Daisy hesitated. “You won’t show my address, right?”
“Of course not. I’ll show you what I’ve recorded before I leave, if you want.”
She squared her shoulders. “Okay. Let’s get this done, Mr. Scott. My friend and I have dinner reservations.”
Scott set the camera on a tripod and turned the lens to Daisy while Gideon edged away enough that he was not in the picture. “Miss Dawson, can you tell us what happened last night?”
“I was attacked by a man wearing a nylon stocking over his face. He’d been following me for several blocks. When I confronted him, he grabbed me around the throat and dragged me into an alley. He had a gun. I fought him off and a friend called 911. If anyone was in the area last night, please let the authorities know if you have seen my attacker. The man is about six feet tall, bald, has dark eyes, and wore a blue nylon ski jacket and jeans with wingtip shoes. Oh, and a Giants cap.”
“It must have been terrifying,” Scott said sympathetically. “How did you fight him off? Weren’t you scared?”
“I was petrified,” she admitted. “But I’ve trained in self-defense and martial arts. I was able to injure him enough to run away.”
“That’s lucky,” Scott said, sympathy now admiration.
“No, sir, that was preparation,” she corrected solemnly. “I was scared—that’s the point. But I’d practiced over a period of years, and my muscle memory kicked in. I encourage women to choose a self-defense option and stick with it. Don’t think that because you’ve taken one class that you’ve mastered self-defense. Even the most seasoned martial artists can get scared in a real-life situation. It’s the practice that counts more than anything.” She looked straight at the camera. “If you know anything about this, please call either Detective Rafe Sokolov or Detective Erin Rhee with SacPD. Thank you.”
Scott turned off his camera. “Well, that was simple. You’ve made my editing job a million times easier. You must’ve had practice in front of a camera. You’re a natural.”
“Thank you. You won’t mention my address, right?” she repeated.
“No, ma’am,” he said kindly. He turned the camera so that she could see the screen and replayed what he’d recorded, showing that there was no sign of a street name or house number before slipping the camera back in his bag. “Thank you for talking to me. I’ll let you get to your dinner now.”
“Wait,” Gideon said when Scott started down the steps to the sidewalk. “How did you get Miss Dawson’s name?”
“From her friend, Trish Hart.”
Daisy’s brows shot up. “How did you get Trish’s name?”
“Right place, right time. I was in the bar where she works and heard her telling one of the other servers about the attack. I’d read about the incident on the blotter this morning but didn’t know who the victim was.” He flashed the same charming smile that made Gideon want to punch him in the mouth. “I would have gotten your name sooner or later. Your friend just saved me time. I’ll put the phone number for the SacPD switchboard at the end of the segment. Hopefully someone saw something that will help you.”
“Thank you,” Daisy said again. “Stay dry.”
“Too late for that.” Then he jogged to his car, got in, and drove away.
“Do you really think he’ll put my address in the segment?” she asked fretfully.
“I think it doesn’t matter. If someone wants to find you, they will. But you need to tell your friend Trish to shut her mouth.”
“I was planning to use language that was a little more colorful,” Daisy said grimly.
Gideon put the umbrella up and held out his arm. “Dinner?”
She moved into his side easily, leaning her head on his shoulder for a moment that was far too brief. “Thank you. I was freaking out a little there.”
He let his arm slide around her waist. Because it felt right there. “I never would have known. Scott was right. You’re a natural.”
She laughed, husky and deep, and this time he didn’t fight the shiver that raced over his skin. “You wanted to punch him,” she fake-whispered.
“In the face,” he confirmed.
She looked up. “Thank you. For wanting to. And for not doing it.”
He hugged her a little closer. “You’re welcome. Let’s hurry. I’m starving.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 6:45 P.M.
He stepped back, breathing hard. Miss Rude had been playing possum, pretending to still be out when in reality she was ramping up for a fight.
He’d given her one. Now she lay tied to the bed in his basement, breathing just as hard as he was, tears and sweat causing her mascara to run down her face. “You look like a reject from a goth festival,” he said. “You’ll be sorry for making me work so hard.”
Because now he had to go to her. She’d already texted three times. Where are you? Then, I’m getting annoyed. Finally, If you’re not dead, you’re going to wish you were.
One of these days she’d wish she were, he growled inside his head. But he didn’t say the words aloud because he was afraid he’d never be able to go through with it. Somehow hearing the empty threats in his head made him feel like less of a loser.
Miss Rude sneered up at him even as the tears continued to roll down her cheeks. “I won’t be sorry for anything, you sonofabitch.”
The back of his hand hurt when it came into contact with her jaw, but her cry of pain went a long way toward soothing his discomfort. “You need to apologize for that.”
Her chin jutted out. “No.”
He smiled down. “I’m glad to hear you say that,” he murmured. “You’ll be so much fun to break. Nothing like the last one. She broke like a cheap chair.” Watching her pale, he leaned in, his smile widening. “Relax. You’ll need your strength. I’ll be—”
He jerked back when her spit landed on his face. His fist had connected with her cheekbone before his movement registered and he got a grim satisfaction from her low moan. He wiped his face on his sleeve and grabbed his knife.
He needed to shower and change before meeting Sydney anyway. What was a little more bodily fluid? Miss Rude’s one working eye widened in fear.
“No,” she whispered.
“Say please,” he countered lightly.
She clenched her jaw. “Please,” she gritted out.
“Say you’re sorry,” he pressed in a singsong voice.
Her good eye closed. The other was swelling shut on its own. “No.”
He blinked, a little surprised. “Why not?”
Her eye opened again and she stared straight up at him. “I’ve said ‘I’m sorry’ for the last time. To you or to anyone else. You’re going to kill me anyway. So just do it.”
He had to hand it to her. She was good. She almost had him backing away. “You’ve been someone’s boss,” he said, letting her hear his admiration. “That is a very good power-reversal tactic.”
He rubbed his palm over her stomach, felt it quiver, then clench. He took the knife and traced the tip over her skin, just deep enough to draw a thin line of blood.
“S.”
She was panting when he straightened, her good eye filled with new tears she was valiantly trying not to shed. She had guts, he had to admit. He cleaned his hands, then searched his pocket for her ID. He’d left her purse and phone next to her rental car in the parking lot of the bar in Eagle, taking only her driver’s license.
“Miss Zandra Jones of Providence, Rhode Island. You were far from home this afternoon, Zandra.”
She said nothing, the breath sawing in and out of her lungs.
“What I’d started to say before you so rudely interrupted is that I’m going to leave for a little while, but I’ll be back.” He walked to the door, then turned to smile at her again. “Scream as much as you like. No one will hear you. No one has heard any of my guests.”
He heard a sob just as he was closing the door. Then his phone buzzed and his mood plummeted. Where ARE you? If you don’t call me in the next 30 seconds I’ll be making calls you don’t want made.
It was like a switch flipped in his brain, taking him back to his most vulnerable self. He dialed, his hands shaking, even though he knew—he knew—that she wouldn’t go through with her threat. He knew she had as much to lose as he did.
But his body was moving, ignoring the shouts from his brain to stop. To think.
“Where in the fuck are you?” she sniped at him, forgoing any greeting.
He stepped over Mutt, making him think of Pavlov and his dogs once again. That’s what I am. When she says heel, I heel. He nearly looked down to make sure he still had his balls, because it sure felt like she’d cut them off years ago.
Wasn’t like she hadn’t ever threatened to. Bitch.
“I had some car trouble,” he lied.
“You should have called.”
His feet kept moving, Mutt on the stairs behind him. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“See that you are.” The call abruptly ended and he sighed heavily.
I need to kill her. I need to drag her Botoxed ass over here and kill her.