SHELBY (Second Chance Novels Book 4) (10 page)

I arrive at the safe house Saturday morning just in time to see Shelby emerge from her room with dark shadows under her eyes. Apparently I'm not the only one who lost sleep last night.

"Good morning," I say cautiously.

Shelby meets my eyes but has no words. Her brain seems devoid of function. I pour myself a cup of coffee and hand her one, as well. She takes it silently and sips at the kitchen table. A few minutes pass in silence before she says anything at all.

"This has to do with the National Gallery," she says. "That code was completely off."

I nod. "You found evidence of an upcoming heist. A high-end thief hacked their system before you did. We finally had an identity, and you found the evidence to nail him. He's in lock-up right now and facing real jail time."

"Jesus," she shakes her head.
 

"He hired that hitman, but you're safe here," I tell her. I explain all the protocols which go into hiding a witness, along with the multiple layers of protection we use to secure each protocol. She listens, appearing again overwhelmed.

"How long will I be stuck here?"

"The prosecutor is working hard to fast-track the trial. We're hoping not more than a month."

"A MONTH?!" she asks, her eyes suddenly sharp.

"It could be a lot worse," I try to explain, but Shelby can't see beyond her own circumstance, like every other witness I've secured.

She looks around the house and her entire personality drains. I've seen this before, but this is the first time my heart breaks.

"Do you have any clothes for me?" she asks blankly, wearing the only outfit we have here for her: a t-shirt and sweatpants.

"We can't go to your house to get yours," I tell her. "The men after you are most likely watching. Rankin is shopping for you now."

She sighs.
 

"Don't worry. He's done this before. He knows your size and will get you some basics. Witnesses usually opt for
comfortable
, so expect more sweats."

"Tell him I like yoga pants," she says, then her eyes flicker up to mine. "Jesus, is he buying my underwear?"

I grimace at her tone. "Like I said, he's done this before. Don't even think about it. He won't be."

She sighs again. "Then tell him just to buy me panties and some camis. I don't need him fondling my damn bras. Can I have a computer?"

I look at her in annoyance. "Not a chance."

She frowns and sips her coffee again.
 

Not much else is said until Rankin comes back with a few shopping bags. He walks them directly to her room.

"Let me give you the tour," I tell her as I stand. She obediently follows, still half-seeming like a zombie.
 

I show her around the house and point out the multiple safety features we installed. We gave her the master bedroom, complete with her own shower and over-sized tub. "Towels are in that cupboard. We stocked the bathroom with some basic supplies, but Rankin can buy whatever else you need."

"Right," she says. "My own personal shopper."

"This is also a safe room. We reinforced the doors and walls, even the ceiling. In the unlikely event anyone breaches, you sprint to this room."

"Ok," she says in quiet disbelief of her situation. I've seen this before, too.

The entire rest of the day is spent rather quietly. Shelby watches some random tv shows but doesn't seem to be paying any attention. I wait for any cue she's ready for conversation, but none comes until Sunday afternoon.
 

She furrows her brow.

"Ok then. If I can't have my computer, I need more than a tv and crappy magazines. Can I get a Kindle at least? You can load it up somewhere else and keep the wifi offline. I can give you a list of books."

"Yeah, I can do that." We don't have the budget for things like e-readers, but I'll buy her the damn Kindle myself if it will help her sanity. "Give me a list of books and I'll get one as soon as I can. Are there any magazines you think aren't crappy?"

"No," she says before she walks to her room again. This time I follow her.

"Look, I know you hate being stuck. I know this will be a strain, but people survive it. I'll make sure you don't go insane."

"Right. Got any vodka?"

I actually roll my eyes at her before I leave her alone. Shaw was right. She's going to be a handful.
 

By Tuesday she has a Kindle in her hand. She doesn't seem
happy
, exactly, but somehow relieved to have a form of escape. Her demeanor shifts slightly as she settles into her new reality. She even introduces herself to my team.

The rest of the first full week of witness protection involves three basic elements: Shelby starts flirting with everyone, breathes boredom-based sighs of frustration, and reads her Kindle. Every once in a while we can get her into a card game, but she remains in her frustrated shell much of her time.
 

The second week of protective custody is marked with those same three elements, along with Shelby getting to know each of her protectors. She begins hints of conversation, usually flirtatiously, but she speaks to the men nonetheless. I would take her newly-open behavior as a positive sign if not for all the flirting. She's even taken to walking around with her tight cami shirts, showing off her perfect breasts and lack of a bra. She's damn sexy, and my men would have to be blind not to notice. The jealous streak in me wishes they
were
blind.
 

Her self-destructive streak won't take leave, and any words I speak on the subject are met with glares and increased flirting with everyone else, including the goddamn pencil-neck assistant prosecutor. Her attitude has returned in full force.

"My men don't need the distraction," I say to her.

"If they're so good at their jobs," she snarks, "then nothing will distract them and I'm free to be me."

"Except this isn't
you
," I try to argue.

"And what the fuck do you know about me? Do you think all our
special little talks
at the bar gave you any insight? You're not as smart as you think you are."

I grit my teeth in frustration with her bravado and attitude, but I remind myself of her constant inability to deal with her issues. I'm not sure if I'll ever give up on her, but she makes the attempt to take care of her more difficult than it needs to be.

"Fine," I respond every time, usually followed by a flat, "What do you want for lunch?"

By the third week, however, Shelby gets worse. She openly tries to hang on any man in the vicinity and asks too many personal questions to each. For the most part, my men handle her with stoic determination, but she's good at drawing people out. I remember seeing her gain peoples' attention before, both through flirtations and also in concern of her friends. I know there is still good in her, and seeing her continue to fall makes me more resolved to help her. Rescuing people has been my personal goal for a long time. Simply spoken, though, I have no idea how to do so for Shelby. Not while we're stuck here, anyway.
 

The end of week three, however, shows the strain of isolation. Shelby becomes little more than an empty vessel, making me almost miss watching her try to corrupt my team.
Hollow
seems worse. Her mood shifts with every sunrise, and I don't know how much more of this she can take.

Monday morning I find her at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in her hand. I pour myself a mug and sit down at the table with her.

"Can I have my computer?" she asks again in an empty voice.
 

"No," I answer yet again. "Not ever while you're here."

She furrows her brow in a frustrated scowl. We sip our coffee, and our moment of connection is broken. Her head is too full of her negativity to stay connected, and I wish I could change that. She doesn't have to live like this, and frankly I'm sick of seeing her wallow.
 

"Come on," I say, finally ready to force her to deal with her shit, whether she's ready or not. I stand up and reach for her hand. "Enough. You need an attitude adjustment,
before
the prosecutor gets here today."

She's obviously surprised by my tone, but all she does is roll her eyes. "There's nowhere to go, Dade."

I remain with my hand reaching for her, refusing to let her off easily anymore.

"Where do you think you're going to take me? The living room? What's the point?"

Her voice moves from hollow to annoyed, and I hold steady in my position.

"Put your damn hand down!" she scowls at me with angry annoyance in her voice. I quirk my eyebrow at her. I can see by her face this is escalating, but maybe a fight is what she needs. If I can turn her depression into anger, at least she'll have fire.
 

"What the hell is wrong with you!" she shouts.
 

"Enough," I snap. "Let's go."

"WHERE THE FUCK CAN WE GO?" She stands and gets in my face. "You've made it clear I'm trapped here!"

"Damn it Shelby, will you just allow me to help you? At least once?" I say louder, unable to keep completely calm.
 

"A lot of fucking help you've been, Dade," she grits out.
 

"Quit hating everything
for one damn minute
," I bite at her. "Now take my damn hand, and let's go."

By this time Rankin is watching from the doorway, surely wondering what the hell I'm talking about. He knows better than to think I'd take her out of the house, but he's keeping an eye out for any potential complications. Smart guy. Probably smarter than I am right now.

Shelby huffs tries to push my hand down. I grab her wrist and hold on anyway. I drag her through the kitchen, past the entertainment center, and down the hallway, stopping at the end. She looks at me like I'm crazy, but I don't care. She needs somewhere to go that's fresh, untainted, and away from the buzzing of security around her. I reach up and grab a small rope from the ceiling and pull down a staircase, leading us toward neutral ground.
 

Her feet reluctantly follow her arm as I drag her up the steps.
 

"An attic?" she looks around, all attitude. "This is your big destination? A goddamn
attic
?"

"Welcome to Oz, Dorothy," I say, matching her attitude and throwing my arms out to the side. "This is it. This is your vacation property. Now sit your skinny ass down and talk to me. I'm worried about you, got it? You need to drop your fucking attitude before you lose the only person here who can still tolerate you."

She crosses her arms and tosses her hip out in a gesture of total annoyance. "Drop the act, Dade. I know it's your job to keep me safe so you can use me for your trial. You don't have to pretend you care beyond that."

I drop my shoulders in frustration, but I force my voice to calm. "Shelby, I know you don't trust me, and I know exactly why, but consider it this way: I spend more time than I have to making sure you're safe. I haven't used you yet, and I won't. Hell, you could rely on me even before you knew me, and that won't change. I don't need you to believe me for it to be true. Whenever you accept that fact, you'll have a little more peace. Now please, will you talk to me? Tell me what you're feeling about being in protective custody. Tell me what this is doing to you. Tell me if you're scared.
Just let something out
."

Her face remains a stony mask of anger, but her shoulders lose tension, and her fists ease. We stare each other down, and I offer her a focused gaze.

"I don't want to talk about it,
Marshal Roarke
," she says, making an obvious effort to keep her attitude. "Especially not to you."

"You think I don't know that? But it's my job to take care of you, and you're being eaten alive from the inside out, and you've got to release some of that pressure. You need to talk to someone. You let yourself confide in me before. I'm still me."

Shelby shakes her head and closes her eyes. "No you're not."

"I've always been a U.S. Marshal looking out for you, one who genuinely cares. I'm the same. Only your understanding of who I am has changed. That's all."

She sighs and slumps as she sits on the floor. I stand silently, waiting for her response. She shakes her head a few times as if trying to clear her thoughts, then she utters one weak sentence. "It's not that simple."

"When it comes to the man I am, Shelby, yes it is."
 

I sit down, keeping my place across from her, and wait patiently for her to acclimate to my logic. She's weighing the possibility she can trust me. After at least a full minute of silence, she finally peeks through her curtain of solitude. "This is so fucked up, Dade. How could I be a threat to these people if I don't know who they are? I closed out my hack as soon as I realized what I might be looking at in that string of code. I didn't get far enough to discover anything important."

"I believe you," I tell her honestly.
 

"I swear, it's like anything that can go wrong, does."

Enough is enough.
 

"God, would you quit whining?" I finally say. "Situations suck, and you've made a lot of stupid decisions— don't look at me like that. You know you have. But now it's time to look forward."