“Aw.” The woman stopped, dropping to one knee to pet Mutt’s head. Mutt lifted a paw to shake and she laughed, clearly charmed. “You’re a flirt, aren’t you? A cutie, for sure. What’s your name?”
“Rolfe,” he lied.
She looked up, eyes dancing. “Like on the Muppets?” She scratched Mutt behind his ears. “The piano-playing dog was Rolfe.”
Actually, the piano-playing dog was Rowlf. Rolfe was the Austrian boy who betrayed the Von Trapp family at the end of The Sound of Music. He’d always liked Rolfe.
But Sasha’s mistake was forgivable, so he smiled at her. “Exactly.”
She gave Mutt a final pat on the head. “Bye, sweet boy. I’d rather play with you all day, but I’ve got to go to work.”
No! he wanted to shout. He needed information, so he kept himself calm and casual. “Rolfe was hoping to see his little friend. Little powder-puff dog.”
She smiled. “Brutus. She’s not home right now. But maybe later today she’ll be out.” Waving good-bye, she jogged to her car, got in, and backed out of the garage. She hit a button on her car to lower the garage door, gave Mutt another wave, and drove away.
She was nice. So as good as she’d look tied to his bed, he’d leave her alone.
Daisy was another story altogether. “Okay, Mutt. Looks like you’ll get walked again later today.” Tugging on the leash, he headed home.
And when Daisy was home? What are you going to do with her? A fast kill would be the smartest thing. Hopefully, he’d wounded the Fed badly enough that he hadn’t survived. And if he did, he’d be in the hospital for a while. Leaving Daisy all alone.
He’d thought about this on his walk over. The best of all scenarios was to catch Daisy walking her dog. He could pretend to be surprised that they were neighbors and he’d remind her that he was the out-of-work teacher at the pet store. Her powder-puff dog could play with Mutt a little bit. Get her to let her guard down. It was preferable to bring her home, where he could keep her for a while—but not because she was nice. She’d be very sorry she’d shot him, for sure. If he had to, he’d just shoot her on the spot, but if there was any chance of bringing her home, he’d do it.
If he could just get her alone . . . I can handle the rest. Either way.
He spent the walk home planning all the things he’d do to her if he was able to bring her home. He’d definitely keep her for a while. Which meant he needed to be finished with Zandra Jones sooner versus later. He needed the space for Daisy.
He’d made it home and was in his kitchen, feeding Mutt, when his phone buzzed with a text. Immediately his good humor disappeared like mist in the sunlight.
Sydney. Fucking Sydney.
I called into the office to find out when you would be home from NYC. They said you’d called in sick. What’s wrong?
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He put the bowl of food on the floor, whistling for Mutt, then sat at the kitchen table. Texting with his nondominant hand was taxing but possible. He picked the excuse that was most likely to keep her far, far away.
I have the flu. Probably contagious. Fever and chills.
Poor thing. I can have chicken soup delivered.
He huffed a sarcastic laugh. “Because you’d never be caught dead being a caretaker,” he said aloud, but like always, no one heard. He clearly remembered the time he was ten and she’d made him clean up his own sick after vomiting. He’d cried out for help, but he hadn’t been heard then, either.
He was certain that piranhas were more maternal than Sydney.
Then again, she was exactly what she’d purported herself to be—a trophy wife. Her job was to keep her figure trim, her makeup flawless, and the house party-ready.
Oh, and to fuck her rich husband.
And his young son.
His phone buzzed again. Sonny? Do I need to pay you a visit?
He hated when she called him Sonny. Hated when she threatened to “visit.” This was his space, goddammit. His. She was not welcome here. It was bad enough what they did in her bed. In the old man’s bed.
But not in my bed.
Breathe in, hold, breathe out. His pulse began to slow so that his head no longer felt like it was going to explode.
I was throwing up.
The text shut her up for a few minutes while he did more yoga breathing.
Sorry. A green sick-face emoji. Go rest. I’ll check on you later. Maybe I’ll stop by and take care of you.
His stomach did an actual slow roll and he suddenly did feel sick. “Taking care of him” had an entirely different meaning to Sydney than it did to the rest of the world. Rage bubbled up through him, mixing with the dread.
No. She was not coming here. She was not humiliating him in his own home. His hands shook with fury as he typed his reply.
Not a good idea. I don’t want to give this to you. It’s miserable. He sent it, but he was still damn angry. He pocketed his phone before he threw it across the room.
He pushed away from the table. If he was going to prepare space for Daisy, he’d better start now. Zandra was waiting. He’d break her today, then end her.
TWENTY-THREE
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 9:30 A.M.
“Thanks, Rosemary,” Daisy said into the phone as she paced around the waiting room down the hall from Gideon. “Trish didn’t have a church and she spent so much time at the community center.”
She was alone for the moment and wishing she had Brutus in her hands. But one of the nurses was walking her. For which she was very grateful, but . . . agitated. Beyond agitated. She was poised on the edge of a panic attack.
God, I need a drink. She stopped dead in her tracks. No. No booze. You do not need a drink. Perhaps it was good that she was talking to her sponsor. She cleared her throat. “I appreciate the help. Truly. The Sokolovs and my father are dealing with the funeral home and getting a reverend, but I told them I’d find a place.”
“I’m . . .” Rosemary sighed. “I don’t know the right word for what I am. I guess I’m honored to do it. Trish was special. Everyone at the community center knew her. When we add in her friends from work and school, we’ll need the biggest room for her memorial service. Do you have a date set?”
“Not yet. The coroner hasn’t . . .” Daisy drew a deep breath. Released it. Fought back the tears that were closing her throat. “The coroner hasn’t released her body yet. I don’t know when that will happen.”
Rosemary was quiet for a long moment. “Daisy, are you all right?”
Daisy sank into one of the chairs, her right hand gripping the arm while her left held the phone so tightly she was surprised it hadn’t shattered. “No,” she whispered. “I’m not okay. I’m not okay at all.”
“Where are you, honey?”
“In the hospital. In the waiting room. I can’t leave by myself. I can’t get any fresh air. I can’t even walk Brutus. Someone’s doing that for me right now.”
“Why are you in the hospital?”
“Oh.” She hadn’t talked to Rosemary since Saturday night, when she’d told her that Trish was dead. She’d been Trish’s sponsor, too. “I guess I’ve got some details to fill in.”
“I guess you do. I’ve got my morning coffee and a cigarette. Start talking, honey.”
So Daisy did. She told her about her trip to Redding with Gideon—excluding the night they’d spent together and the actual reason for the trip—and the shooting at Macdoel, the helicopter ride back, and the knowledge that two more people were dead because she hadn’t stopped the shooter.
“You saved Agent Reynolds’s life,” Rosemary said, sounding a little awed.
“But not the guy at the rest area or the nurse.”
“You’re not responsible for their deaths, Daisy. You know that, right?”
“I know,” she whispered. “In my head I know.”
“But the heart twists things sometimes. Especially when we’re under stress. You have been under tons of stress this week, Daisy. I thought the worst thing you were going to tell me was that you quit your job.”
Daisy blinked. “Why would I tell you that?”
“I listened to your show this morning. There was another guy doing the show. Said TNT was on vacation and you were out sick. I figured TNT had been suspended over his remarks on the show on Friday.”
Daisy blew out a breath. “I’d totally forgotten about that. Tad was a dick and he mouthed off to the station manager after Friday’s show, which got him fired. I didn’t even think about the show. I didn’t ask for a replacement or time off or anything.”
“Daisy,” Rosemary chided gently. “You work for Karl Sokolov. He’s your godfather, for heaven’s sake. And he certainly knows what’s going on. I’m guessing he and/or his wife have been at the hospital with you. You really think you needed to ask for time off?”
Daisy huffed a small laugh. “I guess you’re right. That seemed like such a big deal on Friday. And then everything else happened.”
“Like Agent Reynolds?”
Daisy’s cheeks heated. “Yes. I really like him. A lot.”
“I figured that out for myself,” she said dryly. “How much longer will he be in the hospital?”