Her father was quiet for so long, Daisy could practically hear his mind working through the details. “How did he know where she lived?”
That was a very good question. “I don’t know. She was at work last night and would have come straight home. She was supposed to come to a pet adoption clinic with me today.” Daisy rubbed her sore head. “I guess he could have followed her home from work.”
“Who knew where she worked?”
Daisy didn’t want to think about it, but her father was a smart man and was thinking all the things she should have been thinking herself. “All her friends. Her coworkers, of course. All the members of our AA group. She worked in a bar. It was hard for her to stay sober. She was looking for another job.”
“Did any of the news reports list where she worked?”
“I don’t know. Hold on.” She turned to Sasha. “Did any of the reporters say where Trish worked or lived?”
Sasha shook her head. “I don’t think so. Put your dad on speaker, DD.”
Daisy did and her father greeted the Sokolov women. “We don’t think they said where she worked, Dad,” Daisy said, “but the first reporter who found me said he’d overheard Trish telling someone about the attack at work. So the reporter knew where she worked.”
“He didn’t mention her in the news story he uploaded last night,” Sasha said quietly.
Daisy squeezed her hand. Then forced herself to think. “On Thursday, we’d just left the community center when I noticed we were being followed. We’d been to AA. Rafe wondered if he’d followed us from there or if he’d been waiting—for me. I told them that he could have followed me from the radio station. But Trish came straight from work, too. Maybe he followed her from work both times—Thursday and last night.”
Which underscored Daisy’s initial gut feeling that Trish had been the man’s target.
“Maybe he did,” he said. “Maybe you should get that Fed to look at surveillance tapes from the bar where she worked.”
Daisy’s mouth curved up, just a little. “I should. Thanks, Dad.”
“Anytime,” he said gruffly. “Listen, baby. If you need anything, you let me know. I’ll be on the next plane.”
Daisy’s first inclination was to say no, but she stopped herself. Her father loved her. She knew that. And I love him. She knew that, too. Her throat closed up and she had to clear it. “She didn’t have any family.” No father who’d loved her, even though he went way overboard sometimes. No mother who’d rocked her to sleep and let her paint the sofa. Trish’s mom had been an alcoholic, too. “I’m . . . going to have to bury her.” The thought ripped the sob from her throat and she covered her mouth to try to stifle it. “I can’t do this.”
“You want me there?” he asked, sounding so hopeful that it made her cry even more.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please come.”
“I’ll send you my travel arrangements. Stay with someone at all times, Daisy. Please. I know I’m overprotective. Just . . . humor me,” he added with a stilted laugh.
Daisy wiped at her eyes. “I promise.”
“We will stay with her until Gideon comes for her, Frederick,” Irina stated.
“Thank you, Irina.” Frederick’s voice had grown soft. “Thank you and Karl for everything.”
“You are family, Frederick,” was all Irina said.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Bye. Love you.” Daisy ended the call, then immediately dialed Gideon, this time not on speaker.
He answered on the first ring. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Still with Sasha and Irina. I just talked to my dad.”
His voice became wary. “And?”
“And it was good. We talked about Trish a little and he recommended checking out the surveillance tapes in the bar for both last night and Thursday. I think he’s right.”
“You think her killer followed her to the community center from work on Thursday?”
“Yeah. She said she’d had an altercation with a customer. She downplayed it, but that she mentioned it at all was unusual.” Now that Daisy was remembering, more details were coming back. “She was used to rude men. She got propositioned all the time. This guy, though . . . He was belligerent. Kept baiting her until she lost her temper. She called him a tool. Had to report him to the manager, who tossed the guy out.”
“I’ll tell Rafe. I’m about to join him at the—” Gideon stopped himself. “In the investigation.”
But she thought she understood his self-edit. “At the morgue?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I’m almost there.”
“Okay.” She wasn’t going to think about the morgue. About poor Trish lying on a cold slab. “Have . . . have you heard from Philly?” She was as careful as she could be, very aware that Irina and Sasha hung on her every word.
“Not yet. But he said he’s nearly finished. Do you have a bag packed? We may end up spending the night in Redding if we get a lead.”
“I’m still coming?” That made her feel better somehow.
“Yes, of course.” A slight hesitation. “I need to know you’re okay. I don’t want to leave you alone. Even with the Sokolovs, although I know you’re safe there. I’ll get to you as soon as I can.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 5:55 P.M.
He snugged his tie up against his throat, his step a hundred times lighter. The cops had nothing on the disappearance of Kaley Martell. No leads. Nothing to aid them in finding her—or whoever had taken her. That had come straight from Marlena Martell’s mouth as she’d tearily served him weak tea and stale Oreo cookies and prayed for her daughter’s safe return.
I have absolutely nothing to worry about.
But he did have an excellent disguise that he didn’t want to go to waste and some remaining questions about Daisy Dawson. The crowd around Trish’s apartment had thinned, but there were still a few reporters and rubberneckers milling about.
The reporters were gathered around an older lady who appeared to be holding court. Someone had brought her a folding chair and she sat there answering questions.
So he listened.
Her name was Mrs. Owens, he learned, and she’d discovered Trish’s friend Daisy and “that FBI agent” crouching over the body. Okay, so he was a Fed, not a cop. It was splitting hairs, in his opinion. He had to fight back a smile as the older woman dramatically spun her tale, making it sound like Daisy and the Fed had killed Trish.
Now that’s not right. She needs to be giving credit where credit is due.
Daisy had been “distraught,” sobbing in the arms of the FBI agent.
That made him frown. In his arms? No. He was just her bodyguard.
It doesn’t matter. Daisy Dawson was nothing to him. She was not a threat. He’d be giving Daisy-Poppy-Eleanor Dawson—and her Fed—a wide berth.
But she was so nice. He almost wished he really were an out-of-work drama teacher looking for a job at her radio station. It would be nice to work with her every day. She was no more like Sydney than day was like night. Just thinking about Sydney made him sick to his stomach. But Daisy? It would be nice to have a woman like her to come home to.
Really, really nice. His stomach fluttered, but not with revulsion this time. This time it was . . . what? Desire? Was that what that was? He’d never felt it before. Not ever.
Certainly not for Sydney, and all he felt for his guests was rage. Not desire.
He let himself picture it—Daisy Dawson in his bed. Not the one in his basement, but the one in his bedroom. The bed that Sydney had never defiled. No one had. She’d lie in his bed and smile at him the way she’d done at the pet store.
She’d take off her clothes for him. Without being forced to. And she’d smile at him. And he’d never have to tell her he was sorry for anything. Ever. The mental image of Daisy naked in his bed was more than nice. It had his dick taking interest. On its own.
Without pills. Without Sydney.
This was . . . huge. Mind-blowing, even. That he could have something normal, like everyone else? It was almost too much to consider.
He’d thought that Sydney had ruined him for any kind of normal relationship. He’d honestly thought there was no one for him. But then there was Daisy, smiling at him and being so damn nice.
It was about time he got something really, really nice. Right?
Yes. He deserved something nice. He deserved a woman in his bed, like everyone else. He deserved Daisy Dawson.
It was definitely worth thinking about. And now it was all he could think about.
And her bodyguard? The one who held her in his arms while she cried? The Fed.
He has to go. It was as simple as that. With him out of the picture, she’d need someone else to hold her when she cried. Which would be me.
“What was the agent’s name?” one of the reporters called out, yanking his attention back to the old woman holding court in the parking lot.
Yes. I’d like very much to know.
“Special Agent Reynolds,” Mrs. Owens said with an emphatic nod. “He showed me his badge.”
“Where is Daisy, ma’am?” another reporter called out.