Chapter 12
JASON
Laurel seemed to be only half-listening from the back seat as we were brought up to speed about the driver of the mystery car.
His name was Leo Kowalski, a handyman who’d been shopping at a home improvement store when a guy offered him a job. The man said he had a stack of documents he had to serve before five and was running out of time. Kowalski just had to knock on the door and hand the envelope to whoever answered.
Two hundred bucks up front, and another two after he delivered the benign-looking manila envelope with an address scribbled on the front. Kowalski had done his best to locate the non-existing address, driving up and down the neighborhood until he knew it better than anyone who lived there.
When shown the picture of Frey, Kowalski answered with a “maybe.” The Marshals Service was still waiting on FBI forensics to examine and report their findings on the envelope.
I drove this time, letting Derrick sleep, and I could feel the tension radiating outward in my direction.
It’s good that she’s angry. I needed some distance because there’d been a long moment on the stairs where I’d lost myself completely. Remembering the kiss caused me to tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
I waited until I was completely sure my partner was asleep. “Sorry about earlier,” I said quietly. “If I upset you—”
“You didn’t.” It was obviously a lie, but she looked too tired to go another round with me right now.
I found her eyes in the rearview mirror, and they were glassy and dull. I wasn’t normally talkative. In fact, I preferred to ride in silence. But there was a clock subconsciously ticking in the back of my mind, counting down the hours until she’d leave my detail and transfer to another.
Gone, forever.
“Why ballet?”
My question hung so long, I wasn’t sure she was going to answer. But then she took in a preparing breath. “It’s what I’m supposed to do. I’d do it even if I wasn’t good at it.” Her curiosity overrode her anger, or perhaps she was just trying to be polite. “Why’d you become a marshal?”
“If I’d applied to the FBI academy, I’d probably be stuck working a desk.” It was all about the chase for me, and I liked the idea of being a modern-day cowboy.
Her expression was guarded. “And how would you get to break noses behind a desk?”
Fucking Caroline. She must have told her what I’d done to Nelson.
I kept my tone light. “Or protect ballerinas?”
“I’m not a ballerina. Ballerina is a title given to one woman in the company, after she’s been a principal for years. I’m a dancer.”
“When Bill told me that, I thought he meant—”
“Exotic. Yeah, it’s not the first time I’ve heard that. I’m sure they make more than I do, but the hours aren’t great.”
It struck me how different we were, but like two sides of the same coin. Both in her professional and personal life, it was obvious how much people’s opinions mattered to her, whereas I couldn’t care less.
Except, was that true? Her opinion of me mattered, but I refused to analyze why.
When we stopped for fuel, Laurel asked to use the restroom and I escorted her inside. I stood guard, lingering near the hallway that led to restrooms and pretended to have difficulty selecting the perfect type of jerky.
At the beverage fountain nearby, a frazzled young mother tried to dispense two drinks while simultaneously wrangling her five-year-old.
“Brady, put that back!” she scolded.
The kid had grabbed a giant candy bar off the rack and swung it like a baseball bat. I admired both the kid’s dedication to form and the way he completely ignored his mother. Ballsy.
An older man wearing a baseball hat stood behind them, holding a gallon-sized mug, and his posture screamed impatience. Perhaps he was a trucker, anxious to stay on schedule.
“You about done?” It wasn’t really a question. This was his way of letting the woman know other people were in line.
“Yes, sorry.” She set the cups on the counter and reached for the lids, making room for the man.
“What’d you get me?” the kid asked, still swinging for the fences when Laurel emerged from the bathroom.
His mother struggled to make the lid fit. “I got you Sprite, because you—”
The boy was too young to have spatial awareness, but he got a lesson in cause and effect when his candy bar connected with the cup.
It sent the entire contents flying in an explosion of soda and ice.
It showered the trucker from head to toe, and for a moment the only audible noise was the gasp in horror from the mother.
Outrage flooded the man’s face before he leaned down and hooked the boy under the arm, squeezing. “Look what you just did!”
The boy’s eyes went as wide as saucers and he burst into tears, maybe from the fear, but maybe from pain.
“Get your hands off him.” My voice was so loud, it made the man jolt and everything around us stop.
The trucker’s focus turned to me. One glance to size me up, and he dropped his hold of the boy. The candy bar fell to the ground, and the boy darted to hide behind his mother’s legs, who looked paralyzed with fear.
“I got soaked!” the man said, as if that justified his actions.
“Yes, but it was an accident.” I pulled another cup from the dispenser, dumped some ice in it, and began to fill it with Sprite. “The kid made a mistake. We all do sometimes.”
I snapped the lid on the drink and passed it to the mother, who probably only took it from me as a practiced response. She was on high alert. The trucker was the biggest threat, but she was unsure of me as well.
“You made a mistake,” I said, “when you grabbed him. I’m sure the kid is sorry, just like I’m sure you’re sorry. Right?”
I’d perfected the “you don’t want to fuck with me” look over the years and delivered it now. If that wasn’t enough to get the message across, I’d put one hand on my hip to give the guy a nice view of the gun and badge there, currently disguised under my suit jacket.
The trucker straightened, weighing his options, and then quickly decided it wasn’t worth it.
“Yeah.”
I focused on Laurel, wordlessly asking if she was ready. When she nodded, I moved to the register and dropped some money on the counter. “I’ve got their drinks.”
“Whose?” The clerk’s gaze went from the mother and son to the trucker.
“All of them.”
When we got back to the car, Derrick was already seated behind the wheel, waiting for us with an ominous look.
“Check your phone.”
The forensics report was in. If there was any doubt Frey was behind it, this decimated it.
It was a picture of Laurel, taken from above. She wore a glittering ballet costume, and there was blood staining her arms and knees. Her face peered up at the camera, and the expression she held was so haunting, it made my blood run cold.
It was nothing compared to the single word scrawled beneath the image, though.
Mine.
It was like I’d just taken a fist to the gut. That was why Frey hadn’t killed her in his hotel room. He wanted her alive.
Frey wanted her.
I abandoned my phone on the seat and climbed out of the car, mumbling to my partner I’d be right back. I moved with the only goal of getting away from the SUV, needing to put distance between myself and the image. But it was useless. The picture and its meaning were seared into my brain.
I rounded the back of the gas station and saw the trucker clambering into the cab. Part of me wanted to go after him, lay into him some more and use him as an excuse to get my aggression out. Instead, I kept walking.
The idea of Frey coming after Laurel was ever-present in my mind. But I’d thought it was to silence her, not to have her, and this revelation made something basic inside me snarl that I’d never let that happen.
The urge to protect her was relentless and consuming.
And it wasn’t only because it was my job. I had to stop kidding myself. This thing between us was more than just lust. Laurel was smart and tough. A proven fighter when she'd come face to face with Frey, and she'd escaped.
I respected the hell out of her.
But I was terrified that our connection went beyond simple respect. I liked Laurel.
I liked her far more than I was allowed to.