“She is.”
“But does she volunteer all over the place and paint and put together puzzles like a computer brain? Can she defend herself against a man who was almost twice her size like you did on Thursday night?”
Daisy tilted her head, appearing to truly consider the question. “No?” Then she smiled, beautifully, and his heart gave a little tumble. “Well, she can do the self-defense thing, but she’s at least six inches taller than I am, so I’ll take your point and thank you.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “Thank you, Gideon.”
“You’re welcome,” he said gruffly. “But you and Taylor are close, right?”
“Yeah. We were all we both had there on the ranch. She’s this bright light, you know? She was always like a little mom, taking care of me and Julie. I love Julie, too, of course. She’s just a few years younger and her disability widened that gap. She’s got cerebral palsy and needed therapy all those years—physical and occupational. Dad hired a live-in physical therapist for a while, but Jules never got what she needed back then.”
“She’s getting it now?”
Her smile was fond. “Yes. She’s going to a special center and she even has a boyfriend. Dad just about lost his shit when he found out about that.” She chuckled, then sighed wistfully. “Dad finally found someone, too. Her name is Sally and she’s a nurse. I like her. She’s nothing like Donna! She reminds me more of my own mom. She’s good for him and now Julie has a real mom.”
“Donna didn’t take care of Julie?”
“She wasn’t bad to her, but . . . when I think about the hardships we went through because of her lies. Julie needed help that she wasn’t getting.”
“And you blame your father for that?” He glanced over to see her expression pinch. “It’s okay with me if you do. I think I would, too.”
“Yeah, I do. He does, too, though, so my being angry with him about that is kind of pointless. He beats himself up more than any of us do. I just wish he wouldn’t worry so much. But I understand why he does.”
“You said he experiences PTSD. From the military?”
“Yes. That isn’t my story to tell, though. Oh. Speaking of which,” she said, and it was clear that she was changing the subject, but that was okay, “I’d opened my laptop to do some more research on the tattoos and Irina saw the page.”
Gideon sighed. “Shit.”
She winced. “I’m sorry. She demanded to know why I was looking at tattoos like you used to have. I told her it wasn’t my story to tell.”
“She accepted that?” he asked, finding that hard to believe.
“Well, in a manner of speaking. She was happy that you’d chosen to trust me with something you hadn’t trusted her with. She got all I-told-you-so on me. And then Sasha started telling her that you and I had a date last night.”
“So what did you do?”
“The only thing I could do,” she replied without skipping a beat. “I told her that Sasha had a librarian girlfriend.”
He laughed. “You’re evil.”
“I know.” She gave his hand a squeeze and was quiet for a few moments. “Did you get that age progression from your friend in Philly?” she finally asked.
“Yes.” Tino had come through with a sketch that exactly captured the sad eyes of the girl Gideon had once known. “I printed twenty copies on my printer when I went home to pack a bag and get my map.” He’d intended to take her with him, but when he’d called Irina after leaving the morgue, she’d told him that Daisy had fallen asleep. He’d take her to his house when they got back.
“What will you do if no one at the bus station remembers her?”
“Ask around in some of the other towns around Redding. Redding was the closest large town, but there are a number of smaller towns within and just outside the radius I drew around Mt. Shasta. Someone in a smaller town might be more likely to remember her. I’ve been to most of them, asking in general about Eden and specifically about the man who’d go for supplies, but I figured that the guy probably went to Redding for our supplies because nobody knew anything. But I didn’t have a photo of Eileen then, so it’s worth trying again.”
“Or they might even remember one of the other men with the Eden tattoo.”
He nodded. “I thought of that, too. I made copies of the tattoo photos.” He saw the sign for Redding and put on his turn signal. A glance in his rearview showed the Chevy sedan to be exiting as well. Except when he turned right at the end of the exit ramp, the sedan turned left. Good. “If no one at the bus station remembers her, I’ll check the pawn shops to see if the locket was pawned or purchased.”
“If she pawned it, she might still be alive,” Daisy murmured. “God, I hope so.”
Gideon’s chest ached because even though he hoped so, too, he didn’t think the odds were very good. “If the pawn shops are a bust, then we can start on the other towns.”
REDDING, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 11:20 P.M.
It had been a risk, turning left at the end of the Redding exit. The Fed had tried a few times to get behind him, to get his license plate number, but he’d managed to keep him from succeeding. It wouldn’t matter if he had, though. The plates had never been reported stolen. He’d made sure of that.
The plates—and the car—belonged to one of last year’s guests, a woman from a small town in southeastern California who he’d met in a Vegas casino. She’d been playing slots, something she admitted to always wanting to do. She was on her bucket-list tour. Had just quit her job as a professor and had embarked on what was to have been a two-year trip around the world. All alone. She was craving the privacy, the ability to be accountable to no one. She’d been the perfect guest. No one had come looking for her. No one ever would.
So he’d kept up the payments on her car’s registration, and voilà, he’d had the perfect car to use whenever he wished to be someone else. As he had today.
Hooking a quick U-turn, he went in search of the black Toyota Camry. They’d been on the road for three hours and it was getting quite late. He hoped that the first place the Fed would stop would be one of the exit’s many gas stations or fast-food places—
Or motels. Because there it was, coming to a stop under the awning of a moderately priced motel. The Fed got out and went around to help the woman he recognized as Daisy, holding her hand as she got out of the car. And continued to hold her hand as they went inside.
The Fed was holding her hand. And she was letting him.
He pushed the annoyance aside because he was certain the two hadn’t come to Redding to simply bang one out. The Fed had a home. In Rocklin. So if they just wanted to be alone, they could have driven twenty minutes from the Sokolov house in Granite Bay, not nearly three hours to Redding.
Something was up. Something important.
He waited impatiently because they’d left the car under the awning. After ten freaking minutes, Reynolds came out alone and parked the Toyota.
He considered using the gun under his seat to take care of the Fed there and then, but hesitated too long. Reynolds went in through a side door using his key card.
It seemed they were turned in for the night. Together. The two of them.
They could be here to see Trish’s family, he allowed. That would make sense. Except Trish had had no family in her contacts list.
His gut was telling him that this trip was important.
Of course, his gut also told him to kill Sydney, but he obviously hadn’t listened to it.
And see where it got you? You’re dancing like her puppet on a string. And you came all this way, had a shot at the Fed, but you wussed out. Pussy. Now Daisy is sleeping with him. Or not sleeping.
He blew out an angry breath, furious with himself. He’d wait until morning, to see where they went from here. And when he got a shot at the Fed, he’d take it. Then Daisy would be alone again. She’d talk to him about radio and maybe even get him a job.
Which was ridiculous. He didn’t want a job in radio. He needed to keep the job he had.
Oh. Shit. He was supposed to fly to New York City tomorrow with Hank.
Panic seized his already roiling gut and he had to force himself to calm down. He’d . . . call in sick. That’s what he’d do. Hank did it sometimes.
Not when he’s afraid of being fired.
No, no, no. He had dirt on the old man, he reminded himself. All those photos of him, both with his women and his drug-smuggling clients. Photos that would keep him from getting the ax. Not that he should have had to stoop to such extremes. The company had been promised to him. So many times.
He needed the company. He needed the planes. Flying was the reason he’d never been caught. Why he’d never even been a blip on law enforcement’s radar. Anywhere.