‘Then get into your fancy car and leave,’ Drake said irritably.
‘I can’t. He took my purse – my wallet, my keys . . . everything. Told me that if he caught me trying to escape, he’d beat me within an inch of my life. I believe him. You have to come. I might be able to sneak out through the servants’ door, but I won’t get far. You have to come pick me up.’
‘In what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Stephanie snapped. ‘Figure it out. Just do it fast or it won’t matter. If he makes me hurt enough, I might just tell him what he wants to know. Somehow I think that’ll hurt you more than me.’
Drake’s eyes narrowed at the girl’s sudden spine. He hated spine. He thought he’d trained it out of Stephanie, but obviously he’d been wrong. He wanted to tell her to go ahead, tell her father everything. It wasn’t like her old man could call the cops or anything. He considered telling her to shove her rich head up her rich ass, that he was going to out her father for the cheating sonofabitch he really was.
But it would be easier just to pick Stephanie up, put a bullet in her head and dump her body in the river. Less fuss all the way around.
‘Okay,’ he said quietly, going along with her for the moment. ‘My sister has a Honda Civic. It’s white. Watch for it. I’ll text you when I’m two minutes away, okay?’
‘Okay.’ A shuddering exhale. ‘Thank you, Drake.’
‘No worries. Just stay out of dear old Dad’s sight until I can come get you.’
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 9.15 A.M.
Scarlett pushed through the exit from CPD, dragging in a breath of air that was already hot and humid. She paused on the sidewalk, waiting for Deacon to catch up. Neither of them had said much since leaving Vince’s domain, each caught up in their own thoughts.
Malaya is a baby. Tala’s baby. And she was out there somewhere, hopefully not alone. Hopefully with someone who would take care of her, make sure she was fed. And safe.
But the reality of the child’s situation had hit Scarlett hard as she’d stood staring at that pacifier. Tala had been beaten severely. Held captive. Owned. She’d still been nursing, so her baby must have still lived with her. Help Malaya.
The panic Tala must have felt became Scarlett’s and, chest too tight to breathe, she’d rushed out of CSU, chased by a wave of hot tears that she couldn’t let anyone else see.
She gulped more of the humid air, her throat still painfully thick. No wonder Tala had taken such a risk to see Marcus last night. Her baby wasn’t safe.
Please God, let that baby be safe.
Scarlett’s shoulders stiffened, abruptly aware that she’d whispered a prayer, if only in the privacy of her own mind. She didn’t pray. Hadn’t prayed in ten years. That she’d just done so meant only that she was exhausted, not that she actually expected the whispered entreaty to do a bit of good. She’d stopped believing in Santa and the Easter Bunny when she was five. She’d stopped believing in prayer ten years ago, when she’d stood over the mutilated body of her best friend.
But at least the shock of hearing herself pray had knocked her out of the thick fog of panic that had seized her chest in a white-knuckled grip. She drew another deep breath, shuddered it out. What the hell is wrong with you today, Scarlett? She’d been on an emotional roller coaster since the ringing of her phone had yanked her out of sleep. Since Marcus’s voice had rolled over her, waking her up.
Waking up a lot of things, she thought darkly, thinking of the way her body had responded when she’d seen him standing there in that alley. Too damn many things.
Of course Bryan’s visit hadn’t helped, layering regret and guilt on top of her disappointment, then whipping up the fury within her that never seemed to cool. Dredging up the memories that still had the power to trap her in a nightmare, wake her up screaming.
That was why she was so emotional. This roller coaster of feelings had been triggered by remembering Michelle – finding her body, watching her killer go free to live his life. To become a goddamn defense attorney. That would drive anyone crazy. And who wouldn’t be upset at the thought of a defenseless baby in the hands of someone capable of administering a beating like Tala had received? To not be moved would make a person a monster. The lump in her throat had almost nothing to do with Marcus O’Bannion. Or his voice, or his face, and especially not his chest without his shirt . . .
Yeah, girl, you go on telling yourself that if it makes you feel better. Which it did. It also helped her clear her mind so that she could concentrate on doing her job. On finding that baby before it was too late.
Willing her hands not to tremble, she checked her phone for new messages, emails or voicemails, finding a number of all three. But not one of them from Marcus O’Bannion. He still hadn’t returned any of her calls, nor had he sent her the damn list of threats.
You don’t need the list, she told herself, knowing that what she really needed was for him to have kept his promise. What was he hiding? Or . . . Her gut tightened as a new worry presented itself. Was it possible that whoever had shot Tala had realized Marcus was still alive and come back to finish the job?
It had been hours since Tala’s body had been taken to the morgue. It had to have hit the newsfeeds by now. She did a quick Internet search, and seconds later her phone screen was full of hits. Clicking on the first link, she felt the breath seep from her lungs in the weariest of sighs. It was the Ledger’s website, the headline cleverly spinning the tragedy to focus on Marcus. Local philanthropist shot attempting to save woman’s life, by Stone O’Bannion. The article had been posted online only minutes before.
Now she knew what had kept Marcus so busy that he hadn’t been able to send her that damn list. Or return her calls. Well at least he’s not dead, she thought bitterly.
The story was true. All the facts were there. And even though the byline was Stone’s, the voice she heard in her mind as she skimmed the article was Marcus’s. It included what she’d told him he could, leaving out what she’d requested he hold back. He hadn’t disclosed that he’d seen her in the park or that he’d heard – and recorded – her last words. He made it sound like he’d happened upon her as she lay dying and that he’d been shot while giving first aid. By the end of the article, Marcus had somehow diverted the readers’ attention away from the fact that he’d been in the alley to begin with, making it clear that he was nothing but an innocent bystander, a Good Samaritan shot in the back for his efforts.
I make my living digging for news. At least he hadn’t lied about that. He’d told her he would print the story. But it didn’t change the raw burn of anger in her gut, irrational yet undeniable. Before her, in black and white, was the stark reminder that, no matter how much she wished for him to be different, the real Marcus was not the man she wanted him to be. When all was said and done, he was still a reporter. A man who made his living off the misery of others.
She heard the main door open and close behind her. A few seconds later, Deacon came to an ambling halt at her side. ‘You okay, Scar?’
The concern in his voice sent another wave of emotion crashing into her, the sudden stinging in her eyes making her slam them shut. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she gritted out, her voice harsh and gravelly. Barely recognizable as her own. ‘Just because I took off like an insane bat out of hell?’ She clenched her jaw to keep the tears at bay. She would not cry. She would not. ‘Shit,’ she added in a mutter. ‘It’s just hormones. Ignore me.’
Deacon lightly bumped his shoulder against hers, a silent gesture of support. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about the tracker capability.’
She swallowed the lump in her throat, surreptitiously wiping her eyes to clear them before meeting Deacon’s gaze. His bi-colored eyes no longer bothered her, but the compassion she saw in them now did. Another wave of emotion threatened to pull her under. She looked away, focused on the traffic crawling by. ‘Okay. What about the tracker?’