Mallory’s lips drooped. ‘I wouldn’t have been either. What about your parents?’
Meredith drew a breath, because their deaths hadn’t been quick or painless. And because the anniversary of their deaths was looming over her. Another reason for her recent retail therapy. ‘Plane crash,’ she said quietly. ‘Seven years ago.’
‘Oh.’ Mallory’s gaze was full of trepidation. ‘What about your grandfather?’
Thoughts of her grandfather made Meredith’s lips twitch and she saw Mallory relax in relief. ‘Oh, he’s still alive and quite the troublemaker. He retired to Florida. Has a place on the beach and he fishes every day. He says he catches fish every day, but I’m pretty sure he lies. You might get to meet him. He’ll be here for Christmas.’ He never let her spend Christmas alone. ‘Now, let’s check out the menu. I’m going to indulge.’ She went straight to the desserts. ‘Otherwise, running every morning makes no sense whatsoever.’
She was trying to decide which chocolate dessert would be her reward when she heard Mallory’s sharp intake of breath. Looking up, Meredith’s breath did the same.
A young man stood between their table and the window. Pale and terrified, he was shaking like a leaf. Her first instinct was to run and she’d learned not to ignore her instincts. She didn’t run, but set the menu down, forcing her lips to curve as she rose. She slipped her hands into her blazer pocket casually, releasing the snap on her holster. ‘Can I help you?’
The man swallowed hard. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
And then he pointed the gun at her.
Meredith drew a breath, ignoring the startled cries around her. She’d talked down gunmen before. She could do it again. ‘All right,’ she said calmly. ‘Let’s talk about this.’
He shook his head, obviously desperate. ‘It’s too late for that. I have to.’
Meredith risked a glance at Mallory from the corner of her eye. The girl was staring at the barrel of the gun, her eyes wide and glassy. She’d gone into shock.
‘You don’t have to,’ Meredith said to the young man, keeping her voice calm. ‘We can fix this. Whatever it is.’
The young man shook his head. ‘Just . . . be quiet. Please.’ The gun in his hand jerked as his body trembled violently.
He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to be here. He was being coerced.
Meredith held one hand out in supplication while her other slid the gun from its holster, keeping it in her pocket. ‘Don’t do this. I can help you. What’s your name, honey?’
Another desperate shake of the man’s head. ‘Shut up! I need to think!’ He flinched, his free hand flying upward to slap at his ear. ‘Stop yelling at me! I can’t think!’
No one was yelling. The restaurant had gone completely silent around them.
He jabbed his finger in his ear. ‘I said I’d do it!’ he cried.
Schizophrenia? she wondered. He was about the right age for emergence, but schizophrenics didn’t generally hurt people. Except maybe when they heard voices telling them to shoot people. It was also still possible he was being coerced. She needed to figure out which was the case. Talking him down would require different approaches, depending.
Meredith didn’t dare look away from him. ‘Get down, Mallory,’ she said levelly.
‘No!’ the man shouted, his eyes darting to Mallory’s sheet-white face. ‘Nobody moves!’ He pointed the gun at Mallory, then back at Meredith. ‘Do not move.’
Meredith used his momentary distraction to pull the gun from her pocket. Her hand did not shake when she pointed it at the man, whose eyes grew even wider.
The only sounds were heavy breathing from the restaurant patrons and an occasional muffled sob of terror.
‘Put the gun down, honey,’ Meredith said softly. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. I know you don’t want to hurt me.’
The young man whimpered. He was barely older than Mallory. Just a boy, really. A scared boy. ‘I can’t do this,’ he whispered.
‘I know,’ Meredith soothed. ‘I know you can’t. It’s all right. Please drop your gun. Let me help you. I want to help you.’
‘He’ll kill her,’ the young man whispered hoarsely.
Who? she wanted to ask, but did not. It was far more important to talk him down. ‘We can help you. I know we can. Please . . . Please just drop your gun.’
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Saturday 19 December, 3.55 P.M.
‘Dammit,’ he hissed, watching Andy through his binoculars from inside his SUV, parked on the curb outside the little café. Fallon had a gun.
The transmitter in Andy’s pocket picked up Fallon’s calm voice trying to talk him down. It seemed like she was succeeding because Andy had not fired yet. It didn’t really matter. Giving Andy the gun had merely been the best way to get the kid as close to their table as possible.
He’d used the radio receiver in Andy’s ear to urge him closer to the table where Fallon and her young charge sat. He’d told Andy to pull the trigger, reminding him that Linnea would die. Which was going to happen anyway. The girl had seen his face.
As had Andy. The kid was never going to walk away from this either.
He shifted the SUV into drive, but kept his foot on the brake. He then tapped the CALL button on his cell phone. He’d started to lift his foot from the brake when he froze.
Nothing had happened.
Everything should have happened, but there had been nothing. No explosion, no shattering glass, no flying debris. Nothing had happened.
Throwing the SUV back into park, he grabbed his binoculars and focused on Andy once again. The kid was still pointing his gun at Meredith, who pointed hers right back. He was still alive. Goddammit. He checked the number he’d dialed. It was correct. He dialed it again, to be sure. Still . . . nothing.
‘Fuck,’ he muttered. Through the radio he could barely hear the kid’s whispers. He’ll kill her. Andy was about to spill all to Meredith Fallon. Son of a bitch.
‘Hell no.’ That was not going to happen. He reached for the rifle he’d stored under the seat, ignoring Linnea’s shocked gasp from the back seat.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘You can’t.’
But he could and he would. No more loose ends.
Two
Mount Carmel, Ohio,
Saturday 19 December, 3.55 P.M.
‘A smidge to the left. It’s too far to the right.’
From his perch atop the ladder, Adam Kimble gave the shiny aluminum-foil-covered star a critical look then glared down at Wendi, the petite director of Mariposa House, where victims of sexual trafficking came to heal. Wendi looked like Tinkerbell, but Adam knew that she had a spine of steel and a will of solid titanium.
He bit back a wince of mild alarm because he knew she was hiding fierce annoyance behind a perky smile. He was a seasoned homicide detective, thirteen years with Cincinnati PD. He shouldn’t be so intimidated by Tinkerbell, Adam thought sourly. Yet he was.
He hadn’t asked her why she was so annoyed with him because he knew why and he really wanted to avoid that conversation. Because Wendi was right.
I’m a selfish sonofabitch, he thought wearily, and not for the first time. Not the first time that day or even the first time that hour. He thought it every time he came to this house, where he could see her everywhere he looked, even though she wasn’t here today.
Which was why he was. He always made sure to schedule his volunteer hours at Mariposa House for whenever Meredith Fallon would be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
It hurt, not seeing her face, hearing her voice. But it hurt so much more to see the look in her green eyes. Disappointment. Regret. And shame. The last one sent a spike into his chest every damn time. She had no reason to feel ashamed. She’d done nothing wrong.
It was me. It’s all on me. Every failure, every weakness, every regret. And he had so many. But he also had a plan to make it right. To make himself into the man she deserved.