Unhappy growls tumble around in my throat. Kennedy soothes them with gentle hands and a kiss for my mouth.
“I’ll come back tonight. But I’m going to bring the boys with me.”
One eye cracks open. “They have food and water. Cats don’t need anything else.”
“They need love. Attention,” she insists.
“Cats disdain love and attention. It’s beneath them.”
She laughs again. “Not mine. I’ve been neglecting them—and if this is going to work out, I don’t want them resenting you.”
The woman knows how to deliver a convincing argument. “Fine. The cats can come.”
A sweet peck of a kiss gets planted on my sternum. And then she slips away . . . like sand through my fingers.
I must have dozed off again, because in the next instant Kennedy’s dressed. Her clothed breasts press against my back and she whispers good-bye as she kisses the bed-warmed skin at the nape of my neck.
I mumble back, still half-asleep, “Bye, baby. Love you . . .”
? ? ?
It’s past noon by the time I drag my ass out of bed. I don’t have to tell you this is completely fucking weird for me. My only defense is that Kennedy was a wildcat last night—completely wore me out. A few hours and one Red Bull later, I have enough energy for a run, and head down to my favorite jogging trail near the National Mall.
Afterward, I walk back to the townhouse, grinning like an idiot every step of the way. Because I’m thinking of a certain tiny blonde who totally owns me. I’m looking forward to hearing her bitch and moan about her day, watching her eat, listening to her laugh. She has such a great laugh.
Damn, I’m pathetic. I’m starting to annoy my fucking self.
When I get to my front steps, Jake, Stanton, and Sofia are there, waiting. Looking way too serious for a Sunday afternoon.
“Why the long faces?” I joke. “Who died?”
Not one of them cracks a smile, and a cold chill slithers up my spine.
Stanton averts his eyes and Jake watches me, ready and tense, like he’s anticipating a reaction. Sofia steps forward.
“Brent, sweetie . . . something’s happened.”
18
The automatic doors to the emergency room slide open and I head straight for the reception desk. “Kennedy Randolph.”
Behind the desk, the dark-haired woman’s mouth hangs open slightly before she recovers. “Um . . . there’s no Kennedy Randolph here.”
She’s lying. Even if she wasn’t bad at it, spotting the automatic tells people do when they’re nervous or hiding something is necessary for my job. This is the second hospital we’ve come to—and the receptionist at the first one wasn’t lying.
One of Jake’s contacts, a private investigator, called him after seeing the whole thing go down. He saw the pretty blond prosecutor get into a dark sedan with government plates, a driver at the wheel. And just a few blocks down the road, at an intersection, he saw that sedan get T-boned by an SUV—and flipped.
Intentionally.
Shots fired. FBI on the scene. Flashing lights and sirens. Injuries, medics.
Body bags.
So it’s actually a relief that the receptionist is lying to me; it increases the odds that Kennedy isn’t in one of those bags. Or wasn’t when she got here, anyway.
I lean over the desk. “I know she’s here, and I know why you’re telling me she’s not . . .” My voice wavers and my hands clench with frustration, panic—the urge to tear the hospital apart looking for her, or to go find the fuckers who dared to do this to her and tear them apart. “And you have to let me see her.”
Even before she opens her mouth, I know she’s going to shoot me down. “Sir—”
“I’m her husband.”
It’s not a smart lie; too easy to disprove. But it’ll get me in—or at least get me to someone higher up in the chain who I can convince to let me in.
The desk lady’s face softens. “Just a moment.” She picks up the phone, turning her back to whisper into it.
Stanton, Sofia, and Jake watch me as I pace, fingers locked behind my neck, every muscle tight and straining. After a few minutes, a square-jawed guy wearing deceptively casual jeans and a button-down emerges from the door that leads to the bowels of the hospital. His eyes are quick, observant—but his face is deliberately blank.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Kennedy Randolph—” I start.
“Is not here,” he finishes.
“I know she is.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m her—”
“No, you’re not.”
It takes everything I’ve got not to grab him by the throat and squeeze the answers out. “Are you FBI? Are you with the Marshalls? Your department’s job was security—keeping her safe.” My cheek twitches. “Bang-up job they’re doing, Skippy.”
“I have no information for you. It’s time for you to go. Now.”