“Ah. I take it that you’ve been putting that off.”
Daisy laughed unhappily. “Oh, you could say that.”
“I understand his concern in this situation,” Gideon said carefully. “But I think I get your concern, too. He seems prone to take drastic action very quickly.”
Daisy frowned. “Don’t—” Don’t criticize him, she’d been about to say. But Gideon had it right.
“I’m sorry,” Gideon murmured. “I should have kept that opinion to myself.”
“No. It’s okay. Dad does make quick decisions. Most of them have been good ones because he’s smart and careful, but the ones that haven’t been? They really haven’t been.”
“Like whisking you all away to a ranch in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yeah. But . . .” She sighed. “My dad has reasons for his paranoia.” She swallowed hard, wanting to cry as she thought about those reasons. “Dad was in the military.”
“With Karl. Rafe told me.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m not sure if their experiences were the same. Dad was . . . changed.”
“PTSD?”
“Big time.” Prisoner-of-war-survivor PTSD. I’m so sorry, Dad. “I never knew, not until this past summer. I mean, I knew he’d been in the military, but not what happened to him there. Finding out was a big shock.” She shrugged. “He didn’t even tell me. He told Taylor and I overheard him. And I didn’t ask a lot of questions, because I was still upset that he’d had me followed. I’m still upset, but now I feel guilty about feeling that way. Which sounds crazy.”
“No, it doesn’t. You understand the ‘why,’ but that doesn’t make his behavior okay.”
“Exactly.” She studied his face, shadowed in the semidarkness of the garage. He no longer looked grimly competent. He looked . . . lost. “Why do I think you’re talking from experience?” she asked softly.
He blinked and the brusque Fed was back. “You should call your dad. Irina will just keep nagging you until you do.”
She unbuckled her seat belt. “I will. Let’s go in. Brutus will catch cold.”
SEVEN
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 10:40 A.M.
Gideon came to a dead stop in the living room of Daisy’s studio apartment. His old apartment. Which had looked normal then. Now it looked like a craft store had exploded.
Holy fucking shit, he thought as he slowly turned, trying to take it all in. Every wall surface was covered with paper. Bright colors were splashed everywhere, some in random bursts, others as part of murals, landscapes, or portraits of people. And dogs. Lots of dogs.
A spinning wheel occupied the corner where his TV had once sat. Four different easels held more paintings, all in various stages of completion. Bolts of fabric—all bright colors with shiny textures—leaned against the walls in the dining nook, where a sewing machine dominated half of the table. The other half held a . . . he wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but lopsided clay vases surrounded it. None finished.
He did another turn around the room. Nothing was finished. Not one single thing was finished. He turned to find Daisy scooping stacks of paper from the sofa. Her arms full, she slid open the coat closet’s door with her hip, set the papers on the floor, and closed the door.
But not before he saw all the sports equipment the closet held. Gideon saw a field hockey stick, a tennis racket, two soccer balls, and a pair of ice skates.
Daisy was now watching him with twitching lips. “Go ahead. You can say it.”
“I . . . I honestly don’t know where to begin.”
She laughed. “You should see all the stuff I took back to the store.”
He blinked at her. “Why?”
“Why did I take some of the stuff back?” She shrugged when he nodded. “Because it wasn’t as much fun as I thought it would be.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, crossing the room to one of the murals. It was a neighborhood, he realized. This neighborhood. He recognized the colorful homes and the businesses. Children played and people walked dogs along the streets. He could almost hear the shouts of laughter and the murmured hellos as people passed one another.
“Wow,” he said softly. “It’s . . . alive.”
“Thank you.” She came to stand beside him, staring at the mural fondly. “That’s one of my favorite ones. I did it right after I moved here. I was so happy because there was so much of everything. Colors and scents and activity. A sensory feast.”
The joy in the painting was unmistakable. “Because you’d come from isolation.”
“Yes. Well,” she amended, “not exactly. I’d just come from Europe and it was better than I’d always hoped. I could have stayed a lot longer.”
“If you hadn’t discovered your father was having you followed.”
“Right. It took the fun out of it. I was so angry with him.”
“Was he at least sorry?”
“Oh, of course. He felt really terrible. Like I said, my father is a good guy.” She sighed. “Who I need to call. Make yourself comfortable. But be aware, if I get cornered, I’m totally saying I’ve got a Fed on bodyguard detail.”
“That’s fine.” At least he hoped so. He hoped Mr. Dawson didn’t ask to speak to him because Gideon did not have a good opinion of the man based on what he’d heard to date.
He busied himself checking the security of her windows and doors while she put a kettle on the stove and dialed her father.
“Hi, Dad,” she said as she added kibble to Brutus’s bowl. The dog pranced up to the bowl and Daisy gave her fur a stroke with a hand that trembled.
Gideon tried not to eavesdrop, but the apartment was small and he had good hearing. Or maybe he was just looking out for her. She’d been upset enough, first by the attack and then that prick she had to work with.
She and her father exchanged a few pleasantries, Daisy’s stiff and awkward, but she seemed to relax when she asked about her sisters. Julie apparently had a boyfriend named Stan. Taylor was planning a wedding for the summer.
Gideon wondered which of Taylor’s fathers would be walking her down the aisle.
The kettle whistled and Daisy made two cups of tea. She handed him one of the mugs, grimacing as she asked her father about his latest cardiology appointment.
Her dread made a little more sense now.
“Well, that’s good to hear,” she said. “You’re taking all your meds, right?” Sitting on one of the kitchen island stools, she slumped, elbow on the table and forehead in her palm. “So, Dad, I need to tell you something and I need you not to freak out on me, okay?”
Something about seeing her looking so small had Gideon pulling up a stool next to her. Sitting down, he sipped at his tea and nudged her cup a little closer to her.
She looked up, surprised appreciation in her eyes. He gave her a tentative smile and a nod of what he hoped would be encouragement.
“First of all, I’m okay. But . . .” She proceeded to give him the bare facts of the attack, glossing over the voice mails and e-mails. She began massaging her temples, wincing in pain at whatever her father was saying.
Brutus padded over and, swatting Daisy’s ankle with a paw, barked once. Daisy picked her up, settling the dog on her lap. “Of course I reported it. I was at the police station all evening. Rafe’s on the case.” Her fingers dug into her temple. “No, I do not need you to put Jacob ‘on the job.’ I have personal protection.” Her eyes darted to Gideon’s face in a bit of a panic, and he nodded calmly even though inside he was hoping like crazy that her father didn’t ask to speak to him. Daisy had been tired and stressed before, but now she looked defeated and that pissed him off. “He’s with the FBI. Special Agent Gideon Reynolds.”
She winced again then held out her phone to him. Sorry, she mouthed.
“It’s fine,” he said quietly. Squaring his shoulders, he put her phone to his ear. “Mr. Dawson, this is Special Agent Reynolds. How can I help you today?”
“Why is the FBI watching my daughter?” Dawson demanded, but his voice trembled.
Gideon felt a stirring of pity. The man’s hypercontrolling ways had created a lot of problems, but they spoke clearly of his love for his daughters. It had to be difficult for Dawson to hear what Daisy had been through in the last twenty-four hours. “I’m here in case her attacker makes another attempt.”
“Why do you think he’d do that? He was some random guy. She fought him off. Why would he try again?” There was desperation in the man’s tone but also an awareness that had Gideon paying more attention. Frederick Dawson might be overbearing and paranoid, but he was also very sharp.
“We don’t know what his motive was.”
“Don’t try to snow me, Agent Reynolds. The FBI doesn’t use its resources to guard every woman who gets attacked. What are you not telling me?”
Gideon sighed silently. The man was right. And I’d want to know in his place. “Daisy removed a piece of evidence from her attacker last night. There’s reason to believe that that evidence connects to a previous crime.”