um . . . I see.”
&nb
sp; “But you can’t say,” Asher said. “HIPAA and all that?”
“Yes, HIPAA and all that.”
“Did he have any friends or family with him?”
“Not that I spoke to.”
Brooke’s phone rang. She glanced at the number and frowned.
“Who is it?” Asher asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve gotten a couple voice mails from numbers I don’t recognize. I guess I need to take care of those soon.” She let this call roll to voice mail as well. “But I can do that later. I want to know how Mario is doing and if he can answer a few questions.”
Asher nodded and slipped into the den to make the call.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Heather turned to Brooke. “Are you okay?” she asked, her concern evident.
Tears gathered at her friend’s question, and Brooke swiped at them to clear her bleary eyes, wishing she could sleep for a week. Without dreams or nightmares. “No, I’m not okay. Sharon is dead, and I think it was supposed to be me who was killed, not her.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if you think about it, we look fairly similar. Like, if the killer had a rough description or a bad picture—”
“Like the one in the paper?”
Brooke frowned. “Yes, like the one in the paper. I can see how he might mistake her for me. Especially since she was in my office.” She ran a hand over her face. “Probably fixing coffee for me like she’s done every morning since I started working there.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “She died because she was fixing coffee. For me.”
“That’s a big leap there.”
“Maybe.” She dropped her hands to her lap. “And I wouldn’t have even thought about it if someone hadn’t been in my house when I got home. Now, I just don’t know. I wonder . . .”
Heather narrowed her eyes. “Wonder what?”
“I had a client in Afghanistan. He was from this area and I had to send him home.”
Her friend straightened and her eyes sharpened. “You think he’s the one who did this? That he was coming after you because he wants revenge?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think it’s not out of the realm of possibility and it needs to be checked out.”
Brooke nodded.
“You need some sleep,” Heather said.
“Yeah.” Brooke lifted her gaze to meet Heather’s. “Are you sure you’re okay with me staying here tonight? You need your rest too, and I might . . . well, you know.”
Heather scowled. “The fact that you even asked is insulting.”
“I know.”
“Good.” Heather yawned. “I think I’m going to take a hot shower and grab some sleep while I can. You don’t have to worry about waking me up tonight anyway. I’m on call.”
“Bless your heart.”
Her friend stood. “And I wouldn’t mind if you did.”
“What?”
“Wake me up. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
Heather hugged her and Brooke cherished the sweet connection for the brief moment. God may not have blessed her with the kind of family she’d always yearned for growing up, but he’d made up for that in the kind of friends he’d placed in her life.
Heather stepped back, smothering another yawn. “Oh my. I’m tired. Thank you for the fabulous meal. Now I’m going to leave you with this positive thought.”
“What’s that?”
“If you can’t make it as a shrink, you can always start a catering business.”
Brooke tossed her wadded napkin at Heather as the woman left. Heather’s lighthearted teasing never failed to lift her spirits. Today was no exception, in spite of the tragedy she’d just suffered.
But now her friend was gone and Asher was in the den still talking on the phone. As it didn’t sound like a conversation with someone at the hospital, he was probably talking to one of his coworkers.
Brooke crossed her arms in front of her on the table and rested her head on them. The action pulled at the scars on her back, but she ignored the sensation and closed her eyes.
“Wake up! Wake up!” She shook him, but his eyes were locked on the ceiling above. Pop! Pop! The fire crackled. The smoke moved in, covering her like a weighted blanket. She coughed, unable to breathe. The pain finally registered and she looked down to see her arms engulfed. The right one fell off, then the left. Isaiah picked one up and held it out to her. She didn’t understand. He was dead. He shouldn’t be able to help her. He was dead!
She screamed.
A hand shook her. “Brooke, hey, Brooke, it’s okay. Wake up.”
Her eyes popped open. The flames and smoke faded. Her fingers—of both attached arms—curled into fists. Asher sat in the chair next to her, eyes full of compassion and understanding. “How long was I screaming?” she asked, her voice husky, thick with sleep. The fact that she’d basically passed out the moment she’d closed her eyes told her what she already knew. She needed to find a way to deal with the nightmares.
“Just once.”
Her gaze flicked toward the stairs.
“Heather didn’t hear it, I don’t think. The shower’s still running.” He frowned. “And I think I hear music.”
“She has a shower radio.” Brooke pushed to her feet, cheeks heated, shame gripping her. “Sorry about that.” She shouldn’t have relaxed or let her guard down, but she was so tired.
She walked into the large den and eyed the refrigerator next to the bar in the corner.
“Don’t start,” Asher said. “It’s too hard to stop.”
“I’m not.” She looked away. “I think about it, but I’ve seen what self-medicating with alcohol does and it’s not pretty. As much as I might be tempted or want the oblivion I know it can bring, I just . . . won’t.”
“Your father?”
She gave one quick nod. “So I know better. But I can’t say I don’t remember the nights he simply passed out and didn’t wake up until the next morning.”
“He paid for those hours, though.”
“You sound like you know that from experience.”
His gaze met hers. “I do. My problem started in college. In Kabul, I knew I’d need my wits about me if I was going to survive.” He shrugged. “My sister begged me not to die over there, and I knew alcohol would lessen my chances of coming home. So I haven’t touched a drop since I joined the military. Not that I haven’t been tempted sometimes.”
She swallowed hard and let her eyes linger on his. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it’s just one day at a time, right?”
Brooke huffed a short laugh. “Right. Are you sure you’re not the one with the psychiatric degree?”
“Ha. Funny.”
He gestured to the couch and she sat. “What did you find out about Mr. Ricci?”
“He pulled through surgery and is holding his own. He should be awake sometime tomorrow, and the nurse said we could come by and talk to him.”
“How did you get her to reveal all that?”
“She’s kind of a friend.”
“Kind of?”
“I’ve been going to church with Gavin, and she’s a member there. I simply told her the truth. That I was one of the people he tried to kill, wanted to ask him why, and could she tell me when I could do so.”
“Okay, then we go first thing in the morning before we head to Columbia to see Miranda?”
“We?”
“Of course, we. I’ve canceled my appointments indefinitely. Marcus is working on getting everything—” The ringing phone cut her off. She snatched it and glanced at the screen. “It’s the same number as before.”
“Did they leave a message before?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you see what’s so urgent?”
She sent the call to voice mail. “If it’s so important, they’ll leave another message.”
Once the voice mail indicator popped up, she tapped the screen an
d listened. “Brooke, this is Special Agent Caden Denning again. I’m going to assume that you haven’t listened to my earlier voice mails, so I’ll start from the beginning. This is going to seem like a really strange request, but I talked to my sister, Sarah, and she said she thought you were in danger and you needed to watch your back. It had to do with something she overheard regarding your last interaction with Isaiah Michaels before the explosion at the restaurant. Anyway, give me a call at your earliest convenience. If I haven’t heard from you by tomorrow morning, I’ll try again.” He left his number, and it matched three of the previous attempts to reach her.
“Oh boy.”
“What is it?”
She summarized the call from Caden Denning. “I need to call him back.”
“Go ahead,” Asher said. He stood and paced. “I’m just going to do a perimeter check around this place.”
“Just so you know,” Brooke said, “Heather’s windows are wired.”
He shot her a tight smile. “Good to know.”
Her first attempt to reach Special Agent Denning went to voice mail. She left him a message, and almost before she could even hang up, her phone was ringing, displaying his number. “Hello?”
“Is this Brooke Adams? Sarah’s friend?”
“Yes.”
“This is Caden Denning, but I guess you figured that out.”
“I did. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She and Sarah had exchanged family histories over the course of serving together, but she’d never met the woman’s family.
“Uh-oh.”
“All good, I assure you. Sarah adores you.”
“The feeling is mutual.” He cleared his throat. “I’m assuming you listened to my messages?”
“I just listened to the last one. I’m so sorry I didn’t pick up when you called, but it’s been a very crazy day.”
“What kind of crazy, if you don’t mind me asking?”
She told him and he sucked in an audible breath when she finished. “Sarah said you might be in danger.”
“I think we’ve figured that part out.”
“Well, there’s more.” She listened to him talk about Isaiah Michaels and the fact that he’d taken something from the hospital just hours before the explosion had taken his life—and that two men were talking about her. But why?
Collateral Damage Page 10
