Gideon’s jaw had grown hard and unyielding, but that was preferable to the lost, panicked expression he’d worn before. “Ephraim Burton,” he said through gritted teeth.
Daisy texted that to Rafe as well, then added: This is likely an alias. Our friend knows him. She didn’t use Gideon’s name because she wasn’t sure what he wanted kept secret. He’d been so upset when he’d thought Rafe had told her about Eden.
Rafe’s response was instantaneous. Is our friend ok?
Curious choice of question. Rafe obviously knew Gideon’s backstory. Yes, but shaken up. This is not the man I saw last night. He had both eyes.
Got it. Good job, Poppy ?
Daisy sent Rafe a thank-you, then turned her attention to Gideon. He looked wrecked. “I wish I had some booze,” she said. “I’d offer you some.”
He laughed bitterly. “I’d take it.” Standing, he paced to the kitchen and back. He stopped, meeting her eyes, his intense. She thought he might tell her who the man was to him, but he didn’t. “Tell me about the hobbies,” he blurted.
Daisy respected self-distraction. It had been one of the strategies of her sobriety. “I’ve always painted. I can remember my mom painting with me, before she died.”
“How old were you?”
“Four, so my memories are sparse. I remember spilling a big cup of purple paint on the sofa and crying because I thought I was in trouble. Mom gave me a brush and helped me spread it around on the cushion. It became ‘art.’” She smiled fondly. “She got a new cushion and gave me the painted one.”
“She must have been nice.”
“Yes.” She’d considered using a mention of her mother as a springboard to learn more about his, but his response had been so stilted that she decided against it. “My father encouraged my painting after Mom died. I’ve always used it as an escape.”
“But you majored in journalism, not art.”
“I’m not good enough to paint professionally. And I didn’t want to lose my joy in the one thing I loved by making it a job.”
He didn’t answer for a moment, instead pacing to the wall that she’d converted into a giant canvas. “I think you are good enough, but I get wanting to keep something for yourself that makes you happy.”
Daisy glanced down at the face of the scary man in the photo, wanting so badly to ask what he’d done to Gideon. But she didn’t. She wanted to ask him what made him happy, but she didn’t do that, either. He’d regained some of his composure and she wouldn’t deny him that.
“Have you ever tried to paint?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s just the doing that’s important.”
He started pacing again, circling the little table in the dining nook. “Why pottery?”
She chuckled, embarrassment creeping onto her cheeks. “I saw the movie Ghost and always wanted to try the pottery wheel. I took a class at the community center.”
He smiled at that, and her heart eased, just a bit. His smile grew rueful as he inspected a misshapen lump of clay that was supposed to have been a vase. “Harder than it looks, huh?”
She laughed. “Much. The stuff I made at the center was better. I just got the wheel for home to practice technique. And because I like the feel of the wet clay.”
He looked up with a puzzled frown. “Why?”
She frowned back. “I’m not sure. I just do. It makes me . . . calm.”
“Calm is good,” he murmured, stroking the edge of the misfit vase, then staring at his clay-covered finger, the lost look returning.
Daisy got up to get him a towel from the kitchen, gently cleaning the clay from his finger. Earning her a long, probing stare from those green eyes. There was a question there, but she didn’t know what he was asking, so she didn’t try to answer.
“I’m better at sewing,” she offered, unsure now of whom she was trying to distract—him or herself. “I made costumes for the drama club at the community center. They’re doing Little Mermaid. I did Ursula and all the mer-tails.” He said nothing, so she added lamely, “It was a lot of mer-tails.”
For several pounding beats of her heart, he stood there in silence, staring down at her. But when he spoke, her pounding heart stuttered.
“He beat me,” he said quietly.
For a second she couldn’t breathe, trying to wrap her mind around his words. “The man in the photo?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. She didn’t know what else to say. “Ephraim Burton?”
He nodded once, but that was plenty. He didn’t turn away from her as she’d expected, but continued to stand there, staring at her. As if he wanted something from her. Or needed it.
Tentatively she reached for him, cupping his jaw in her palm, feeling the soft brush of his beard against her flesh. Closing his eyes, he shuddered out a breath and leaned into the contact.
She, too, released the breath she’d been holding. “How old were you?” she asked in the quietest murmur she could muster, because she was afraid he’d pull away. She needed this connection, just as much as he did. Maybe more.
He swallowed audibly. “Thirteen.”
More silence. More pounding of her heart. Finally she ventured, “It was bad?” she asked, even though she knew the answer to that question, too. It had to have been severe to cause such an extreme reaction. But then, Gideon Reynolds had seemed off-balance since he’d walked into the interview room the night before.
He nodded. “I almost died.”
His reaction to seeing the man’s face made a lot more sense. “Was he punished?”
“No,” he whispered.
“So he’s still out there.”
Another nod. Then he covered her hand with his, pressing her palm against his face before letting her go and stepping back, his expression gone blank.
She let her arm fall to her side, waiting for him to speak. Allowing him to regain control. She knew what it was like to feel helpless, to be subject to the control of others.
“You sent the photo to Rafe?” he asked briskly.
She was unsurprised that he’d steered them back to the case. “I did. I didn’t mention your name.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Now what?” she asked him.
He tugged on the cuffs of his shirt and checked the security of his still tightly knotted tie. “How do you feel about Thai?”
She smiled up at him. “Very favorably. I know a good place. Let me change out of these sweats and we’ll go.”
NINE
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 6:30 P.M.
Daisy came back into the room wearing well-worn jeans and another turtleneck sweater. That she needed to cover her throat made Gideon angry all over again, but he bit it back because she looked . . . apprehensive. He wouldn’t have minded so much except that the look was aimed at him. He’d nearly lost it there for a moment, seeing Ephraim’s face.
Of course, when he’d last seen the bastard, he’d had two functioning eyes. The knife had plunged into Ephraim’s eye after Gideon’s had swollen shut.
That he hadn’t been trying for Ephraim’s eye was kind of immaterial.
And he wasn’t going to think about the bastard anymore. He was going to go out and have dinner with a woman who’d made him smile more than once today.
Who’d grounded him when he’d found himself back in the terrified mind of his thirteen-year-old self. She hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t asked questions he didn’t want to answer. She’d simply been there, providing him with human contact when he’d needed it most.
So he was going to get his shit together so that he could do what he came here to do—keep her safe. “How do you want to do this?” he asked.
She looked up at him, a twinkle in her blue eyes. “Um, chew, swallow, repeat?”
He grinned. “Smartass. I meant how should we get there?”
She pulled her coat from the closet where all the sports equipment was stored. “We should walk. It’s like two blocks, Gideon. Plus parking’s a bitch on Friday nights.” She perked up. “Unless you get ticket forgiveness as an FBI agent.”
“Nope.” He laughed, although he had used his badge to slide around speeding tickets once or twice. Not that he’d admit that to her. “It’s supposed to rain. You need an umbrella.”
She moved some of the sports equipment around. “Found one.”
It was, of course, neon green with glitter hearts, and Gideon found that made him happy for no good reason. “Did you make that?”
She smiled fondly at the umbrella. “No. My sister’s little stepsister made it for me as a going-away gift when I left Baltimore to come here. Cordelia is the queen of glitter.”
“Your sister’s stepsister?” he asked slowly.
“I guess she’s technically my stepsister’s stepsister. Taylor’s bio-dad got remarried and Cordelia is his stepdaughter.”
“Oh. That actually makes sense.”
“I’m glad you think so.” She turned the fond smile on him. “Any other questions?”
He glanced in the closet. “Why do you have all the sports stuff?”
Her smile became an offended frown. “Because I play sports.”
He held up his hands. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I know I don’t strike anyone as the athletic type.”