Gideon. God. The things he’d endured. Her throat hurt at the memory of his voice breaking, the way he’d cried on her shoulder. Waking up in a hospital like that, at thirteen years old. In pain. And alone.
He must have been so scared. Her heart hurt just thinking about it.
The pain in her chest began to give way to a burning fury as she thought about the men who’d so cruelly tormented his family. Eileen, too. She’d like to get her hands on them. Show them some real pain so that she could get answers for Gideon.
Where was Eden? Where was Ephraim Burton? How many of the men there had watched Ephraim beat a thirteen-year-old boy nearly to death? Of course, first they had to find Eileen. She might know where to find Eden since she’d also escaped. I hope she escaped. I hope she got away. I hope she’s safe somewhere.
And if they never found Eileen? If she was alive, she might have deliberately lost the locket, wanting to separate herself from the community of Eden as much as she could. I know I would, in her place. She’d likely gone under.
Gideon’s sister had gotten out, but Daisy assumed that she’d also been unable to tell them where to find Eden, or Gideon would have already uncovered the community and delivered the abusers to the police. And there was nobody else to ask.
Unless . . . The thought made her blink in surprise. What if there were others who’d escaped? Others that Gideon knew nothing about?
How would they even find each other out in the real world?
Absently she stroked his hair, like silk under her fingertips. A cult like Eden wouldn’t allow its members to know that they could get out. She wondered what the leaders had told the members when Gideon disappeared.
Probably that he’d died.
So what if others had managed to escape? Where would they go?
As far away as they could, was her first instinct. But Gideon hadn’t. Instead he’d stayed in Northern California, requesting an assignment here after his job had taken him away.
To be with the Sokolovs, he’d said, and Daisy was sure that was true.
But he’s also been looking for them, she realized. She was somehow positive of that fact. A man like Gideon couldn’t allow such evil to continue to exist. Which explained why he’d been so interested in Daisy’s attacker. The locket was a lead, maybe the first he’d had.
And if that lead went nowhere, a solid plan B was to search for others. Other lockets. Other tattoos. A hunt.
Excitement rippled over her skin as she eased her body out from under his. Tempting as the warmth of his body was, Daisy loved a good hunt.
He made a rough noise as she tried to move, the arm he’d wrapped around her waist tightening. But he continued to sleep. Gently she pried his hand from her waist and kissed his knuckles. Then she rolled away, sliding to the floor as she pushed him back on the sofa. She got a pillow and blanket from her bed and made him more comfortable.
He was beautiful, she thought, brushing her fingertips over his beard, which was softer than she’d imagined. Leaning in, she pressed a kiss to his temple, wishing she were kissing his mouth instead.
There was something between them, call it chemistry or whatever. But she could soothe him. And he her. She could take care of herself, but it was so nice not to have to.
So nice to have someone to walk with in the rain, even if they had battled reporters.
So nice to have strong arms around her when she was shaken and for him to trust her enough to do the same. That had been the most powerful thing of all—that Gideon trusted her with his story, with his pain.
She was going to do whatever she could to help him. And maybe try out some of those investigative journalism skills she’d studied in college, what seemed a lifetime ago.
Sitting in the armchair with her laptop, she opened a browser window and typed: tattoos olive trees angels with flaming swords. Saying a prayer, she hit ENTER.
THIRTEEN
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 6:15 A.M.
Gideon woke with a start, his hand going to his hip, his heart skipping a beat. It’s gone. His gun was gone. And it was dark.
And he had a raging hard-on.
His mind raced, trying to remember where he was. He lay on a sofa, a light blanket draped over his body, a soft pillow under his cheek. He bolted upright, the blanket sliding down to pool in his lap.
“It’s on the coffee table.”
The husky voice was like a caress, soothing his racing pulse, but making his cock even harder. Daisy. He’d fallen asleep on her while still wearing his gun. He never did that. He always secured his weapon while he slept.
I’ve got you. She’d whispered it in his ear right before he’d drifted away.
He’d fallen asleep. On her. He never did that, either. He’d slept in the company of only a handful of people in his life since leaving Eden, and that had always been in a bed all by himself. He’d slept in the other twin bed in Rafe’s room, but it had taken years for him to be comfortable enough to do that. After that, just the roommates he’d had at Quantico and on missions or stakeouts thereafter.
He didn’t sleep with people. The women he’d dated had never been invited to stay the night. They knew it up front—he’d never been anything but brutally honest—and while many of them had wanted more, they’d been satisfied with what he’d been able to give. And when they’d stopped being satisfied, they’d moved on. No harm, no foul. No hurt feelings for the most part.
He’d known Daisy Dawson less than forty-eight hours and he’d already slept with her. On her. He’d spilled his guts to her. And cried on her shoulder.
He knew he should feel ashamed, but he still didn’t. A bit . . . unsettled, maybe. But no shame. With what he hoped was a surreptitious move, he adjusted himself, then pushed the blanket aside and swung his sock-clad feet to the floor. His shoes were placed under the coffee table, his holstered gun atop.
She sat in an overstuffed armchair that hadn’t been here when he’d rented from Rafe, her feet tucked beneath her, her pretty face illuminated by the glow of the laptop on her knees. Brutus was snoring softly on the arm of the chair.
“What time is it?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. The pillow wasn’t bad, but he’d much preferred when his head had been pillowed by her breasts.
“Six fifteen.”
“Wow. I slept a long time.”
Her lips curved. “You needed it.”
He guessed he had. Yesterday, rehashing his past with Daisy, had been draining in the extreme and he hadn’t slept a wink the night before, worrying about his conversation with Molina. And worrying about what it meant that Daisy had caused him to blurt out truths he hadn’t intended to share. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Yep. I did wake up once when Sasha came in. She was singing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ at the top of her lungs.”
He chuckled. “She was drunk, then.”
He could see her eyes rolling in the glow of the laptop. “She can only hit the high note when she’s plastered. But I fell back asleep until four. My body wakes up at four every morning, even on weekends. I’m in the studio at five on weekdays, but I don’t try to change my wake-up time on days off. It’s too hard to get back to it on Monday. I’ll need a nap after the adoption clinic.”
He frowned. “Right. That’s today.”
Her brows lifted. “Yes, that’s today. Why are you frowning?”
“Because I need to go up to the Redding bus station today.”
Her face fell. “To look for Eileen. Of course. I can ask Rafe to come with me, or even Damien or Meg.”
Rafe’s oldest brother Damien was a cop in West Sac, his sister Meg a deputy with the county sheriff’s department. Any of the Sokolov cops would be acceptable replacements, but he didn’t want anyone to replace him.
He wanted to be the one to protect her. Which was ridiculous. But real.
He found his cell phone still in his front pocket. She apparently hadn’t been brave enough to remove anything but his shoes and holster. That he’d slept through that was testament to how exhausted he’d been.
Or maybe how much you already trust her.
Checking his e-mail, he found the reply he’d been looking for. It wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. But it also was, because he didn’t want to leave her. Which was also ridiculous. He sighed, frustrated with himself.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I sent an e-mail to a friend in Philly, a police artist. He also worked with the Bureau field office, which was where I met him. I sent him the photo of Eileen.”
“So he could do an age-progression sketch. Good idea. What did he say?”
“That he can’t get to it until this afternoon. I don’t want to ask around up in Redding without a more up-to-date sketch, in case she escaped recently.”
“I can leave the adoption clinic early,” she offered. “Maybe we could arrive up there by the time you get the sketch?”