Chapter 6
Chapter Six
ELI
Sylvie was hanging on by a thread. She took one last sip from the can of Coke, set it in the cup holder, and reached for the door handle.
“I’m good. Let’s go.”
I appreciated the backbone, but she was lying. Sylvie was so far from good. She was exhausted, coming to grips with the fact that she’d lost her home and someone wanted to kill her. And the detective had been an asshole right down to that parking ticket. I wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
She drew in a quick breath and held it for a beat before letting it out in a rush. As she did, her spine straightened, and her chin lifted. She brushed the back of her hand against her cheek—still faintly smeared with dirt from the night before—and shoved open the door.
It appeared she could take a little more.
I moved to follow. My gut said I needed to stick close to Sylvie’s side.
Because she was about to fall apart or because she was in danger?
My gut wasn’t saying. It was probably both.
I closed my fingers around her elbow, guiding her through the other shoppers to the carts and wondering exactly how painful this process was going to be.
I wasn’t much of a shopper. Online was generally my thing, unless we were talking electronics or outdoor gear. I wasn’t looking forward to the time it would take to restock everything she needed, but it had to be done, considering all she owned was in the mostly empty backpack she carried.
Sylvie gripped the cart, bracing herself, and flashed me a bright grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s get in and out. I’d kill someone for a shower and clean clothes.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
“Don’t get in my way,” she warned, and before I could make a sarcastic reply, she was off like a bullet.
She hit the women’s clothing department first, as it was next to the carts, grabbing a fascinating assortment of clothes: two pairs of jeans, two short-sleeve T-shirts, two sweaters, a hoodie, two long-sleeve T-shirts, a pair of black pants, and a simple dark blue dress.
Two more shirts got tossed into the cart as she walked by them, pausing only to check the sizes.
It didn’t take me long to see that with this small selection of clothing, she could fit in almost any environment, from professional to casual, just by trading around pieces. Smart.
A few more steps into the next section, and she stocked up on underwear, bras, and something to sleep in. I tried not to hover too close there, not wanting to be a weird creeper who watched her pick out her underwear.
It was impossible not to notice she had a penchant for black. And lacy.
She didn’t bother with shoes until I commented, “You going to wear those Chuck Taylors with that dress?”
The cart came to a sudden stop, and Sylvie looked down at the faded, dusty gray sneakers she wore. “Good point. Thanks.” She swung the cart to the left, her lips pressed together, the lines bracketing her mouth pale, showing the strain she refused to accept.
This woman was tough. I still wasn’t sure I liked having a partner—definitely not a civilian—but I had to admire her grit.
She managed to find a pair of black low-heeled shoes that would go well enough with the semiprofessional outfits she’d grabbed, and we were done with shoes. We slowed at the electronics section, then kept going.
“What do you need?” I asked, looking behind us at the aisles of tablets, phones, and other devices.
Sylvie glanced back. “A laptop, but I’m not going to buy one here. I’ll figure that out later.”
“You good for cables and chargers?” I asked.
“Those I have,” she said. “I always keep a set in my backpack. Too many battery emergencies.”
“Good thinking,” I said, again admiring her forethought.
From there, we swung around to toiletries, and I prepared myself for a wait.
But again, she surprised me. It was fascinating watching her stand in front of the makeup section.
She scanned up and down, left to right, stopped, grabbed something, scanned again, grabbed something else.
She knew exactly what she wanted and where to find it.
Moving on, she tossed everything she needed in the cart, from a toothbrush and toothpaste to lotion, shampoo, deodorant, and stuff for her hair.
Less than twenty minutes after we’d entered the store, we had a cart half full, right down to the functional duffel-slash-backpack she’d grabbed in the luggage department.
“This will get me through for now,” she said, pushing the cart in the shortest line.
“There’s a washer-dryer in the safe house,” I added helpfully.
“Sweet. Then this will definitely hold me for a while.”
We fell into silence as we waited, Sylvie leaning on the cart, her shoulders rounding forward as the distraction of shopping faded, and she could no longer hold back her fatigue.
I had the weird impulse to rub her back, to run my palm up that rounded spine, offering comfort or support.
Or whatever. I didn’t know. I shoved my half-lifted hand in my pocket.
Sylvie wasn’t a friend. She wasn’t a lover. Not even a client, really.
I cleared my throat and scanned the registers. Nothing was out of place. Just people shopping, ringing up their purchases, everything exactly as it should have been.
We got to the front, and the clerk rang up the basket as efficiently as Sylvie had thrown things in the cart. Sylvie tapped the screen in front of her with her phone, and a second later the machine let out a low, aggravating beep.
“Sometimes the tap doesn’t work,” the clerk said with an apologetic shrug. “Do you have the card? The chip usually goes through.”
“Yeah, I’ve got the card,” Sylvie said. She slung her backpack off one shoulder and dug around in the front pocket until she pulled out her wallet and shoved in the card.
A circle spun on the screen, and a red X popped up, accompanied by the same low buzz.
“That one’s not working either,” the clerk said. She wrinkled her nose and smiled hopefully. “Do you have another?”
“I do,” Sylvie said, staring down at the card, “but that’s weird because I just paid… Never mind. Here, let’s try this one.”
She pulled out what I saw was a debit card from her bank, popped the chip side in, and three seconds later, we got the same low buzz and red X.
Slowly, she pulled the card out. “I don’t… Everything’s up to date. I did my banking the other day. The accounts aren’t empty.”
“Try another,” I said. “Do you have one?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “My backup credit card…” And she tried that.
Another low buzz and red X.
“Eli?” Sylvie asked, a questioning tone in her voice, her golden-hazel eyes sharp with worry.
“Yeah,” I said, beginning to see the full picture. People all around us weren’t having any trouble ringing up their purchases. This wasn’t a problem with the network or the store. This was a problem with Sylvie’s cards. And given the debit card, her bank.
This wasn’t random.
Not good. Blowing up her van was one thing, but messing with her credit cards and bank account was a whole other level of fuckery. I didn’t like what it said about the kind of people we might be dealing with.
Sylvie was digging in her wallet for another card. I raised my hand, wrapping it around hers and the wallet. “Put that away. We’ll deal with it later. I’ve got this.”
“Eli.” She shook her head. “You can’t. I mean, I have money.”
“Not at the moment, you don’t,” I said, realizing I was yet again coming off as kind of a dick, but we needed to keep moving. “You’ll pay me back later.”
“I will,” she said, her eyes showing a spark of panic.
“I know you will.” I pulled out my own wallet and shoved a card in the machine. Two seconds later, APPROVED flashed on the screen. I took back my card and the receipt from the clerk, handing the receipt to Sylvie. “There you go. We’ll figure this out when we get back.”
She nodded, pocketing the receipt. I nudged her forward out of the line, scooping up the bags as soon as we were clear of the registers and clamping a hand on her shoulder, half guiding, half pushing her in front of me. Those cards failing one after the other had sent ice creeping up my spine.
There was a subset of people out there who could put together a car bomb.
Not a lot, but enough. There was another subset of people who could fuck with computers enough to shut down banking or credit cards.
That was a much smaller group than the number of people who could build a bomb.
And the intersection of those two groups? Even smaller. And much scarier.
Somehow, Sylvie, in investigating Emily Shaw, had put herself in their crosshairs. That was not good. And I was the guy tasked with keeping her alive.
This had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.
It was possible that they hadn’t known she’d survived the explosion.
Maybe. Though anyone with access good enough to shut down her bank and her cards probably had an eye on the police investigation.
Either way, the attempt to use those cards had put her on their radar.
I wanted her in the safe house before we figured out what to do next.
Lunchtime traffic slowed us down. By the time we got back to Sinclair Security in Buckhead, both our stomachs were growling. I carried the bags in, saying as I let us in the safe house apartment, “Take your stuff. Go get a shower and get changed. I’ll figure out lunch. Anything you won’t eat?”
She shook her head. “I could use some protein. Other than that, I’ll eat anything.”
“Gotcha,” I said, loading her with her bags.
She took them and disappeared down the hall. As soon as I heard the bathroom door shut, I pulled out my phone and called Cooper, filling him in on the visit to the police station and the trip to the store.
“You’re going to loop in Maddox and Emmett on the card thing?” he asked.
“That was my next call.” I strode around the open-plan living and dining room, peering through the blinds, unable to sit still.
“How do you feel about taking the other bedroom in that safe house?” Cooper asked.