Hannah stood to see them out, giving Katie a hug and thanking her again for handling the tour.
Once the others were gone, Hannah fed Petrie and cleaned his litter box. Logan and Dallas, meanwhile, fell into some kind of FBI-speak, saying words like, Kitchen? Windows? Back? and moving from place to place securing the house. Kelsey yawned and said she was going to bed, and finally Hannah, too, said thanks and good-night to the two men before climbing the stairs to her room.
By rote she went through the motions of preparing for bed. When she lay down at last, she realized that she was sore all over. She’d kept moving almost on autopilot until now, which had kept her from feeling the physical effects of the car accident.
There was a knock at her door. She sat up and said, “Yes?”
The door opened and she saw that Dallas was there. He didn’t come in, though, only said, “I’m literally just steps away. If anything bothers you, if you hear anything...I’m here. Well, you know what I mean.”
She nodded. She was tempted to tell him to come in. The world had been feeling a little lonely for her lately, and the man’s looks were almost irresistibly tempting. But, she reminded herself, he was here only because she was under threat.
In fact, there was no guarantee that he was attracted to her at all.
“Thank you,” she told him as coolly as she could.
He nodded, closed the door again and left.
*
Machete was watching the house. He realized he was becoming obsessed and that he had to fight it or his own life would be at stake.
He was grateful that he hadn’t been asked to take her out earlier that day.
He would have done it right and they would all be dead.
He didn’t understand the Wolf. The Wolf wanted the key that was somewhere in the house and the treasure that was linked to it. If she died—not to mention three FBI agents and her cousin—the house would be locked up tighter than a drum. How did the Wolf think anyone would get in at that point?
Or had he just decided he wanted Hannah O’Brien dead, no matter what the consequences?
It bothered Machete that he’d had to kill that young woman inside the sunken ship. He usually killed and still slept easily, but this was one death he couldn’t shake. He couldn’t sleep, because he kept seeing her eyes.
If he were forced to kill Hannah...would anything he’d done in life matter anymore? She didn’t know how he felt, but that didn’t matter, either. She was just there—and she made life good.
For the first time in his life, he felt regret. He wanted to quit, despite what he knew the consequences would be for his own continued existence.
His phone rang. He stared at it, loathing the sight of it. He didn’t want to answer. He wanted to scream and hide under the earth.
He answered.
“Anything?” the Wolf asked.
“Nothing. The cop, and the bartender and her husband are gone. Everyone else has gone to bed.”
“Just watch, then. Tonight, just watch.”
“I’m watching,” Machete said, and waited.
But the Wolf was gone.
His hands shook. Reprieved—for a night.
*
Dallas lay staring at the ceiling and listening to the house. He heard the breeze outside, and little noises that piqued his attention and kept him awake.
He knew the sounds of an old house, though. Knew the sounds of settling. He believed he would hear an attempt at a window or door. His Glock was at his bedside and his Smith & Wesson was in the small bag of belongings he’d brought with him. He could grab the Glock before a man could blink and reach the other nearly as quickly.
But he wished he was closer to Hannah.
She was certainly no coward, even if she was a civilian. Maybe she didn’t even realize how her particular talents gave her an uncommon courage.
She knew what lay beyond the world that ordinary people saw.
He thought of her sitting up in bed when he’d poked his head in, eyes like the sea, hair tumbling around her like a sunburst.
Odd, he told himself drily. He usually preferred brunettes.
He winced. Getting close wasn’t good.
He still saw Adrian, still heard her laughter. And he could still see her lying dead, could see the blood, the life and beauty and youth draining from her in a stream of red....
And then Jose.
And Yerby, dead in the water.
He felt his muscles tighten and his jaw clench.
The Wolf had to be stopped.
He heard something. The whisper of a conversation. Women talking, but in hushed tones.
The voices were coming from Hannah’s bedroom.
He bolted out of bed, telling himself it was just Hannah and Kelsey talking. They were cousins, hadn’t seen each other in a while, were probably just catching up.
Still...
He picked up his Glock and raced the few steps down the hallway, bursting into Hannah’s room.
He eased the gun down to his side.
Hannah was sitting up in bed again. And she had been talking.
To the ghost of Yerby Catalano.
11