“Police Chief Lance Pierson said… “
Brian sat on the park bench that Sunday afternoon, listening to the news on a handheld radio, awestruck.
That bastard Driscoll was dead.
Brian couldn’t feel an ounce of remorse for the asshole who’d framed him for that girl’s murder. He deserved to die, though Brian would have liked to see how Driscoll would have fared in prison.
At least that was one loose end tied up. He’d seriously considered offing Driscoll as repayment for stealing thirty-four years of his life.
He looked up at the house. Her house.
She hadn’t come home yet, but that was okay. The two days he’d had since arriving in Virginia gave him time to plan. Not only how to kill the bitch who’d helped imprison him, but to figure out where he would go once she was dead.
Canada was relatively close, but he’d be better able to lose himself in Mexico. Cheaper to live there, too. And he had street smarts. It’d be easier to make it in Mexico. Not to mention it snowed in Canada. He hated the cold.
The whole thing was making him nervous. Not so much killing Olivia St. Martin, but being responsible for his own life. In prison, he didn’t have to think about earning money to eat, paying rent, or working.
He’d realized much too late that he should have waited to kill the cop and prosecutor until after he got his restitution money. He’d been mentally berating himself for the past two days.
A million dollars, thrown away, just like that. Gone. There was no way he could go back to California now; he’d made too many mistakes. For one, he’d used the same gun on both men. What was he thinking?
He hadn’t been thinking. The story of his fucking life, right? The reason Driscoll got away with framing him. Brian should have thought about who else could have killed that girl. If the cops had asked the questions the Seattle cop had asked, Brian would have figured out about Driscoll years ago.
One last debt to pay and he would truly be free. But while freedom was alluring, he’d begun to miss the structure and security he had in prison.
A fancy car pulled into St. Martin’s driveway. Brian shut off the radio and pretended to read the book he held while he watched a tall, skinny guy walk up to the front door with two bags of groceries in his arms.
This was it. His chance to get inside the house.
He crossed the street and approached the house. He hadn’t broken in when he’d first staked out the place yesterday morning because of the alarm system, but this guy entered and so must know the code.
Would he have locked the door? Brian hoped not. He didn’t want to kill the guy, but he’d do what he had to do.
Cautiously, he tried the front door. Unlocked. He glanced from left to right to make sure no one was watching him. The houses were set far apart, and with the park directly across the street, Brian felt safe enough to enter.
He listened in the doorway. His heart skipped a beat at the sound of rustling in the kitchen down the hall.
Directly in front of him was a staircase. The bedrooms would most likely be upstairs, but he’d inspect the entire house once the guy in the kitchen left. Find the best place to hide. Where she would least expect him.
Walking as silently as possible up the staircase, Brian Hall finished forming his plan.
He’d wait until Olivia St. Martin came home.
Then he’d kill her.
CHAPTER 34
Zack stayed the night, and early Monday morning he joined Olivia for a light breakfast with Quinn and Miranda Peterson.
“I’ll take you to the airport,” Zack said.
“I can’t let you do that,” Quinn said.
“Excuse me?” Zack glared at him. What was Quinn’s problem?
“She’s under federal protection; I’m flying out with her.”
Zack looked from Quinn to Olivia and said slowly, “What’s going on?”
“Oh,” Quinn said. “Miranda, I think we should step out of the room.”
“What’s going on?” Zack repeated as the Petersons left.
“I didn’t think to tell you-I’m sorry. It’s Hall.”
“Hall?”
“The police believe he killed two men involved with his prosecution in California. They think he’s coming after me.”
“Shit, Olivia!” He slammed his fist down. “You’ve been threatened and you didn’t tell me?”
“This all just happened. We don’t know where he is-he could have fled the country. His car was found at the San Francisco airport. It’s just-the FBI profiler believes he is seeking vengeance for being incarcerated. Hamilton, Gary Porter, now me. Federal protection is just a precaution. Hall has hardly any money, he has a record, and his photograph and description has been disseminated to all law enforcement agencies. It’s only a matter of time before he’s caught.”
“Before or after he tries to kill you?”
Zack yanked her from her chair. She was startled, but he didn’t care. “In the last seventy-two hours, you almost fell to your death in the Cascades, you were held hostage by a serial killer, and now a suspected murderer might be after you for revenge? And you think I’m letting you out of my sight for one minute?”
“I-”
He kissed her. Full on, open mouth. He pulled back, his heart racing.
“I don’t care what Quinn Peterson ends up doing, but where you go, I go, federal protection or not.”
By the time they reached Virginia, it was after six in the evening. Agent Tim Daly greeted them at the airport and took over from Quinn; Zack seemed to take the situation in stride. Daly drove them to Olivia’s small but elegant two-story house in Fairfax.
Olivia was embarrassed showing Zack her home. While the house was stylish, and the furniture expensive, it was empty. Barren. It wasn’t a home-it had no living plants, no photographs, nothing that said a content, fulfilled human being lived there. Even her bookshelves were tidy with a few, mostly decorative, books. The manuals she used for work were in her office. Model homes in new housing developments had more personality than Olivia’s, though she’d lived here for three years.
Agent Daly walked through the house. “Okay, the house is secure,” he said as he came down the stairs. “Director Stockton said to take it easy today, but plan on being at the lab tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred for debriefing.”
“Director Stockton?” Zack questioned.
“He’s in charge of the FBI laboratory,” Olivia explained, though she felt uncomfortable bringing it up with Zack. They hadn’t really talked about what she did for the FBI.
“Coffee, Tim?” she asked.
“That would be great, Dr. St. Martin.”
“It’ll just take a couple of minutes.”
“Don’t rush,” he said, and sat down.
She walked down the short hall to the kitchen and started coffee. Then she noticed the note on the refrigerator.
She frowned, until she recognized the small, perfect block letters on the front. Greg.
She opened the note and read it.
“What’s that?” Zack asked.
“A note from Greg.”
“Your ex-husband Greg?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “He brought over some groceries yesterday when Rick told him I was coming back.”
“He has a key to your house?”
Olivia looked at Zack. The tone of his voice was odd-but his face was blank.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“This is the same Greg who ran DNA tests off-hours and who knew what you were doing from the beginning?”
“I explained that,” she said slowly. She’d thought they’d gotten beyond her lie.
Suddenly, she felt extremely weary and sank down into a chair, her head in her hands. “I can’t live like this.”
“Like what?”
“With you doubting and questioning me.”