Chapter 5 #2
“Eventually,” she said finally. “Not yet. Careers are busy.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Especially you, with your tourist agency business. Lots of travel.”
She smiled. “Funny. I actually wanted to do that as a child.” Oops. Wait—“I didn’t mean—”
“That’s okay. I wanted to be an astronaut. So, we both wanted to travel.”
Okay, that was sweet.
“Buttercup.”
“I’m not kidding, Asher—”
He held up a hand. “I’ll have to land something to make it real.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Listen. I can play your husband. Question is whether you can play my wife without looking like you want to arrest me the whole time.”
Fair. “I’ll work on my expression.”
“Just land a smile and we’ll be good.”
She tried a smile.
“Oh, we’re in so much trouble.”
“What? I can smile.”
“You look like you’re in pain.”
Maybe she was. They drove past Greeley city limits into a more rural area. Fields on either side. A few houses scattered.
“Turn left ahead,” Asher said. “Patterson sent the go code.”
Daphne turned. Gravel road. Trees lining both sides. A house appeared around the bend. Small. Isolated. Two cars in the driveway.
She parked and turned off the engine.
Asher got out. “Come on, wife. Time to collect family.”
She’d created a monster.
Daphne followed him toward the house. Ignored the way her stupid heart rate picked up when he called her “wife.”
The door opened before they reached it.
Destiny Rousseau stood there. Early seventies. Elegant even in jeans and a sweater. Blonde hair pulled back.
Behind her, a US marshal Daphne didn’t recognize.
“Mrs. Rousseau,” Daphne said. “I’m Daphne Cross. We spoke on the phone. This is Agent Morrison. We’re here to take you to your son.”
Destiny’s eyes filled. “Is Roger safe?”
“He will be. I promise.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere secure,” Daphne said. “Somewhere no one will think to look. And for the next four weeks, you are our mother. Can you do that?”
Destiny looked between them. Confused.
Asher stepped forward. “Mrs. Rousseau. For the next twenty-seven days, you’re Destiny Morrison.
My stepmother. Daphne here is my wife. We’re helping you relocate to a retirement community, and your son is coming with you while he’s recovering from surgery.
That’s the story. That’s what keeps you alive. ”
Understanding dawned on Destiny’s face. “You’re protecting us by hiding us as family.”
“Exactly.”
“And you two are…?”
“Married. One year. Madly in love. Can’t keep our hands off each other.” Asher’s voice stayed deadpan. “Or at least, that’s what the neighbors need to believe.”
Daphne shot him a look.
He smiled. Slight. Almost genuine. “Too much?”
“Way too much.”
Destiny’s mouth twitched despite the tears. “You two are either very good at this or very bad. I can’t tell which.”
“Neither can we,” Daphne said.
“But we’re going to keep you alive,” Asher said. “That’s what matters.”
Destiny nodded. “Okay. I’m Destiny Morrison. Your stepmother. What else do I need to know?”
“Everything else, we’ll figure out in the car. We need to leave now. Roger’s released at two. We need to be in Renegade by then.”
They loaded Destiny into the back seat. An oversized roller bag, makeup case, pillow—sheesh, she wasn’t on vacation.
The US marshal handed Daphne an envelope. “Paperwork. IDs. Credit cards.”
“Thank you.”
They pulled away. Gravel crunching. Trees passing. Back toward the highway.
In the back seat, Destiny buckled in. “So. Tell me about my family. How did you two meet?”
Daphne glanced at Asher.
He glanced back and smirked.
“Well,” he started, “my honeycakes was remodeling her house…”
Probably, Asher’s brilliant idea would get him killed.
Roger Rousseau had a target on his back the size of Colorado, Destiny’s name was on a syndicate hit list, and Daphne Cross had just driven them into a retirement community where the biggest threat was supposed to be aggressive HOA rules and past-curfew parties.
Who partied after fifty-five?
Anyway, they already needed a session with Jerry Springer because real mom and real son were having a knockdown about who got the master bedroom.
And his fake wife was busy securing the house—adding motion sensors, door sensors, cameras, and making sure the place was breach-proof.
And he—he was assigned to wave to the neighbors as he carried in suitcases like a Sherpa.
Or a husband.
It wasn’t a terrible safe house. End unit with wood siding painted gray, attached garage, privacy fence on one side. Mountains visible in the background, peaks catching late-afternoon sun. The air smelled clean, sharp with approaching evening and distant pine.
Asher scanned the street as he pulled out Destiny’s overstuffed suitcase. Golf cart passing two houses down, elderly couple walking a small terrier, woman on a porch watering hanging baskets despite the November chill.
Normal. Aggressively normal. Like he might be in the Truman movie.
Or on the set of The Stepford Wives Go Geriatric.
Asher headed through the garage, then closed it and went inside.
The kitchen opened into a living room with a large sectional, glass coffee table, mounted TV, and gas fireplace. Everything rental-neutral in beige and brown. Laminate wood flooring felt hollow under his boots, new-carpet smell mixing with whatever cleaning products the rental company used.
Roger had taken residence on the sofa.
His hand held his right side where the stab wound was healing. The appendectomy cover story would work as long as he kept moving like someone recovering from surgery.
Destiny emerged from the master, elegant despite the long drive. Cashmere sweater perfectly draped, designer jeans without a wrinkle, scarf tied just so. She looked like she belonged at a country club, not in witness protection.
“Okay, so Roger probably can’t climb stairs, so he has the other main-floor bedroom,” Daphne said, coming out of it. “The windows are secure. Keep the blinds closed.”
Roger shrugged, clearly having lost the battle.
“That leaves the bonus room for us,” Asher said quietly.
Daphne looked up into the loft, visible from the living room through a wooden railing. Pullout sofa, completely open to the house below. No door, no privacy, no escape.
“The bonus room,” she repeated.
“Problem?”
“No. Fine.”
Asher grabbed his utility bag. “Let’s get this over with.” He motioned to Destiny. “Have a seat.”
“Why?”
Asher pulled out the tracking anklets. “A little jewelry for your stay on this cruise ship.”
Destiny stared at it with no limit on her horror. “No.”
Roger looked at it. “What is that?”
“GPS tracker. Medical alert device. Looks like fall detection, actually tracks your location within three feet anywhere in the continental United States.”
“I’m not wearing that.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not a prisoner.”
Daphne stepped in. “You’re a protected witness. Draven Frost wants you dead. This anklet means if someone takes you, I know where you are. Your choice—wear it, or I walk and you take your chances with federal protection.”
Roger stared at her, dark eyes challenging and testing. Daphne didn’t blink.
And Asher—shoot, something terrible and dark rose in him, a sort of spurt of, what—protectiveness?
For his wife?
Oh brother. “Put on the tracker,” he said to Roger, then Destiny. He must have had a tone, because they both nodded.
Daphne glanced at him—with what, relief, maybe?
Roger took the anklet and put it on. “It’s uncomfortable.”
Destiny sat on the Queen Anne chair. Asher knelt in front of her and put it on.
“It’s heavy. And rather obvious.”
Daphne activated it with a remote. A light beeped on. “They’ll see exactly what it looks like—a medical alert device for someone whose son just had emergency surgery. Completely normal. No one will question it.”
Destiny studied the device, then sighed. “I suppose that makes sense.” She adjusted it delicately. “How do I look?”