Chapter five
Twenty minutes later, I pull my Camry to a stop on the street opposite Jeremy’s rather seedy South Austin apartment building.
Guilt driving me, I’m committed to somehow saving the world from Jeremy, and I waste no time in parking, killing the engine, and exiting my car.
I pay for the parking meter, my skin crawling with the sense of being watched, my gaze shifting all about, expecting someone from the press seeking an interview, but I find no source for my discomfort besides my own nerves and anxiety. Or is it him? Is it Jeremy?
Watching me?
Expecting me?
I dart across the street toward the cluster of four-story red-brick buildings before I talk myself into leaving.
I ignore the crosswalks half a block down on either side of me.
There are no cars coming, and I wish this section of town was busier this time of day.
In the masses, there is sanctuary, a place to hide, and people to talk to or beg for aid.
Instead, I discover a human vacancy, and with it, exposure and vulnerability.
Truly, I can’t believe that I’m actually about to visit a killer in his own lair, alone and without backup, but indeed I am.
I comfort myself with the fact that the desolate streets create a false facade of being alone.
There are other tenants—people who will hear me scream if I’m terrified into such an action.
Unless the nearby tenants are at work, of course.
Quickly, and in defiance of my now aching head I didn’t get ahead of after all, I walk the path that leads to the inner section of the building that should be his.
Once I’ve ensured I’m at the proper structure, I follow the signs on the walls and stop at Jeremy’s ground-level apartment.
With a calming breath, I knock on his door and wait.
I have no plan and no idea what to do about Jeremy, but I need to know that I still have the chance to do it—whatever it is.
Feeling anxious, I knock again and wait some more.
A door behind me opens, and I turn, but only halfway, unwilling to place my back to Jeremy’s door. An elderly woman with curlers in her hair pokes her head out. “If you’re another one of them reporters, he’s not home. And before you ask, I don’t know where he is.”
“Is there a landlord who might?”
“Bella Marks,” she says. “Apartment 404, but she won’t be home for a couple of hours. She works another job.”
I dip my chin her direction. “Thank you. I’ll come back.
” I start walking, feeling the woman’s eyes all sticky on my back as I depart but I’m not leaving without answers.
If that means I have to wait awhile, so be it.
I rush across the empty street to my parked car, grab my briefcase and purse from inside, and hike toward the cute little coffee shop I’d spied earlier, roughly two blocks away.
You gotta love Austin, Texas, with all its quirky mingled neighborhoods.
My steps are quick, my nerves quicker, thumping faster than my feet and reminiscent of my walk to the courthouse on pretty much any given day.
I’m ridiculously relieved to reach my destination.
The doors chime in alert, and I wave to the barista and park myself at a table.
With caffeine as my friend, I spend the better part of two hours drinking too much coffee and reading through Jeremy’s file, trying to discover what I’d missed, but I find nothing.
I’m deep in my review when my phone buzzes on the table next to me with a message from Oliver: On target to be at your place at seven.
I glance at the clock on my computer. It’s already after five.
How have I let so much time slip away? I’ll never hear the end of it from him if he finds out I’m not home resting, let alone that I’ve gone looking for Jeremy.
I don’t reply to the text. It’s sneaky, I know, but I desperately need him to believe I’m asleep.
But I darn sure get moving.
I scoop all my files into my briefcase, bundle up, and I’m just passing the counter when a tall, thin man with glasses steps in front of me, and we collide.
I gasp and almost double over as ice rips down my spine and an image of a man, this man, consumes my mind.
His eyes glow yellow, and, oh my God, he’s choking a woman.
“Excuse me,” the man apologizes, his hand closing around my arm, and nausea curls in my belly. “Are you okay?”
Instinct roars with warning inside me, and I shove his hand away.
“I’m fine.” I don’t say more, I don’t look at him for fear of what I might see, or maybe not see.
I’m beginning to think I’m a loon—the crazy one.
I race for the door and fumble with the handle before charging into a much warmer evening—such is the joy of ever-changing Texas weather in December—only to stumble from dizziness.
My briefcase slides from my arm, and one of my folders crashes to the ground, papers scattering.
God, why am I this much of a mess? I am a master at handling stress, and yet I didn’t even zip my briefcase.
I kneel to gather my papers at the same time a man squats down to help me.
Suddenly, I’m staring into pale blue, almost translucent, eyes.
Crystal blue eyes. The same color I see every time I look in a mirror.
“Are you okay?” he too asks me. It’s the question of the day, it seems, but it feels different coming from him over the yellow-eyed man.
He feels different. As ridiculous as it would sound if I said it out loud, I can almost feel the deep baritone of this man’s voice melting the ice the other man created inside me.
“Better than yesterday,” I say, and his eyes are freaking me out a bit, and so is the fact that he’s really ridiculously good-looking.
His hair is longish and a rich raven shade with hints of amber.
His cheekbones are finely chiseled, his jawline sharp, and his lips…
he possesses the kind of brutal mouth a girl wants on her body.
Of course, most women would flirt with him, but I’m squatting on the ground while he stares at me, probably wondering why I’m still squatting on the ground.
I’m polished in the courtroom, but apparently step me into a coffee shop and I fall apart.
I grab one of my files and stuff it in my bag.
He picks up the remaining file and offers it to me.
I stare down at it, but I swear I tremble inside at the fear of accepting it and somehow touching him. I don’t want to know he’s one of them, whatever that means. I set my bag on the ground, and, my God, I’m losing it. My hands are shaking.
“Can you just stick that in there for me, please?” I ask.
His eyes—so like my eyes—narrow slightly, but he doesn’t question me. He stuffs the file inside my bag. “Thank you,” I say, popping to my feet.
He’s already standing, towering over me, and I decide he’s at least six-three, his body lean and powerful in jeans and a T-shirt that hugs his impressively broad chest. I decide right then suits and ties are overrated.
“Can I walk you somewhere?” he surprises me by offering.
Yes, I think, but there is too much in my life for this kind of distraction. There is Jeremy, and for all I know, no one around me is safe. It’s a horrible thought. Really, really horrible.
My hot stranger bends at the knees and captures my attention. “What just happened?”
“Sorry. I have a rough case right now. It’s on my mind.”
“I’m a good listener.”
“I think I believe you, but I need to go deal with this work thing.” And then, because I just can’t help myself, I ask, “Can I ask about your eyes?”
“You can ask anything you want to ask me.”
There’s an intimate quality to that statement that does funny things to my belly, and I wish I could explore where that leads.
I do. But I can’t, and I laugh a bit awkwardly.
“I’m an attorney. I’m really good at asking probing questions, so be careful what you invite.
I’ve never seen anyone else with the same eyes as me. ”
“I consider it a sign we were supposed to meet. Let me walk you to your meeting or car or wherever you’re going.”
“I’m close. Thank you for the help.”
He studies me for several beats and then reaches inside his pocket and offers me a card.
Nerves flutter in my belly at the idea of touching him, but before I can react, he reaches for my hand and presses the card into my palm.
And all I feel is tingling warmth climbing up my arm and sliding across my chest. My eyes lift and meet his, his hand still holding mine, and the punch of awareness I feel steals my breath.
Never have I felt as overwhelmingly present in a moment as I do now.
“Now you know how to reach me if you want to,” he says softly, and, reluctantly it seems, he releases me. “I’m going to get a coffee. Good luck with your work thing.” He inclines his chin at me and then saunters toward the counter, all loose-legged swagger and hot man.
I can’t seem to move. I can’t seem to want to walk away from him, and I can’t explain why.
With an internal shake to my senses, I rotate and rush forward, heat blasting me in the face, right along with the uneasy sensation of being watched.
I’ve made it a few feet, and I regret declining the escort as much as I’m praising myself for knowing this is not a safe time to invite someone into my life.
With a double step, I push forward. I don’t look back at him.
I don’t go to Jeremy’s apartment or to that of his landlord.
There is a strong warning in my head to leave, to get out of town before Oliver can stop me.
I’m in trouble—deep trouble—the kind of trouble I have to deal with myself.
And Lord, help me, that old woman fortune teller flashes in my mind. Maybe I’m the trouble.
I reach my car and climb inside, immediately locking the doors and cranking the engine. I’m a mile away at a stoplight when I finally look at the card in my hand to find only a phone number. There is no name.