Randall blew out an oath as he stepped out of the truck. "One of these days I'll show you just how crazy I am."
Ignoring him, she strode to the front door of her building and shoved open the door. He trailed her, watching the street, checking the alcove near the mailboxes, not liking the uneasiness he felt in his gut. They rode the elevator in silence.
At her apartment door, Addison removed her key and stepped inside. "Wipe your feet."
He checked his boots and entered behind her. Even after two days, the apartment smelled faintly of coffee, reminding him that he had yet to have a cup today. "I'd kill for a cup of coffee."
When she didn't answer, he turned, puzzled to find her stopped in the center of the living room, her face ashen. A rush of adrenaline sent his hand to his pistol. "What is it?" he whispered, scanning the room.
''The file." She darted to the dining room table, placed her hands on the surface, and looked up at him. "The file was right here when we left."
He remembered clearly sitting at the table, poring over the file as they'd consumed fried rice and egg rolls. "Are you sure you didn't move it?"
"I left it right here. I'm certain of it."
He slid the pistol from his shoulder holster. "Stay put."
In a few minutes, he'd searched the entire apartment, finishing in her bedroom. She met him there a moment later with a knife the size of a machete clutched in her right hand.
"Did you find anything?" she whispered.
Had the situation not been so serious, he would have laughed at the sight of her. She looked like a waif poised for battle. "What the hell kind of a knife is that?" he asked.
"Chicago Cutlery."
"Looks like a damn machete." Crossing to her, he eased the knife from her hand and set it on the bed. "Whoever was here is gone."
She looked up at him with eyes that were large and frightened. "They took the file, Randall."
"I know." Something primal and dark stirred inside him at the thought of someone ransacking her apartment, touching her things. He tried not to think about what might have happened had she been here alone. "They came in through the window." He parted the drapes, exposing the broken glass and duct tape. "Whoever it was wasn't concerned with stealth. He knew you weren't here. He was watching the place."
She pressed her hand to her stomach. "That's a comfort."
Letting the drapes fall, Randall stepped closer to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He squeezed to reassure, his mind fumbling as a fist of lust struck in the gut. Glancing down at the hollow of her throat, he wondered how she would taste if he pressed a kiss there, ran his tongue along the flesh ....
"What are we going to do without the file?" she asked. "I threw away my only other copy."
He chided himself for getting sidetracked. He'd agreed to keep their relationship professional. He owed it to her to keep his word. Dammit, he owed it to himself.
"Bernstein probably had copies." Randall hadn't made a copy for his own file and cursed himself for the blunder.
"We'll see about getting them released."
Looking small and lost, she knelt and began picking up shards of glass, dropping the larger pieces into a wicker wastebasket. Randall studied her, taking in her pale face and shaking hands. Christ, she looked shell-shocked. She'd been through a lot in the last few weeks. First Agnes Beckett and Bernstein, then finding out about her parents, and now this.
The last thing she needs is a man like you, a little voice reminded him.
Gently, he put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "I'll get the manager to take care of that. We've got to go."
"I'm not leaving—"
"It's not safe here, Addison. We've got to go. Now."
She stopped picking up glass and glared at him. "I want my life back."
"I know. We're working on that."
Tossing the last piece of glass into the trash container, she rose. "What do we do now?"
"I'll fill you in on the way to the airport."
"Airport?"
Randall headed for the telephone to call Jack and Detective Van-Dyne to fill them in on the latest. "Pack something warm," he said. "Siloam Springs is cold as hell in December."
Chapter 15
Sheriff Delbert McEvoy’s chair creaked as he leaned back and arranged his gut more comfortably over his belt buckle. Beneath the wide brim of his hat, his eyes darted from Randall to Addison.
"It's good to see you again, Miss Fox. Mr. Talbot." He motioned for them to take the chairs opposite his desk. "How can I be of service?"
Randall sat and looked around the small office. It was a different town, a different place, a different era of his life, but small-town law enforcement never changed, he mused. "We want to ask you some questions about Agnes Beckett."
McEvoy reached beneath his hat and scratched the top of his head. "I'm sorry to say that the status of the case hasn't changed in the last three days."
There was a hint of sarcasm behind the slow drawl that had Randall's teeth clamping together in irritation. He had no patience for smug public servants. "We may have some new information," he said.