The elevators are out, so we take the stairs to the ground floor. The yellow beam of my flashlight leads the way. Harry doesn’t ask why I’m following along, but he doesn’t tell me not to, which is good because I don’t want to have to knock him on his ass.
From now on, wherever Tabby goes, I go. Hearing her tell Harry that S?ren had “eliminated” people activated every protective cell in the caveman part of my brain. Which would account for my decision to corner her in the women’s restroom and start demanding answers and trying to renegotiate our agreement.
Damn, this woman gets to me.
We pass through the darkened lobby. An armed security guard unlocks the doors for us, letting us out into the night. It’s cold. The air is a bracing snap in my lungs, a welcome broom to sweep the cobwebs of jealousy, desire, and frustration from my head.
Whatever S?ren did to Tabby, I’m going to make him pay for it.
In spades.
“Where are we going?” Tabby pipes up as we pass between two buildings along a red brick path.
“Coffee,” growls Harry, and keeps going.
In a few moments, we round a corner and enter a courtyard lined with palm trees. A patio is filled with tables with umbrellas, and through a wall of glass behind them I see a brightly lit cafeteria. I’m surprised it’s open all night, because the lot is deserted. We must have the FBI to thank for that.
Tabby groans. “Food! Thank you, baby Jesus!”
Once inside, we get coffee and sandwiches from a sleepy-looking young girl behind the counter and find a nearby table to sit down. The place is empty except for us. Tabby starts wolfing down her sandwich as if she hasn’t eaten in weeks, while Harry just drinks his coffee and watches her, his gaze contemplative and deeply unsettled.
A look I’m sure I’ve worn many times myself.
Deciding to keep my trap shut to see how this plays out, I take a bite of my sandwich.
Harry says quietly, “Tabitha Anne West, age twenty-seven, five-foot-six, one hundred thirty-five pounds, verified IQ of one hundred ninety-eight.”
Ah. So while his boys were searching for S?ren Killgaard’s name in databases, Harry searched for Tabby’s. It doesn’t surprise me. He’s one sharp son of a bitch and damn good at his job. He wasn’t really cut out for the corps—lotta guys aren’t—but he’s a perfect match for the FBI. He’s a no-nonsense straight shooter with just enough balls to make him dangerous.
He continues, “No known religious or political affiliations, no history of substance abuse, no outstanding traffic tickets, property and income taxes never paid late. Mother Laurel, father Christopher, no siblings, grandparents on both sides deceased. Went to live with her uncle Scott in Boston after her parents’ deaths in a plane crash when she was eight. Graduated high school at fifteen, accepted to MIT on full scholarship. At seventeen, she discovered Uncle Scott with his face in a bowl of cereal at the breakfast table, dead from acute arsenic poisoning.”
I freeze. Poisoning?
The file I read listed her uncle’s cause of death as heart attack, and that it happened a year later, when she was eighteen. Stunned, I glance over at Tabby. She’s pale and unmoving, her eyes downcast, her gaze on her plate.
“Due to the presence of a note and her uncle’s history of depression, the death was ruled a suicide. Department of Children and Families was brought in to choose a guardian, and the minor was placed in foster care…for a period of one month, until she disappeared. School records show she continued attending classes, but officials were never able to locate her—”
“They never looked,” she says quietly.
“Wait,” I say, an odd tightness growing in my chest.
“—and when she became legally an adult at eighteen, the case was closed. Address records show residences for every year except 2007.” Harry gazes at her, long and hard. “So my first question is this. Where were you for that missing year?”
She raises her head and stares at Harry. When she speaks, the floor drops out from under my feet.
“Living with S?ren Killgaard, of course.” Her laugh is low and bitter. “Actually, that’s a gross misuse of the word ‘living.’”
Shocked past words, I stare at Tabby. An interval of four heartbeats passes before Harry turns his hard gaze to me. “You said you vetted her.”
“I…I did…there was no missing year, there was nothing to indicate—”
“It’s not his fault,” says Tabby. “The FBI are the only ones who have the accurate data.”
My head is swimming. My heart is hammering. She lived with S?ren. She told me she wasn’t in love with him. She led me to believe she hated him, but she spent a year of her life under the same roof with the man.
She fucking lied to me.
Anger turns my vision red. I’m trying to get my thoughts straight to ask a coherent question, but Harry beats me to it.