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Seaside Secrets
Dana Mentink


IN THE LINE OF FIRENavy chaplain Angela Gallagher wants to put the past behind her, but she’s still haunted by the wartime death of her assistant. So when his brother claims he’s in danger and pleads for her to use her family’s private detective company’s resources to help him stay alive, she can’t turn him down.But someone will stop at nothing—even murder—to keep her from revealing their secrets. She’ll have to depend on a military colleague to keep her head above water. Dr. Dan Blackwell was in the field with her when her assistant died and is determined to keep her safe. Can they sift through the web of lies to find the truth without losing their lives?Pacific Coast Private Eyes: Sisters Fighting Crime







IN THE LINE OF FIRE

Navy chaplain Angela Gallagher wants to put the past behind her, but she’s still haunted by the wartime death of her assistant. So when his brother claims he’s in danger and pleads for her to use her family’s private detective company’s resources to help him stay alive, she can’t turn him down. But someone will stop at nothing—even murder—to keep her from revealing their secrets. She’ll have to depend on a military colleague to keep her head above water. Dr. Dan Blackwell was in the field with her when her assistant died, and he’s determined to keep her safe. Can they sift through the web of lies to find the truth without losing their lives?

Pacific Coast Private Eyes: Sisters fighting crime


She hardly felt Dan lift her into the passenger seat. He stood in the open door.

“You can get through this,” he said. “Squeeze my hands.”

She tried, but her body seemed to have no will of its own. It was as if her mind was imprisoned somewhere dark and terrifying.

“We’ll do it together.” He squeezed her fingers for a slow count of five and then relaxed.

After several moments of the gentle pressure to her hands, she was able to squeeze back. Her breaths became less shuddering, and she grew aware of her surroundings. The late afternoon sun poked through the clouds, outlining Dan’s strong shoulders, and revealed his look of concern tinged with quiet confidence.

You can get through this.

She continued to breathe and squeeze until she could get the words out, a stumbling gush of details that made his face go from concerned to enraged.

“I am going to see that guy in prison if it’s the last thing I ever do on this planet.”


DANA MENTINK is an award-winning author of Christian fiction. Her novel Betrayal in the Badlands won a 2010 RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Award, and she was pleased to win the 2013 Carol Award for Lost Legacy. She has authored more than a dozen Love Inspired Suspense novels. Dana loves feedback from her readers. Contact her via her website at danamentink.com (http://www.danamentink.com).




Seaside Secrets

Dana Mentink





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


I am the vine; you are the branches.

If you remain in Me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from Me you can do nothing.

—John 15:5


To those who struggle with PTSD and those who help them overcome, blessings on you and yours.


Contents

Cover (#u6ef60ef6-6cae-552e-9d67-28ed87d7806c)

Back Cover Text (#u99461a25-1801-5afa-81ec-f21851c17028)

Introduction (#u61bfc233-9a4c-58ff-b424-f56d3d1cbe63)

About the Author (#u7835b850-4633-590d-9a54-b85d089288e4)

Title Page (#u83a458d8-5ff9-548d-96e7-a6eaa8ce80f0)

Bible Verse (#uee5b5f83-a71f-5318-b17d-432b14993f0e)

Dedication (#u92b090c4-071b-53e2-aefe-0cd439ca5b14)

ONE (#uf9a7f02d-e634-54ab-a6de-7571dc19cce6)

TWO (#u9e87bed2-6d6d-5a38-a690-c6c1d466c8d7)

THREE (#udbea7c6b-c6ba-5eca-96d0-a5b6a13b6d25)

FOUR (#u239d4233-ee7c-51c3-99e1-e90f58b3e527)

FIVE (#u4e720004-dd06-50b4-bdb0-6f4cea5779a8)

SIX (#u5d6e0dc8-d3a7-5238-b004-1d907535305f)

SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE (#ulink_381f73c7-858d-5919-bf21-21772f0bf55c)

The sound exploded through the crowded street. Angela Gallagher screamed, jerking so violently she stepped wrong off the curb and sprawled onto the asphalt. Her purse flew out of her grip. On hands and knees, she struggled for breath, pulse thundering as her senses tried to right themselves.

The worker who had dropped the empty pallet went about his unloading, oblivious to the panic he’d caused in one out-of-control woman. “Get up,” she told herself furiously.

A hand grasped her elbow, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a wide face. He wore khakis and a plaid shirt. His eyes were flat, probing. “Are you all right?”

She swallowed a surge of panic. Not every stranger is dangerous. You’re not in a war zone anymore. A deep breath in and out. “Yes, thank you.” She forced a smile. “I wasn’t watching my step.”

His hand lingered on her arm. “You look lost. Visiting?”

Why did he want to know? It’s called polite small talk. Paranoia. She could not get rid of it, no matter how hard she poured herself into Bible study or prayer.

“Meeting someone here at the wharf,” she said.

He stooped to help as she retrieved the spilled items from her purse. “Bad time for that. During Beach Fest the whole town is nuts. Where were you supposed to meet?”

“Oh, somewhere around here. I’ll find him. Thanks for your concern.” She gave him another smile and edged away, toward the vendors.

“I could help, if you’d like.”

“No. No, thanks.”

He studied her face. A moment too long? “Enjoy your stay, Miss Gallagher,” he said softly, turning away into the crowd.

Goose bumps prickled her skin. One more look, soft and sly, and he was gone.

For a moment, she felt frozen, paralyzed. Her name. How had he known? Her brain slowly began to reboot. Her wallet. He’d picked it up for her. It had probably fallen open and he’d read her driver’s license. What is the matter with you? she asked herself. He was a regular guy, offering help, and this was not wartime, not here.

A bead of sweat trickled down Angela’s back, at odds with the chill ocean air. The press of the crowd overwhelmed her senses. She had not imagined when she’d made the eight-hour drive from Coronado to Monterey that she would land in the middle of some sort of festival. Would she have come if she had known? No, her gut said. Yes, her heart corrected.

People walked along Fisherman’s Wharf, stopping at the craft booths and trailing down to the rocky shore to watch the kayakers and the whale-watching boats chugging through the choppy waters of California’s central coast. The January cold pressed in; she gathered her jacket around her. Where was he? He was supposed to meet her under the balloon arch a half hour ago. Blowing on her fingers, she scanned the wharf again. Though she’d never clapped eyes on Tank Guzman, she knew exactly what he would look like. His identical twin, Julio, had died in her arms from sniper bullets meant for her. Again Julio’s gentle face rose up in her mind, the sweet hopes he’d shared about a life with his girlfriend upon his return from Afghanistan, the easy banter that was a salve to the tension of the war.

“Chaplain,” he’d told her with an irrepressible grin, “you’ve got the hardest job in the navy. All I gotta do is keep you alive, but you have to tend to all the wandering souls in this unit.”

Yet Julio Guzman, a chaplain’s assistant and her bodyguard, had been the one to die. He sacrificed his life for hers, a navy chaplain serving in a combat zone without so much as a handgun in her possession. She tried to bring herself back to the present.

Vendors clustered under white tents in the street, offering samples and calling to potential customers.

Noise, colors, smells and sounds assaulted her. As if by some inner compass, she found herself moving away from the crowd down toward the crashing surf, forcing herself to hold her gait to a stroll instead of an outright sprint. The beach offered some respite. There were people exploring the sand and the tide pools nestled in the clefts of rock. Children squealed, peering at the little hermit crabs and tiny fish inhabiting the crevices. She remembered doing the same with her father, but instead of the tingle of nostalgia, she felt nothing but cold. Sucking in deep breaths of sea-scented air, she moved away from the people, seeking the solace of a nearly empty stretch of beach.

One more look back. The man with the khaki pants had not appeared on the warped stairs that led down to the beach. You see? Paranoia, Angie. It’s what her three sisters would have said back before they’d lost their private investigator father to a murderer. Now they were less innocent, more cynical, having decided to keep their father’s private investigation office going. And she, struggling and desperate to reclaim her life, had signed on as a woefully underqualified part-time investigator.

So why hadn’t she told them about the case she was working on now? Finding Tank Guzman, Julio’s errant brother.

Because it’s not a case. She lifted her face in the direction of the surf. It’s personal.

For the first time, she noticed a woman with a long black braid standing near her almost at the edge of the water. Angela was about to retreat, to find another solitary section of sand, when she heard the woman say, “No way, Tank.”

Angela stiffened. Her imagination again? Had she heard right?

“Listen, I mean it,” she said into her cell phone. “It’s a bad idea. It’s too dangerous. I told you to call it off, but I know you’re going to go through with it anyway and get us both killed.”

She really had said Tank. Angela stood frozen, blinking in surprise.

“My tire,” she was saying. “No, it wasn’t an accident.” She looked around. “He might be watching us right now. Get out of here and go home. I’m going to do the same. Please, I’m begging you.” Another long pause. “I’m sorry, Tank. I can’t help. Please just let it go.” She clicked off the phone.

Angela felt as if her body were acting under the orders of someone else. “Excuse me,” she said.

The woman whirled so fast her foot slipped, and she went down on her knee.

“I’m sorry,” Angela started, reaching out a hand to her. “I heard you say Tank.”

“Back off,” the woman said.

“I need to find Tank. Where is he?”

“I said, stay away.” She pulled something from her jacket pocket.

Angela gaze went to the knife in the woman’s hand.

The weapon was small, barely bigger than the woman’s shaking palm. Angela was frozen to the spot. “I’m trying to find a man named Tank Guzman.”

The woman’s eyes widened to black pools. “Why?”

The wind whipped Angela’s chin-length bob of brown hair around her face, stinging her eyes. “I know... I knew his brother. We arranged a meeting. Here. But he didn’t show.”

“His brother.” Something shimmered in her expression as she said the words. “So you’re the person from Pacific Coast Investigations?”

Angela tried not to show her surprise. “Yes. I overheard your call. You don’t want Tank to meet with me. Why?”

In an instant, the woman was edging away. “Never mind. Listen to me. Tank was wrong to contact you. There’s nothing going on here. It was a mistake.”

Terror reflected in the woman’s eyes.

Angela hoped she could force out a calm tone. “I can see you’re scared. I’m a navy chaplain. Maybe I can help.”

The woman started. “A navy chaplain? I thought you were an investigator.”

“My family owns an investigation firm, but I’m a chaplain first and foremost.” At least, I used to be.

A bitter smile twisted the woman’s lips. “Then you’d better start praying, because Tank isn’t going to be alive for very long. And if you get involved with him—” she shook her head “—you won’t, either.”

* * *

Dan Blackwater remembered vehicles, makes and models, headlights and license plates. Mechanically, he scanned the parking lot, making mental notes. Since Afghanistan, he’d been forced to notice things, tiny things out of place, little details that could mean something was about to blow up. Something as simple as a soda can in an odd place could preclude a rain of fire and a parade of injuries. Now he couldn’t seem to unlearn the habit. He blinked hard. You’re here now, in Cobalt Cove. He sucked in a huge breath of ocean air. He was home, thank God. Mostly, anyway.

As he jogged toward the beach, carrying the bag Lila had left at the clinic, cutting through the parking area to avoid the crowds, he noted her Camry in the jammed lot. He’d gotten to know that car pretty well when he helped fix her flat hours before at the clinic. Their shifts overlapped sometimes, at the tiny building on the outskirts of town where he volunteered his surgical services stitching up wounds and arranging help for those living on the fringes of society. Lila worked there as a paid employee, a dental hygienist for those who needed one.

They’d chatted about her plans to go to the Beach Festival on her way home from work, but she hadn’t seemed very excited about the prospect. More nervous really, so nervous she’d left without the tote bag she carried everywhere with her. Odd. But people were odd, no two the same, except in some universal ways he’d noted in his time as a heart surgeon at the NATO hospital in Afghanistan. They all loved, laughed and died in pretty much the same ways.

His phone rang, pulling him from his thoughts. He answered. “Blackwater.”

“You missed another one.”

“I called and canceled.”

His physical therapist sighed heavily into the phone. Dan could picture Jeb Paulson’s fleshy face scowling in disapproval, eyebrows like two grizzled caterpillars crawling across his forehead.

“The rehabilitation window is closing , Dr. Blackwater. If you don’t take your rehab seriously, you’ll never return to the operating room.”

I don’t want to return to an operating room. “I’m happy with what I’m doing now.”

“Puttering around in boats? You can’t be serious. You’re the best heart surgeon in the country.”

“Flattery. And it’s kayaks, not boats. You should try it, Jeb. It would relax you.”

“Having you come to your appointments would relax me. I’m scheduling you for Monday noon. If you don’t show, I’m saddling up Old Lucy and coming after you.”

He grinned. Old Lucy was Jeb’s ancient motorcycle, circa 1949. “That I’d like to see.”

“Monday,” Jeb said before disconnecting.

Dan stowed his phone and flexed his hand. It still ached a bit from his bicycle crash on his last race along the coast a month before. Too fast, too tight a turn, his brain had screamed, but the rush of adrenaline proved more powerful. Until he’d flown over the handlebars and skidded along the roadbed. Too bad he hadn’t won the race before he crashed, he thought with a grin. When he flexed his fingers, they were only a little sore, slightly stiff, but little and slightly wouldn’t do for a surgeon.

The window is closing...

Jeb was right. “I’ll make it to the Monday appointment,” he murmured to himself as he took off toward the beach, hoping to spot Lila along the way. He didn’t. Slowing when he reached the top of the rickety wooden steps that led down to the sand, he edged over as he heard footsteps moving quickly up the warped slats.

Lila appeared, mouth open, hair wild. She gaped when she saw him.

“Dr. Blackwater. What are you doing here?”

“You left this at the clinic.” He handed her the bag. “What’s going on? You look scared.”

“Never mind. I’ve gotta go. Thanks for bringing me my stuff.” She darted past him just as another woman reached the top step.

A shock ran through him as he took in her tall frame, the delicate curve of her mouth and cheek. He was back in Kandahar, Afghanistan, delivering devastating news to a young woman, holding her hands as she crumpled to the floor, advising her to take deep breaths as she hovered on the brink of passing out. Her eyes, misty green, had lingered in his memory throughout his transition to civilian life. Those green eyes regarded him now, and she stopped so abruptly she had to grab on to the railing for balance. Her swirl of dark hair was damp from the fog, curling in the barest of waves around her face. Her body was slimmer, her face a touch gaunt, he thought.

“I don’t remember your last name,” he said. “But I think your first name is Angela.”

Her lips quivered. “The hospital,” she said quietly. “You were a surgeon.”

“Still am, at least on paper. Dan Blackwater. And you’re Angela...”

“Gallagher.”

“Navy chaplain.”

A shadow of a smile. “At least on paper.”

He could see the perspiration on her temple now, the shallow breathing, tense shoulders that told him their encounter was not welcome. Made sense. He represented her darkest hour; at least he hoped it was her darkest. Civilian life had to be easier than what she’d endured, if she really had been able to leave it behind. He remembered certain details now. Navy Chaplain Angela Gallagher brought in with minor wounds along with her chaplain’s assistant, who had died from the bullets that tore through his aorta when he’d shielded her. God’s handiwork ripped to irreparable shreds by the merciless progress of metal and machine.

“I need to find someone,” she said, keeping a distance between them as she passed him.

“Lila?”

Angela started. “The woman who just ran up these stairs. Is that her name?”

He nodded. “She’s a dental hygienist. She works at the same health clinic where I volunteer.”

Angela’s gaze shifted as she thought it over. “I’ve got to talk to her.”

“She didn’t look in the talking mood.”

“I got that sense, too, when she pulled a knife.”

Now it was his turn to gape. “What?”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Bad idea. She’s got a knife and you don’t...”

She stiffened. “Carry a weapon?”

It wasn’t what he’d meant, but her reaction stopped him cold, her expression brittle as glass.

“You’re right, Dr. Blackwater. I don’t.”

The landing at the top of the stairs emptied out onto a cement sidewalk that led to the boardwalk. The crowds were thicker now, the lights in restaurant windows were advertising the beginning of the dinner hour. Paper lanterns that lined the sidewalks glowed in soft hues. While Dan struggled to think of how in the world he should handle the bizarre situation, Angela simply jogged by him and into the milling group.

Lila had pulled a knife on someone? The soft-spoken, tea-drinking woman who read poetry during her lunch break? After a moment of thought, he went after Angela. At first he could not find her. Then the failing light shone on a man with a cap pulled down low over his wide forehead and a wound on the back of his hand. Dan had seen the scar before because he’d stitched it up himself. Tank Guzman.

It was probably not outside the realm of possibility that Guzman was just coincidently attending the Beach Fest on the same night as Angela Gallagher, the woman who had watched his brother die. A chance meeting? And Lila just happened along, too?

Guzman stood in the shadows near a restaurant, the air rich with the scent of garlic and calamari, a cigarette in his fingers. Guzman wasn’t interested in the food. He scanned the masses, a scowl on his face, until his gaze fastened on someone.

Angela?

Dan spotted her making a beeline for the parking lot. Several yards ahead of her was Lila, hastily edging her way through the throng.

Tank stubbed out the cigarette and tossed it to the ground, following Angela. Dan closed the gap, intending to reach Angela before Tank did.

“Wait, Lila,” he heard Angela call. “I need to talk to you about Tank. Please.”

Lila wrenched open the door and got inside before slamming and locking it.

“Lila,” Angela called again.

Time slowed down in Dan’s mind. Lila’s lips moved in some silent uttering as she turned the key. Her head turned the slightest bit, a frown on her brow as she watched Angela one moment longer. Her shoulder moved as she shifted into reverse.

“Lila,” Angela cried one more time, coming within ten feet of the car.

Then there was a deafening bang and the smell of fire.


TWO (#ulink_f64b9073-a1a2-57e5-a145-9b053bb95145)

The blast took out the front right bumper and much of the engine compartment. It was the sound more than the force that caused Angela to stumble backward into the person behind her. Her head connected with the hard bone of a shoulder or chin. Tiny bits of glass pricked her face, and there was a vague sensation of heat. As she regained her balance, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Lila through the car window, pale profile wreathed in smoke.

Stunned, her legs turned to rubber. Run, run, run, her brain screamed. Her memory filled with the sound of rockets shrieking through the sky and the smell of burning diesel. A cry knifed the air. Was it her own? Lila’s? A memory from the war?

Electricity surged through her limbs, overriding the fear.

The hood of the car was crawling with orange flames. The stink of burning plastic clogged her throat. Lila was still in the driver’s seat, eyes closed, knocked unconscious by the explosion. Angela sprang forward but found herself caught. Dan Blackwater, gray eyes sparking, gripped her wrist.

“Stay back,” he growled.

She yanked, almost ripping free of his grasp, but he was nearly six-four and strong. “She’s got to get out.”

He held her easily, moving her back several feet in spite of her resistance. “You can’t help her right now.” His tone was arrogant, reassuring, infuriating.

Can’t help her? Unacceptable. She forced out a breath and stopped wriggling for a moment, just long enough for him to loosen his hold, and then broke away, running to the car and pulling on the door handle, which was hot to the touch. Locked. A crackle of flames burst from the engine compartment.

“Lila, wake up. Open the door,” Angela screamed, trying the back door handle with no success. She pounded her palm against the glass as hard as she could.

Then Dan was on her again, grabbing her around the waist.

“Let me go,” she shrieked. Was he just going to stay safely back and watch Lila burn to death or die of smoke inhalation?

Twisting from his grip she started hitting the glass again when he braced an arm around her and moved her back, lifting her off the ground.

“You’re a coward,” she yelled, flailing.

“That’s enough,” he roared.

She found herself tossed over his shoulder and carted away like a bag of laundry in spite of her screams. Blood rushed to her face as he hurried her away. A minute later, when he let her down, her head was spinning, cheeks hot.

He pushed her into the restraining hands of two twentysomething festivalgoers who had run to witness the aftermath of the explosion. “Hold on to her,” he commanded. “Tightly.” Each one grabbed an arm, and she was imprisoned.

“He’s right, lady,” said the one with the goatee. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Nothing? Should she stand by and watch while someone died right in front of her? Again? Her gaze traveled in horror to the car.

Free of her, Dan ran to the car, grabbing up a folding card chair the parking attendant had been using. Several people were already on their cell phones calling for help. Dan raised the chair and smashed it into the back window. The first blow did nothing. He raised the chair again, his muscled arms rigid with the effort, and slammed it into the glass. This time the glass gave, and the chair punched through.

“Man,” said one of her captors. “That dude is strong.”

Leaping onto the trunk, Dan kicked the rest of the glass in.

Another man, younger, wearing a Giants baseball cap, ran up waving a fire extinguisher. Without another word, he began spraying the powder against the flames coming from the front end of the vehicle.

She wasn’t sure if Dan registered the second rescuer. Angela watched, pulse racing in terror, as he crawled through the back window.

“He’s gonna be toast,” said her captor. “Dude’s gonna fry.”

The fire extinguisher did little against the rising flames and the oily black smoke. She could hardly see the man in the cap, but the encouraging shouts of the onlookers meant he was still doing his best.

“Fire department’s on its way,” a lady shouted.

A minute ticked by, and she could see nothing through the smoke-shrouded windows. Had Dan decided to administer first aid right there in a burning car? Was he unable to get her seat belt unfastened? She swallowed. Had he been overcome by the smoke?

The driver’s-side door was flung open with a groan of metal.

“He’s unlocked it,” she breathed.

A young couple raced up, took hold of Lila’s shoulders and dragged her away from the flames. They laid her down gently on the pavement. Angela finally succeeded in breaking loose from her captors. She ran to Lila, dropping to her knees. To be sure she was still breathing, she held her cheek next to Lila’s lips and felt the faint puff of air. Lila’s pulse at her wrist was steady though faint. Alive. Angela stripped off her jacket and draped it over Lila’s torso.

“We’re going to get you to a hospital. Just hang on, Lila.”

There was no response. Had she suffered a head trauma? Would she still be alive when they delivered her to the emergency room? There was such a minuscule distance between living and dead. Julio’s crooked smile flashed through her mind. He’d smiled just before he’d died, smiled at her, the reason he had been cut down at the tender age of twenty. That smile would never leave her heart until her dying moment.

Angela wanted to pray aloud, but she found her mind whirling, a sickening cold enveloping her body. She clutched Lila’s hand, squeezing, willing herself not to run away.

Shouts erupted all around her.

“Get out of there, man,” someone yelled. “You’re gonna burn alive.”

It was several moments before she realized they were talking about Dan. The car was now enveloped in flames, black smoke filling the air. The driver’s door stood open like a gaping mouth. No Dan. Several people tried to get closer, but the intensity of the heat drove them back.

Her face warmed at the nearness of the fire, but inside she remained cold. She wanted to help, but her legs would not move. Then pray, her heart begged. Pray to God that the rescuer in the car will be delivered.

But the prayer could not penetrate the surreal numbness. All she could do was watch.

* * *

Dan realized after Lila was pulled through the door to safety that he wasn’t going to get out that way. The upholstered seats had begun to melt, and the flames licked up the steering column. He retreated the way he had come, over the front seat and into the back, just as the side window shattered. He dropped to the seat, covering his head from the cubes of safety glass that rocketed the width of the vehicle. His mind took him right back to Afghanistan, the moment when he had driven in the armored vehicle they affectionately nicknamed Nellie to assist a badly wounded soldier who could not be extracted from his Humvee quickly enough.

He remembered the rocket-propelled grenade that struck the road twenty feet from their transport, shaking the ground worse than any earthquake the California boy had ever experienced. A haze of dust, shouts of confusion, the intensity of the gunny who took charge and got his men to safety before they returned fire. Running boots, the punch of bullets into the ground, the groan of a shell-shocked man he finally realized was himself. The incredible courage he’d been honored to witness in the men and women he served, the realization that life was as delicate as a spring flower and as tenacious as a bulldog.

He’d learned not to try and shut out the memories, but to let them come, experience the pain again and extract himself from it. He did so now, as the glass settled all around him. Then he uncurled himself and continued on to the rear windshield, where there were helping hands, Good Samaritans braving the smoke, to assist him out and away.

Coughing, shaking the bits of glass from his hair, he saw that the ambulance had arrived and paramedics were working on Lila. A heavyset police officer had pushed the crowd back; another was talking into the radio and taking statements. He twisted around, blinking against the smoke that stung his eyes. Where was Angela?

A stocky cop approached, a smudge of black on his tanned face. “I’m Lieutenant Torrey. Do you need medical attention?”

“No. I’m looking for someone. There was a woman here, with Lila.”

“Lila?”

“Lila Brown, the lady trapped in the car. I need to find the woman who was with her.”

The kid with the goatee pointed toward the cliff. “She ran. That way. We tried to stop her, but she looked wild, you know?”

He thanked them. “I’ll be back,” he said to the cop.

The officer’s thick brows drew together. “This is a crime scene and I need to talk to you. I’ll send an officer to find your friend.”

“No,” Dan said. “I’m going to find her now.”

“I need you here.” There was a warning in the tone.

He had no patience for questions. Not then. “My name is Dr. Daniel Blackwater. I live just up the beach. Here’s my cell phone and wallet so you know I will return. I’ll be back just as soon as I can.” He strode away, feeling the officer’s gaze burning into him, hearing a muttered oath behind him.

She looked wild, you know?

He did. He’d seen the seeds of that look when he’d not been able to save Julio Guzman, and he suspected her departure from Afghanistan had not been the end of it. In spite of some soreness along his belly from the glass that had cut through his shirt and into his skin, he moved through the crowd and jogged again to the beach.

The sun sank below the horizon just as he made it to the stairs, leaving him blinking to adjust to the meager light. The fog didn’t help. Everything was gray shadows and glittering sea. He moved down to the sand, calling softly.

“Angela? It’s Dan Blackwater.”

The only answer was the waves scouring the shore. A distant boat motored by, heading to tie up at the nearby marina for the evening.

“Angela?” he said again.

He must have sensed her rather than noted any sound. She sat, curled into a ball, knees drawn up under her chin, hands clasped together.

She didn’t look up when he drew closer, so he stopped a few yards away and crouched down, making himself as small and nonthreatening as a six-four, soot-covered guy could be.

“Hey,” he said.

She stiffened but did not look up. He could see only a glimpse of a tearstained face, hollow eyes that bored right into him down to a tender place he hadn’t known was there. “Lila’s on her way to the hospital, pulse is strong, looks like minor burns at this point. Breathing on her own. All good signs.”

He heard a sniff. He moved closer until he could see the tight grip of her hands, the tension in her neck and shoulders, the slight trembling.

“The explosion was frightening,” he said.

Sounds of crying. Slowly, very slowly, he touched her hand. “Hey. Why don’t we talk? This stuff is hard, I know. It will help you to talk.”

Her head jerked up then. “I don’t need to talk. And you don’t know anything about me.”

He smiled. “Actually, I do. We were in the same place together, remember? A place that very few people in Cobalt Cove can conceive of, unless they served there, too.”

She chewed her lip. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t, either, but you’ve got to get help.”

“I am the help,” she snapped.

He got it then. “Oh. Because you’re a chaplain, you’re supposed to be the expert, the one who comforts others.”

She didn’t answer. When she looked out over the water, there was only despair on that lovely face, the look of someone who had been left behind, without hope of rescue.

“Angela,” he started.

She waved a hand. “I’m sorry. The explosion and the fire. It got to me. It was silly to run. I’m sure the police want to talk to me.”

“As a matter of fact, they do. I’ll walk you back.”

“Thank you, but I can find my way.”

“Oh, they need to talk to me, too. I left at an inopportune moment.” He gestured to the top of the stairs, where the silhouette of two approaching cops stood out against the dusky sky. “Torrey’s steamed. Cops don’t like it when you keep them waiting.”

“Why did you then?”

“I wanted to find you.”

She scrubbed the tears from her face with her sleeve. “No prize here.”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Offering a hand, he helped her stand. “Why did you come here to Cobalt Cove? Why were you talking to Lila?”

She hesitated. “I was looking for someone, and I heard Lila speaking to him on the phone.”

“Who?”

There was a long pause. He guessed she was weighing whether or not to trust him.

“Tank Guzman,” she said finally.

He raised an eyebrow. “Then I guess you accomplished your mission.”

“What do you mean?”

“The guy who helped out with the fire extinguisher.”

She stared at him.

“That was Tank Guzman.”


THREE (#ulink_9ff824ea-a811-5896-b047-f8eeca68fd30)

Angela tried her best to focus on the questions being fired at her by Lieutenant Torrey. At Dan’s insistence they had moved inside, to a table in the back room of the Grotto, a hole-in-the-wall seafood restaurant complete with a rowboat suspended on the wall and crab traps piled in the corner. The smell of cooking fish made her queasy.

“Why?” Torrey said again. She realized she hadn’t heard the question.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why were you looking for Tank Guzman?” Dan supplied.

The lieutenant’s wide chin went up. “Stay out of it, Dr. Blackwater.”

Dan raised his chin. “This woman and I served together in Afghanistan. Lila Brown is my coworker at the clinic. I want answers, too.”

Angela knew Dan was close to being asked to step outside. For some reason, she wanted to avoid that. She took a deep breath. “Tank’s twin brother was my chaplain’s assistant in Afghanistan. I wanted to meet Tank.”

Torrey’s mouth twitched. “My son did some time there, too.” He eased back in his chair, frame erect but a bit less stiff, brown eyes searching her face. “You’re a navy chaplain and now a private investigator?” He’d taken a moment to do a quick search, she realized.

Angela blushed. “My family runs a PI firm. I help out. I have a few weeks of leave.”

“Got a license?”

“No.”

“You here to do some investigating on your own in Cobalt Cove? About Tank Guzman?”

She suddenly felt as if she was somehow under suspicion. Stake your ground and hold on to it, her marine father would have said. She sat up straighter. “No, I just wanted to find him and talk. I’d written him several letters over the past year, and he never replied until last week. He emailed me to arrange a meeting.”

“Why now?” Torrey drummed thick fingers on the table. “Why would he want to meet you now? After blowing you off for so long? What’s the urgency?”

“I don’t know. From what I heard Lila saying on the phone, she was trying to discourage him from meeting with me. She came to the festival to beg him to call it off.”

“That makes no sense.”

“She said if he met with me, it might get them both killed.”

“Are you sure he didn’t tell you anything in the email that would explain why he wanted to meet you?”

She shook her head. He gave her an appraising look that went on long enough to make her uncomfortable. Police technique, she imagined.

There was another half hour of questioning, the last part of which was directed at Dan.

“How do you know Tank Guzman, Dr. Blackwater?”

Dan massaged his shoulder, grimacing. “I volunteer at the Cobalt Clinic. He came in maybe a month ago needing some stitches and a tooth repaired because he’d been in a fight, he said. Lila helped patch up his tooth, and I did the stitching.”

“What was the fight about?”

Dan shrugged. “We just provide services to people who can’t afford it. Period. We’re not there to delve into their private lives unless they want to share.”

“Convenient.”

She saw Dan’s mouth tighten a fraction.

“I didn’t ask,” he said, “and he didn’t tell.”

“Okay,” Torrey said finally. “We’ll take it from here.” He got their contact numbers and leveled a look at Angela as he rose from the table. “Some advice. Tank Guzman is into some bad things. He’s been in trouble, petty stuff, but he’s not the kind of guy you want to get involved with. Best idea is to go back to Coronado and don’t have anything further to do with Tank Guzman.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?” she said.

Torrey’s gaze drifted past her to the parking lot, where the blackened car still stood, waiting for the police to finish investigating.

“Go home, Ms. Gallagher. Leave the investigating to the cops.”

Torrey left.

She realized Dan was staring at her.

“You’re a private investigator?”

She smiled at the insanity of it. “Hard to believe a navy chaplain has a side job?”

He didn’t return the smile. “No, but it’s hard to believe that Guzman suddenly wanted to chat with a person he’s avoided all this time.” He pulled out his phone and typed something in.

“When did you send your last letter to Guzman?”

“It was an email. I sent it from my office account last month.”

“How’d you find his email address?”

She raised her chin. “I work at a PI firm, remember? We find things out.”

“Uh-huh.” He read the tiny screen. “And when did your family decide to put up their website listing you as an associate of the firm like it says here?”

She swallowed. “Last month.”

“So when you sent the email, he searched your name and it led him to Pacific Coast Investigations.”

“Sounds right. Lila knew he’d contacted an investigator.”

Dan pursed his lips. “Guzman’s into some kind of trouble, or he wouldn’t have run away after the fire.”

“He might have been worried since he’s got a past with the police, but he tried to help you rescue Lila—that has to show what he’s made of.”

“I’m just making an observation. Out of the blue, he asks you to come here, and then there’s an explosion that nearly kills a woman and might have killed you if you were any closer,” he added. “He takes off instead of talking to the police. That all seems a little strange to me.”

Though she didn’t say so, it seemed very strange to her, too. She felt suddenly bone weary and ready to drop. “I’m going to go to my hotel.”

“I’ll walk you back to your car.”

An explosion that nearly kills a woman and might have killed you...

This time, she did not decline his offer.

* * *

Dan insisted on checking underneath Angela’s car before she started it. There was no real reason to, except that his nerves were nagging him.

He gestured for her to roll down the window. “Where are you staying?”

“Blue Tide Inn.”

“Can I get your cell number? In case I hear any updates about Lila?” He was suddenly uneasy that she might decline.

After a moment’s pause she told him the number and then groaned. “My cell is in my jacket. I think it might have wound up going to the hospital with Lila. My car keys would have, too, if I hadn’t put them in my back pocket.”

“The hospital will keep it for you. I work there, or I did. I’m going to check on her tomorrow morning, anyway. I’ll ask about it.”

He felt her looking closer at him. “Don’t you work there anymore?”

He rubbed his neck. “On leave, like you. Taking some time off. Injured my hand.”

“Oh. The way you got Lila out of the car, I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

“A surgeon’s hands have to be better than good. The tiniest slip and someone’s dead.” The words came out harsher than he’d meant. Something in her gaze made him uncomfortable, as if she saw things under the surface, things he didn’t want anyone to see. “Anyway, I’ll get the phone back for you.”

“No need. I’ll do it myself.”

“Fair enough.”

He stepped back so she could drive away.

She turned to him. “Do you need a ride?”

“No. My house is right up the beach.”

She hesitated for another moment. “Dan, what I said before, about you being a coward. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize.”

“Yes, there is. You fought your way into a burning car to get Lila out. That’s courage if I ever saw it.”

He noted how the moonlight embedded sparks of light in her hair. “Oh, I don’t know. For some folks, just facing another day requires more courage than I’ve got.”

One more moment with her eyes locked onto his. Then she tucked her hair behind her ear and drove out of the parking lot. He watched until her car pulled out of sight. It was nearly nine o’clock. The crowds had dispersed, leaving only clusters of people sipping cups of coffee or walking down to the beach before heading home.

He took off at a slow jog, only two miles to his cottage. The term amused him. It was a dilapidated wood-sided claptrap, a far cry from the sleek five-bedroom house he’d owned before he’d gone to Afghanistan. He’d had visions of fixing the cottage up, restoring each warped beam and leaking faucet, but he hadn’t and it didn’t make much difference. The only thing that really mattered was the view from the sagging wraparound porch. The thundering of the Pacific beat a soothing rhythm day and night, steady, reassuring.

As he took the steps up to the porch, he said hello to Babs, the cat who had adopted him—or his porch, anyway. He spent a moment, as he always did, breathing in the grandeur of the ocean, which normally eased away all his troubles. God’s workmanship. Incredible. That was one thing about his time in the desert. Somehow it made all the colors of the world brighter, more vibrant, upon his return.

Tonight, though, he found that his mind was not clear and easy. He liked Lila, appreciated her calming way with patients and her gentle nature. If she was scared, he wanted to help. And then there was a certain navy chaplain. He flashed for a moment on her haunted green eyes, the deep green that reminded him of new spring leaves. He could not rid himself of the feeling that Angela Gallagher was in trouble.

* * *

Angela wanted to call home and talk to her family, to reassure herself that all was well. After the disastrous last year, her youngest sister, Sarah, was still healing from the car crash that had taken their father’s life. The killer who’d arranged it all would have murdered their sister Donna, as well, if God hadn’t intervened and sent coast guard rescue swimmer Brent Mitchell into their lives. Donna and Brent were enjoying their newlywed status, and her mother and sisters were busy tending to each other and the family business under the supervision of Marco, their longtime family friend. Maybe she could call Marco and tell him about all that had transpired, but he would be in a car speeding to Cobalt Cove in a matter of minutes, and she did not think she had the fortitude to handle a face-to-face with him.

She let herself into the small hotel room, decorated in soothing blues with a second-story balcony that looked over the front parking lot and out to the ocean beyond. She locked the door behind her, legs gone weak. Sinking down into a chair, she considered her options.

Go home, as Officer Torrey had suggested.

Stay and see if she could somehow locate Tank.

And then what? If he was a dangerous man, that plan would be just plain stupid.

“You’re committed until tomorrow morning, anyway,” she muttered to herself. There was no way she was going to leave Cobalt Cove without retrieving her cell phone and checking on Lila.

She wondered if she’d see Dan at the hospital. Her cheeks went hot as she considered what he must have thought after she’d bolted from the accident scene and hidden like a child on the beach. Yet his tone had not been condescending or pitying, the gray eyes gentle, or so she imagined.

With a sigh, she put the memory behind her and microwaved herself a cup of water, dunking in a tea bag before she opened the door to the balcony. The hotel phone rang and she answered it, gazing out at the sea, cradling the hot mug to her body with her free hand.

“Is this Angela Gallagher?”

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

“You know who.”

Her breath caught. “Tank?”

“Yeah. I need to talk to you.”

Her nerves were rattled. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I had nothing to do with that explosion.”

“It’s a police matter now.”

“I need help. The way I see it, you owe me.”

“How’s that?”

“My brother died protecting you.”

The words cut into her like bullet fragments. “I...I don’t even know you.”

“Doesn’t matter. If my brother was alive, he’d have my back, but he’s dead because of you.”

The words robbed her of the power of speech. A throbbing pain filled her body.

“I need to talk to you now,” he said. “Meet me at the diner across the street in fifteen minutes.”

“I can’t.” She scrambled for an excuse. “I’m in my pajamas.”

There was the sound of soft laughter. “No, you’re not.”

Terror balled in her stomach. Could he see her? She scanned the parking lot, quiet and dark. No, she told herself. He’s bluffing. She let out a shaky breath.

“And you’d better drink your tea before it gets cold.”

The phone slipped from her hand and fell to the floor, disconnecting the call.


FOUR (#ulink_a4aca045-2541-5107-b511-4bdf65066db7)

Dan was finishing up reading an article in a kayaking magazine when his cell phone rang. He turned down the music and answered. For a few seconds, there was no one on the other end, which sent the nerves cascading along his spine.

“Who’s there?”

“Dan?” Another beat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

He stiffened. “What’s wrong, Angela?”

“Well...probably nothing.”

“I was born nosey. Tell me.”

“Tank called my room. I don’t know how he got my number, but...”

He heard the catch in her breath. “What?”

“He’s watching me. Maybe I should call the police.”

“Yes, you should.”

“But, I think he’s in trouble. He—I...I want to talk to him.”

Dan measured his words with care. “The police would advise against it, and so do I.” Too arrogant? He waited.

“I know, but I feel like I should.”

“You think you owe him because of what happened to Julio.” Overstepping for sure, but he couldn’t take it back now.

No answer from her.

“You don’t owe Tank anything. It’s not smart to meet him.”

“Thanks for the advice. Sorry to disturb you.”

“You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it and decide.”

Her tone was slightly miffed. He liked the hint of rebellion.

“I don’t know why I called. I apologize. Good night.”

“Hold on,” he said. “As soon as you hang up, you’re going to decide to go.”

“Are you a mind reader now?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” he said in what he hoped was a jovial tone. “And your mind is saying it was a good idea to call that annoying Blackwater guy because he can help. I’ll be there in five minutes. Don’t leave your room until I get there.”

“You’re bossy.”

He chuckled. “Only when I’m right,” he said. “Stay put.” Not waiting for her to rally an argument, he was out the door in moments. Normally he’d bike the two miles, but it was faster to take his Chevy. The truck rumbled over to the hotel. Afraid she might have already left without him, he parked in the closest spot he could and jogged up to Angela’s room.

“It’s Dan,” he said, knocking on the door, praying she hadn’t gone on to meet Tank without him.

She opened the door wearing jeans and a thick sweater that matched her eyes. Her head cocked to the side, expression chagrined. “This is silly. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.”

He shrugged. “I’m up for silly. What else did he say to you?”

She relayed a few details about the call.

“All right. If it’s a misunderstanding, we’ll find out soon enough. Let’s go to the diner.”

“If he sees you with me, he might not come.”

“We’ve met, remember? Over the hood of a burning car, so he probably knows I’m not a cop. If he’s going to run, so be it.”

She shook her head. “This cloak-and-dagger stuff is ludicrous.”

“I thought you were a detective. Isn’t that your stock in trade?”

A sliver of a smile lightened her face. There was a quick flash of a dimple, which thrilled and scared him. He’d always been a sucker for dimples until his gorgeously dimpled fiancée left him. You deserved it, Dan. You came back from Afghanistan with different priorities. Wasn’t AnnaLisa’s fault. But still...dimples.

“I’m only a detective on paper, remember?” she said, but she followed him out to the parking lot.

He strolled close and put an arm around her shoulders.

She stiffened but did not pull away. “What are you doing?”

“Just letting Tank know you’ve got backup, in case he wants to try anything.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“There’s a reason he isn’t eager to take his problems to the cops. Let’s play it safe until we know more.”

The night was cold, and he felt her shiver. Then again, it might have been the insane day she’d had so far already. Explosions and clandestine meetings. She was right. Ludicrous, especially in the quiet town of Cobalt Cove.

The Beachbum Diner was an odd little spot, a throwback to the 1970s with booths upholstered in tan and yellow, with a menu as eclectic as the mismatched lighting fixtures.

Dan waved to Vin, the owner, and guided Angela to a corner booth. She slid in next to him, gaze darting around the place, which was fairly busy in spite of the late hour. Spillover festivalgoers devoured slices of pie and coffee, plates of waffles and eggs. No sign of Tank. “Can I get you something to eat?”

She jerked. “What?”

“Food.” He waved at the owner. “Vin makes a mean stir-fry.”

She raised an eyebrow and quirked her lips. “I was expecting burgers and omelets.”

“He makes those, too. We should order something so we look less conspicuous. Besides, Vin is putting three kids through college. Sitters don’t pay the tuition unless they’re eating.” Dan was about to go to the counter and order when Angela sat up straighter. She stared over his shoulder, lips pressed together as Tank joined them.

He sported a canvas jacket that had seen better days, turned up at the collar, and the same baseball cap he’d worn at the scene of the explosion. His face, though wider and dead serious, was indeed the image of his brother Julio’s. Dan knew it was the face Angela saw in her memories, reliving the moments before Julio Guzman was shot. It was a face he’d never forget either, a patient lost in spite of every bit of medical expertise he could muster. Losing. He detested it.

Tank sat across from them, hunched low. “Why are you here?” he said to Dan.

“Waiting to eat. What do you want with Angela?”

“Didn’t know you two were friends.”

Dan let the comment sit there. The silence grew. Tank shifted, looking from one to the other and finally settling on Angela. “You really a detective?” he said, jutting his chin at her.

“My family owns a detective agency. I help out.”

“Not a chaplain anymore?”

“I’m still a chaplain,” she said quietly.

His eyes narrowed. “Get anybody killed lately?”

Dan heard Angela suck in a breath. He moved to toss Tank out of the booth, but Angela stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Tank, there is no one sorrier than I am about what happened to your brother.”

“Sorry doesn’t matter. He’s still dead. Except for my wife and my mother, he’s practically the only family I had in this world, the only family I get to see, anyway.”

Dan saw the delicate muscles of her throat tighten.

“People die in combat,” Dan snapped.

“Yeah? Well, they’re supposed to die for a reason, not to keep some preacher alive.”

Dan leaned forward, jaw muscles twitching. “You’re out of line, and you are not going to sit here and attack this lady. Am I making myself clear?”

“What do you know about it?”

“More about it than you ever will. I served in Afghanistan, too, kid.”

“Soldier?”

“Doctor. And no one saw more death than we did, so keep a civil tongue in your head, smart aleck.”

Tank’s eyes went dark, hard as a stretch of bad road. For a moment, Dan wondered if the situation would escalate. He was ready if it did.

Tank slouched deeper into his jacket. “None of your business anyway, Doc.”

“What do you want?” Angela said. “Why do you need a detective?”

“Because...” He tapped his fingers on the table, scanning the diners again. “Someone is going to kill me.”

* * *

Angela wondered if she’d heard him right.

Dan raised an eyebrow. “Did you give them reason to want to do that?”

Angela shot Dan a look. “What he meant is, who would want to do that and why?”

“And why not go to the cops?” Dan put in.

“Listen,” Tank said, hissing the word out. “I’m in trouble. I convinced Lila to help me, and you saw what happened to her. I need you to dig up some proof so I can take it to the cops so they’ll believe me.”

“Why won’t they believe you now?” Angela said. “Especially if the person after you caused the explosion.”

“I’ve had some trouble.” He made a show of studying the green glass lamp hanging over their booth. “Done some drugs. And other things.”

“Look, Tank,” Dan said. “Let’s hear it. Who’s the mysterious villain gunning for you and why?”

“Not a mystery,” Tank said, mouth in a tight line. “I know exactly who it is. I can show you a picture, for all the good it will do me, but he’s smart and he knows how to get to me if I go to the cops. You need to help me,” he said to Angela. “Prove he’s into some bad stuff. Send him to jail.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“I can talk to my partners,” Angela said. “See what they think about taking the case.”

“No.” Tank slapped a hand on the table. “You need to do it. My brother said you were a stand-up lady, and he took three bullets keeping you alive—remember?”

Each word bored into her. Julio’s smile drifted through her memory, even when he lay bleeding to death he had smiled at her. A stand-up lady? The woman who had insisted on going forward with the baptism that day, in spite of worsening threats?

“I will do everything I can to help you,” she heard herself saying above the blood pounding in her veins.

“Angela...” Dan started.

Tank opened his mouth to speak, but in a moment he shot to his feet. Dan scrawled his cell number on a napkin and gave it to Tank. “We need to finish this conversation,” Dan said, Tank pushed away from the booth, heading for the back exit.

“Wait,” Angela said, starting after him.

Lieutenant Torrey’s eyes narrowed as he came through the front door and scanned the patrons. He made his way over to Angela and Dan.

“Late night for you two. Figured you’d be asleep by now.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Angela said. She fired a “keep quiet” look at Dan. She wasn’t sure what Tank had gotten himself into, but she could see the fear in his eyes, the spasming of his mouth when he’d spoken of his wife.

“Just came from the hospital. Looks like Lila is going to be okay. She’s resting now; been given something to make her sleep. Going to interview her in the morning.”

“Great news.” Angela flicked a glance behind the lieutenant’s shoulder to the window. She just made out Tank’s blocky figure headed across the parking lot, head ducked low under his baseball cap.

She gestured for Torrey to sit, and he folded himself into the seat with a sigh. Vin approached the booth, holding a steaming cup of tea he offered to Torrey.

Torrey nodded his thanks. Vin retreated without a word. A stream of people left the restaurant, letting in a puff of cigarette-scented air. Torrey breathed deeply.

“Haven’t had a smoke in eight years and, man, the smell still makes me pat my pockets looking for a cigarette.”

“Addiction is powerful,” Dan said.

“Yeah. That’s what I was telling you about Tank. You were meeting him here, right?”

Angela wondered how he had figured that out. Though she’d decided to do her best to help Tank, she wasn’t going to start lying to the police to do it. “We talked for a minute. He’s scared someone is trying to kill him.”

Torrey stayed still, but Angela had spent a career deciphering emotions. Torrey’s face went curiously blank, his upper body stiffened so slightly she might have imagined it.

“Who?”

“He didn’t get a chance to tell us.”

Torrey wrapped a hand around the mug. “He gonna contact you again?”

“I don’t know.” Angela watched the steam from the tea drift upward. “I’ll talk to him if he does, try and convince him again to go to the police.” She paused. “But he doesn’t seem to trust you.”

“That’s ’cause he’s a criminal,” Torrey said. “Most of ’em don’t trust cops.”

“Does he have a reason?” she asked softly.

His gaze locked on hers, eyes narrowing. “Maybe you should be careful about which side to pick here.”

Dan cocked his head. “Lieutenant, that almost sounded like a threat.”

Torrey drank a mouthful of tea. “No threat, just good advice.” He pushed the tea away. “You know what Tank Guzman did before he came to Coronado?”

“No.”

“He worked for a demolitions company.”

Demolitions. The word kicked up the nerves along the back of her neck.

“Yeah,” Torrey continued. “Demolitions. You know, the guys who knock down buildings?”

Angela nodded.

“Used to use those big wrecking balls but now, you know, things are high tech.”

“High tech as in—” Dan started.

“Now they use explosives,” Torrey finished. He got up. “Think carefully before you get into something you can’t get out of.” He flicked a card across the table at them. “Call me next time he arranges a meeting.”

Torrey left. They sat in silence for a moment. Angela’s mind spun. Whom to believe? Which one to trust? Before she would have followed her instincts, but now she didn’t even trust herself not to bolt from the sound of a car backfiring. Several hours ago she’d been worrying that the man with the sport coat was stalking her. Paranoia. Fear. Whom to trust?

Dan reached out and took her hand. “Hey,” he said softly. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

His tone was so gentle, at odds with the raging torrent inside her. She realized she was clinging tightly to his fingers. Blushing, she let go.

“I’m going to call Marco at the office. He’ll help me sort it out.”

Dan sat back. She realized she’d been rude. “I appreciate your help, Dr. Blackwater.”

“Dan.”

“Dan. I’ll call home.” Saying it again made her feel more sure. Though his eyes lingered on her face, she could not look at him without seeing him, exhausted, scrubs stained with blood, clinging to her hand as she collapsed to the hospital floor. He was the embodiment of a time she was trying without success to forget.

“Thank you again.” She forced a smile, tone formal.

He gazed at her for another moment, before he got up and waited for her to slide out of the booth. “I’ll walk you back to your hotel.”

They strolled in silence, and this time he did not put his arm around her. It was better that way. Since Afghanistan, she found she did not like to be touched, not even by her family. She found her key card and slid it into the lock. He held the door for her as she entered, reaching to take his phone out of his pocket.

“Got a text.” He looked closer. “It’s from Tank. The message is, ‘This is the guy who’s gonna kill me.’” He frowned and held the screen for her to see.

She took it from him, stared at the picture. Her body went suddenly cold.

“You know him?”

“Oh, yes,” she said in a whisper. “I know him.”

* * *

Dan saw her bite her lip so hard he was sure it would bleed. Her body went stone stiff, as if she would crack if he touched her.

He put a hand on her shoulder. For a moment, they did nothing but breathe. Sometimes, he thought, that was enough. Then she cleared her throat.

“I saw him for the first time this morning.” She told him about her fall and how he’d offered help, retrieved the contents of her purse. “I thought he was too interested, but I chalked it up to paranoia.” A flush of color painted her cheeks. “I’ve been unsure... It’s a hard adjustment, coming home, you know?”

“I do.”

“He knew my name.” She stared at the picture. “I’m beginning to think he knew my identity before I dropped my purse. Who is he?”

“His name is Harry Gruber. He owns a trucking company.”

Angela cocked her head. “You know him?”

“Sure do. Gruber is a respected guy in this town. Actually, his donations fund the clinic where I volunteer.”

“Is he a friend?”

“Acquaintance,” Dan said. “We’ve done some charity events together, fun kid days at the clinic and such.”

“So why would a man like that have any interest in killing Tank Guzman?”

“Could be Tank is completely wrong. His integrity is still in doubt.” He shook his head. “What is Lieutenant Torrey going to have to say about this development?”

She sighed. “I’ll call the office. They’re better at this than I am.” The dim light shadowed her face, adding to the fatigue.

“It can wait until tomorrow.” He flipped on the rest of the lights and made sure the sliding glass door was secure, the curtains drawn.

As he turned to go there was a wondrous smile on her face. It stopped him in his progress to the door.

She caught his surprise. “I was just thinking that my gut told me Harry Gruber was up to something. Maybe my instincts do work, at least a little.” She sighed. “Something works, even if it’s just a small thing.”

She looked so delicate standing there, her slender silhouette framed by the lamplight, arms wrapped around her waist as if offering herself a hug. He wanted to do the same.

“It’s not a small thing. That’s a little window into yourself,” he found himself saying. “God’s telling you you’re still in there—you aren’t lost. I had those little windows, too, after I came back. We can talk about it, if you want to.”

She looked away, cheeks flushed, and he knew he’d overstepped. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

It was a dismissal, and there was nothing he could do to erase the distance between them. Pushy, Blackwater, as usual. “Okay. Call me if you need anything. Good night, Angela.”

“Thank you,” she said, “for your help.”

Had he helped? He considered as he returned to the truck, ruefully plucking the ticket he’d received off the windshield for parking in a red zone. In his haste to get to Angela after Tank’s call, he had parked in the first spot he’d found. The ticket had been issued by Lieutenant Torrey.

Tank’s accusation of Harry Gruber wasn’t going to sit well with Torrey. Angela’s guilt would make her take Tank’s side even if the kid was flat-out lying. She’d made enemies on both sides.

Why did it prey on his mind as he drove home?

Because you’re nosy and you always want to manage people’s lives whether they want you to or not.

All true.

Yet he felt something other than nosiness as he stood out on the deck, watching the ocean crawl by, waiting for a sleepiness that would not come.


FIVE (#ulink_9c9c93c1-dbba-5050-9eec-284cb7b0cd2a)

Six o’clock could not arrive quickly enough. Angela had slept no more than a few hours, finally getting up before sunrise to shower and make a pot of instant coffee, most of which was already gone. At the stroke of six, she dialed, knowing that Marco would be in the office after his early morning workout at the local gym. Marco’s routine was as predictable as the sunrise.

She also knew he would not answer the phone unless there was a very good reason. The man despised technology.

“Marco,” she said into the machine after the beep. “It’s Angela. There’s been some trouble.”

“What trouble?” he said as he picked up the phone. She heard noise in the background.

“Is Candace there this early? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Candace called from the background. “I was picking Donna and Brent up from the airport.”

Angela smiled. “How was their honeymoon?”

“Just a minute,” Marco muttered. “Gonna try and put this thing on speakerphone.” There was the sound of Marco pressing buttons, and then they were disconnected. She smiled, picturing him there, big fingers stabbing away at a phone that was beyond his comprehension, brilliant though he was. She was about to redial when there was a knock at the door.

Her breath caught. Too early for housekeeping. Skin prickled on the back of her neck, the way it had when she’d realized Tank was watching her in her hotel room. Enemy or friend? Unsure, she crept to the door. There was no peephole. She placed a hand on the door as if she could somehow feel who it was through the panel.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Dan Blackwater.”

Relief and tension rippled together through her insides. She thought their connection was over; she was hoping, anyway. He was the past for her, the cruel, savage past that would not seem to get out of her present. The seconds ticked on as she tried to think of a polite way to get him to leave.

“Hey, not to be pushy, Angela, but this coffee is burning my hand. I forgot to get those cardboard sleeve thingys.”

She yanked open the door. He held two to-go cups, a white paper bag tucked under his arm. “What are you doing here?”

“I will excuse that ungracious tone if you’ll please take this coffee.” He thrust the cup at her, and she took it. “I figured you could use some breakfast. I’m on my way to the hospital. Thought we might as well go together, since we both have some questions for Lila.”

Her computer beeped, saving her from trying to rally a polite refusal. “Hold on—that’s Marco. He’s trying to Skype this time. Candace must be helping him.”

She opened up Skype, and Marco’s shaved head filled up the screen, Candace peering over his shoulder.

“What trouble?” Marco demanded.

She filled him in and introduced Dan. “He’s, um, I knew him in Afghanistan.”

Marco was silent for a moment. A retired navy man, he understood the significance of that statement. “Okay. I’m leaving now for Cobalt Cove. I’ll see which one of your sisters is available to come with me. Don’t meet with Tank or Gruber until I get there.”

Candace blew out a breath. “I’d come, too, but Tracy is in a school play, and they’ve got practice every day.”

Angela smiled, thinking of her sweet six-year-old niece. Tragic that the child had lost her father in Iraq when she was barely old enough to know him. Then to lose her grandfather a month ago. Angela swallowed the hard lump in her throat. “Did she land the coveted role?”

“Yep, she’s the snowflake in the winter play. There will be sparkles and white tights and a tiara.”

Angela laughed. “Can’t wait to see it.”

“Sarah and I will look into things on this end.”

“How is she?”

Candace frowned in a way that told Angela everything. Sarah had been at the wheel when their father’s car was forced off the road and he was killed. Her emotional trauma far outweighed the physical damage from the crash. “Still not sleeping, and Mom and I have to practically force food down her throat.”

“I’ll be back soon and...” Angela trailed off. How could she comfort her sister when she couldn’t even help herself? She regrouped and straightened her shoulders, hoping Dan hadn’t noticed the lapse.

When they ended the call, Dan offered to drive her to the hospital.

“No need. I’ll drive myself. I have some things to do afterward.” At the moment she had precisely nothing to do until Marco arrived, but she didn’t want to be in the car next to Dan. His silver gaze searched her face as if he understood completely that she was avoiding him.

She thanked him again for the coffee and took the scone he offered before they got into their vehicles and drove to the hospital. Lila Brown was being treated on the fifth floor.

The hallway was quiet. A nurse returned Angela’s cell phone and pointed them to room 504. The smell of the hospital assaulted her, the odor of disinfectant and, she imagined, despair. So many stories ended at such places; she felt as if her own story had ended in a hospital, too, far away on foreign soil.

She sensed Dan looking at her.

“I guess you spend a lot of time in hospitals, for your chaplain work.”

She had. But now she practically had to force herself through the doors, her visits to patients strained, requiring her to seclude herself afterward just to get her rampaging emotions under control. Her commanding officer had asked her to take a month off. Humiliating but she had complied meekly.

“You, too,” she managed. “When are you going back to surgery?”

His gaze drifted away. Surprising. He was tall, strong, self-assured to the point of arrogant, but something uncertain crept over his face, a shadow she didn’t understand.

“Not sure,” he said. “Lila’s room is right over there.”

As they rounded the corner, there was a crash, the sound of metal hitting the tile floor. Dan sprinted ahead, and, after a second of paralysis, Angela followed. They burst into the room.

A nurse looked up, startled. She held a roll of gauze in one hand. A vase of flowers had been upended, the white roses lying in a puddle of water on the floor. The bed sheets were tousled.

“What happened?” Dan demanded.

“She freaked out.”

“Lila Brown?’

The woman nodded. “She was asleep. I needed to change her dressing. I woke her. Tried to cheer her up by showing her the flowers. She opened the card and screamed. Grabbed her clothes and ran. Moved so fast I gouged her with the scissors. What’s wrong with that girl?”

“Which way did she go?”

The nurse shrugged. “Dunno.”

Dan charged out into the hallway.

“I’ll go call security,” the nurse said as she left.

Angela was about to follow, when she spotted the tiny white envelope lying half under the bed, the little card next to it.

There was no message on the card.

Blank.

A cold knot formed inside her.

She picked up the envelope. It was empty, she thought at first.

Feeling a subtle bump through the glossy paper, she looked inside.

A snippet of dark hair, fine and silky.

Like a child’s hair, she thought.

A child.

She dropped the envelope and bolted out the door.

* * *

Dan wasn’t sure which direction Lila had headed, but he knew he had to get to her. He ran to the nearest elevator and pressed the button. The light indicated it was on the way down. Lila?

He sprinted for the stairs and raced down to the fourth floor. He was going to keep running, figuring she was headed for the ground floor exit, when he noticed the stairwell door that opened out onto the fourth floor was not completely closed; a white sock on the floor kept it from latching. Bursting through the door, which creaked open with a squeal, he caught the attention of a short, dark-haired woman.

It was Patricia Lane, a surgeon at the hospital. “Patricia?”

“Dr. Blackwater?” The woman goggled. “What are you doing? Is something wrong?”

“I’m looking for a girl who just ran out of her room. I thought maybe she came up here.”

She clicked her pen closed. “I’ve been checking the charts for the past fifteen minutes and I haven’t seen anyone running through except for you.”

He saw no sign of Lila anywhere, just the normal hustle and bustle. An older bearded man appeared at the doorway to his room. He scratched his close-cut beard.

“Can I get some food? I’m hungry.” He rubbed a sleeve under his nose.

The man looked vaguely familiar. Dr. Lane hastened to his side. “Please sit down. I’ll have the nurse bring you something right away.”

The man returned to his room, muttering to himself.

Dr. Lane smiled. “Sometimes we get a wanderer. You know what that’s like.”

“I do.”

But his mind was only on one patient. Lila Brown. He walked the length of the floor and found no sign of her. Perhaps the sock had been a ruse?

Dr. Lane was staring at him. “I told you. She didn’t come here. Don’t you believe me?”

“Of course.” He returned to the stairwell door, mulling it over. The sock was protruding through to the inside, which meant Lila had arrived on the fourth floor and exited back out to the stairs. Could it have been dropped by another visitor or patient? Not likely. Patricia Lane was a stern taskmaster. The nurses and orderlies he’d worked with at the hospital were top-notch, as well.

He walked Patricia to the door and pointed out the sock.

“Strange,” she said. “I can’t imagine how that got there.”

“I’m sure it was Lila,” Dan said. “She opened the door and dropped the sock. She must have gone back out again if you didn’t see her. Is it possible you were engrossed in your work and you missed her?”

Patricia’s lips thinned into a tight line. “I would have noticed. I’m not oblivious to what goes on in my own hospital.”

“I wouldn’t even suggest that.”

Her face was stony, eyes hard and unblinking. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“There must be another explanation,” he said. “Leave the sock there and I’ll get the police on it.”

“Fine. I’ll continue my rounds.” She turned and strode away.

Dan mentally ran through the scenario. Patricia Lane was an excellent doctor with a stellar reputation. She must have been focused on her work and not heard the stairwell door open.

It was the most likely answer. But if she’d been standing at the desk checking charts not five feet from the stairwell door, how could she not have heard it open?

But what reason could Dr. Lane have for lying?

A sudden chill crept down his spine. Careful not to disturb the sock, he headed downstairs to find Angela.

* * *

Angela emerged into the hallway, and a nurse pointed out the direction Dan had taken to the stairs. Angela hurried to the stairwell door. One of them would surely intercept Lila. She intended to ask on each floor as she went if anyone had seen the girl.

She started the plunge down the steps. Her feet echoed oddly in the space. Her chest tightened up as the walls closed in around her in an ugly cement fist.

Keep going. Don’t let the thoughts catch up with you.

Racing down, she was about to exit on the fourth floor, but she heard a murmur of voices from farther down the stairwell. She continued onto the third floor and listened. No further noise. Her imagination?

Pressing on, she found a hospital gown tossed onto the cement. It was still warm to the touch. Lila had taken a few frantic moments to change clothes.

She’s getting out of here for sure. What had scared her so badly that she’d bolt without even taking the time to dress properly? Tension coiled in her gut now like a live serpent, and she continued racing down. Almost to the second floor, she was startled when she heard the door below her open.

“Lila,” she called out. “Wait. Don’t leave.” Now she was taking the steps two at a time, clutching the railing to keep from falling.

Six steps down, a man came into view, standing at the bottom landing, just in front of the exit door.

Harry Gruber.

He smiled.

Her breath caught, heart thundering.

She squashed the surge of panic. You’re not trapped. She could run up and escape through the second-floor door. Stay calm. You’re in control. Her nerves raced as if they had not gotten the message.

“Odd us meeting again,” Gruber said.

She swallowed. Take charge of the situation. “Yes, it is, Mr. Gruber.”

If he was surprised that he’d learned her name, he didn’t show it. “Especially here.” His lips curved in disgust as he gestured. “I hate hospitals, don’t you? Only come when I don’t have any other choice. All those desperate people, hoping to be cured and wondering how they’ll pay for all the pills and procedures. Patients paying for the green fees for the fat-cat doctors. That’s why I started up my clinic.”

He wore khakis and a short-sleeved shirt neatly buttoned, plaid against a pale yellow background. “What are you doing in the stairwell?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same thing.”

The air in the stairwell closed in, her palms went damp, breathing shallow, the familiar sense that her body was about to spin out of control. Don’t give in. She’d decided to go back up, outrun him to the next floor, when she saw a man step out onto the landing above her. Someone to help. She let out a gasping breath.

He looked over the railing at her, unsmiling, black eyes scanning.

“Sir...” she started, moving toward him. Something in the flat expression on his face made her pause. He was a blurred image of Harry, a relative, a brother. He rested his palms on the railing and stared at her.

Something cold slithered up her back. Cut off. No escape. She forced herself to keep breathing and speak calmly. “Is that a friend of yours?”

“My brother, Peter.”

She looked again at Peter, still as granite and just as cold.

Terror ricocheted inside her. Keep talking. Stall until Dan comes. Or another passerby. “Did you see a woman run by here?” she asked Harry.

“A woman?” He laughed. “Women run by me all the time and never even look back.” He pushed open the door and held it for her. “Were you going to exit? Allow me.”

The sunshine flooded through the door, enticing her with the promise of escape. She considered running back up to the second floor and trying to pass Peter, but the exit door was open wide, fresh air only a few feet away. Tantalizing. More than anything else, she desperately wanted to run toward freedom, away from Harry and his brother.

Keeping out of reach, she edged closer, ready to scream for help if Gruber made any move to detain her. He didn’t.

Had she imagined a threat where there wasn’t one?

Sweat dampened her brow. Paranoia? Were Harry Gruber and his brother just two innocent bystanders? Neither one had touched her or uttered so much as a single threat. Doubt flooded in.

As she passed, she noticed something that didn’t belong.

There, against the background of Harry’s neat yellow shirt, was an imprint left by two bloody fingers pressed against his chest.


SIX (#ulink_c2b67633-0e00-56a1-abd5-3d7a86e60074)

Dan had just checked the third floor and entered the stairwell when he heard Angela’s scream. A full-out gallop down the steps brought him to the bottom in moments. He slammed through and found Angela bent over, sucking in deep breaths in the empty parking lot.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, heart pounding. “Are you hurt?”

She stared at him, mute with terror. No visible signs of injury. He gripped her hands. “Purse your lips like you’re blowing out a candle and breathe like that.”

She did, and the hyperventilation began to dissipate. After a few moments, she was able to straighten, still clutching his fingers in hers.

“What happened?”

He saw her throat convulse as she swallowed. “Harry Gruber and his brother were in the stairwell.” She told him about the bloody print on Harry’s shirt. “You must have passed them when you came down.”

“There was no one there. Just a hospital gown left on the steps.”

She gaped, letting go of him. “I just ran by them. They have to be there. Harry and his brother, Peter.”

“I passed no one, Angela,” he said gently.

“Are you saying I’m making this up? That I’m hallucinating or something?” The beginnings of angry tears shone in her eyes.

“Not at all,” he said calmly. “They must have returned to the second floor. Probably took the elevator down to the lobby and left.”

A stroke of calm trickled across her face. “So...you believe me?”

He searched her face for a moment, wishing he could see the tiniest flicker of confidence there. Instead he noted only a desperate need for reassurance. “Yes, I believe you. Something weird is going on at this hospital.”

A little flicker of emotion told her he’d eased her turmoil, at least for a moment. He told her about the sock.

“What is happening in this town?” Angela said.

“I don’t know. I asked a nurse to call the police.” He scanned the parking lot. “Where did Lila go?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I know why she ran. Does Lila have a child?”

“She mentioned a son once.”

“I think someone left a lock of his hair along with the flowers,” she said, face pale. “As a message.”

A tight band fastened itself around his chest. Threats to Lila’s child? Things were growing darker every moment, like a shadow gradually blotting out the sun. “We have to find her. Now. I’m going to drive the nearby streets. Can you...?” He tried for tact. “Do you want to sit down in the lobby and wait for me?”

Her chin went up, a flame kindling in her green eyes. “I can make it to your truck.”

He thought how magnificent she looked. Strong and scared, undefeated even in her terror. Strengthened by God, even if she didn’t feel it. They made it to his truck and checked out all the side streets adjacent to the hospital. No sign of Lila. By the time they made it back to the hospital, Lieutenant Torrey was already there.

He jutted his chin at them. “Talked to the nurse. Lila bolted, huh?”

Dan and Angela filled him in on the hair and the dropped sock, on Harry Gruber’s appearance in the stairwell and his bloodstained shirt.

Torrey’s eyebrows raised a notch higher with each revelation.

“So you’re accusing Gruber of what, exactly?” Torrey said.

“Not accusing him of anything. Just telling you the facts,” Dan said. “He can try and explain the bloody shirt.”

He flicked a glance over Dan’s shoulder. “I guess he can, since he’s standing right over there.”

Angela jerked around. He turned to find Harry Gruber striding over, an affable smile on his face, a khaki jacket zipped to his chest.

“Is there a problem, Max?” Gruber said.

Max. The two were tight.

Lieutenant Torrey did not return the smile. “Seems we’ve had a patient fly the coop. Ms. Gallagher says you had contact with the woman as she fled. Lila Brown. Did you and your brother encounter her in the stairwell a half hour ago?”

“Me?” He laughed. “I’ve been waiting to visit Lila. The doctor was in with her when I arrived. Always waiting in these hospitals. Doctors don’t value anyone’s time but their own.” He flicked a look at Dan. “Haven’t been near the stairwell. My brother is at the clinic. I just called him. It’s been crazy busy, but we’re going to try and squeeze in a little fishing time. There’s a perch with my name on it out there—I can feel it.” He held out his cell phone. “Call him if you’d like.”

“You’re lying,” Angela said.

A hurt expression crossed his face. “Hey, now. I don’t know how we got off on the wrong foot, since I hardly know you, but calling me a liar?”

“Take off your jacket,” Angela commanded. “There was blood on your shirt. Lila’s blood. You can’t lie about that.”

Harry frowned, flicking a glance at Torrey. “I’m just a truck driver, but I’m fairly certain I don’t have to comply. Do I?”

Torrey shifted. “Maybe not technically, but what’s it going to hurt, taking off your jacket?”

“Unless I have something to hide,” Gruber finished, eyes hard as wet stones.

“No offense intended.”

“Well, I am offended,” Gruber said. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Dan stared down at the shorter man. “Like he said, what’s it going to hurt, Mr. Gruber? Put the whole situation to rest right here.” There was a challenge in his tone, and Gruber did not miss it.

“We’ve always been colleagues, I thought. You work at my clinic, Dan, and this is as far as your loyalty goes?”

“Your clinic does good work for many people, and I am pleased to be a part of that. This is a different issue.”

“You’re not pleased,” Harry hissed. “It strokes your ego, working with the down-and-out. The brilliant surgeon walks among the lowly masses, doling out free care for which you charge exorbitant prices in your hospital setting. Feeds your God complex, doesn’t it?”

Dan refused the bait. “Open your jacket, unless you’ve got some reason to refuse to comply.”

“Refuse to comply,” Gruber said, shaking his head. Anger coiled in his voice. “Lofty words. I guess I never really saw you clearly before, Dr. Blackwater.”

I guess I made the same mistake, Dan thought. He’d taken Gruber at face value, a genial guy, generous, a philanthropist, a salt-of-the-earth type who loved tacos and fishing trips.

“On his shirt,” Angela insisted, “there are bloody fingerprints where Lila must have touched him. He took her, maybe abducted her.”

Harry waved a hand. “Hang on just a minute. Before I am accused of everything since the Hindenburg explosion, let me clear my name.” He yanked down the zipper of his jacket.

Angela’s expression went slack with shock.

Instead of a yellow shirt, Gruber now wore a tee with “Gruber and Gruber Trucking” emblazoned on the front.

The shirt was a blinding white, clean as a rain-washed beach.

* * *

There was no way what Angela was seeing could be true. Her reeling mind could hardly take it in. “He changed shirts.”

Gruber sighed. “Think what you want. Look, Lieutenant Torrey, I hope Lila is all right. She’s a great employee, the patients at the clinic love her and my brother, Peter, thinks she’s the bee’s knees. If she’s in trouble, I’ll help you and her any way I can, but I didn’t see her in the stairwell. And this lady—” he shot a disdainful look at Angela “—is obviously too distraught to be of much help.”

“The lock of hair,” Angela said, wishing she had taken it from Lila’s room. “In the florist’s card. That proves that someone was trying to scare Lila by threatening her son.”

Gruber arched an eyebrow. “And I suppose that’s to be laid at my doorstep, too? I’ve been nothing but kind to Lila, helping her finish dental hygiene school so she could support the kid. She’ll tell you the same thing once you find her.” He chuckled. “Besides, I really don’t have the time to be a criminal mastermind. I’ve got a trucking company to run and two grandkids to spoil.”

“Mr. Gruber, I am sorry to have bothered you,” Torrey said. “I’ll contact you if we have further questions.”

Gruber nodded and strode away, whistling.

“He’s lying,” Angela insisted.

Torrey rubbed a hand over his fleshy cheeks. “Right now I have nothing that proves anything happened other than Lila decided to check herself out. You two need to come with me to Lila’s room and we’ll see about this card you say you found.”

You say you found. Torrey thought she was lying. Or crazy.

Was she? Or was Torrey involved in whatever had just happened? He was on a first-name basis with Gruber. Her palms grew cold and sweaty as they headed to the elevator. As they passed each floor she worked on breathing, trying to calm her rattling nerves. Dan’s arm slid around her.

She wanted to push away, but she desperately needed that grounding touch. She shot a look at him.

He winked. A silly gesture that reassured her more than a volume of words. He believed her. He knew she was not crazy. Dan Blackwater was standing with her. She was not alone, at least in this.




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