Connor returned and filled her in. “We need to do a debriefing at the precinct, give a statement and all that fun stuff. Then I’m going to stop by the café and ask a few questions.” He brushed her hair back from her eyes. “After that, I’m taking you out for dinner.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
Samantha shot him a look that said “Shut up.” Out loud she declared, “I’m fine. A little weak from the ebb of adrenalin, but fine. We need to catch this guy, and if he’s using this place to do it, I want to know.”
Connor shook his head. Stubborn woman. Admirable too. With his right hand, he pushed open the glass door and inhaled. Coffee, lattes, and cinnamon bread wafted up to greet him. His stomach rumbled in response. “We might not make it to dinner somewhere else.”
“I thought you just finished lunch at your mother’s.”
“I did, but all that anxiety and gut-wrenching fear you just put me through ate through every single calorie I consumed at her house.” He saw Samantha shudder at the mention of gutwrenching fear.
She rubbed her stomach. “I still feel a little nauseous from all that. I’ve lost what little appetite I had. But you feel free to grab something if you want. Do you have the list of days and date stamps I gave you?”
Connor pulled it out and waved it at her. “Right here. Let’s go figure this out.”
Samantha began questioning the workers. Connor took care of management. After an hour with no real luck, Connor wanted to howl his frustration.
“Hey, Connor, come here.”
He looked up to see Samantha standing next to a uniformed worker. “What is it?”
“This is Ken. I’ve been asking him about the regulars. This is a wi-fi café so people are in and out all the time with their laptops. But he said there was one guy who comes in all the time. Stays a couple of hours, then leaves.”
Connor’s eyes sharpened, zeroed in on the young man. “Can you describe him?”
“Not really. He had on a ball cap most of the time. But he had kind of dirty blond hair that was curly. Long, like he needed a haircut. And he wore sunglasses a lot. Didn’t talk to people much. I don’t really know why I noticed him. He didn’t really stand out, just seemed very—intense, I guess is the word.”
“Try and help me out a little more. What about his age?”
“Um . . . maybe early to mid thirties?”
“Any scars? Tattoos? When was he last here?”
“No, he didn’t have anything like that, and he was here, um . . . I think a couple of days ago.”
“Did he make any phone calls? Or just sit in the booth?”
“He just sat there on his computer. No phone calls that I remember. But I mean, I wasn’t really paying any attention to him. I was working.”
“What about when he left? Did he get in a car? Did you see what direction he went?”
“No, sorry. I don’t even really remember him leaving.”
“Does he come here at a particular time during the day?”
“No.” The guy shook his head. “Sometimes it’s in the morning, sometimes evening up until we close. He doesn’t have, like, a pattern, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Do you mind coming down and talking to a sketch artist?”
“I guess not. Can it wait until my shift ends?”
Connor pursed his lips. “I’d rather not. We need this information pronto. A girl’s life might depend on it, okay?”
“Sure, but will you explain it to my boss?”
“Absolutely.”
Ten minutes later, with the young man on his way down to meet the sketch artist, Connor turned to Samantha. “There’s really no way to track the guy from here, is there?”
“Not a chance, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I’ll get someone to stake this place out over the next several days and see if anyone with our description shows up. If so, we can nab him.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Disappointed, Connor led Samantha to his car. “I didn’t eat. Where do you want to go for dinner?”
Spending time with Samantha reinforced the fact that his feelings for her weren’t just a flash in the pan. The fear he’d felt today when she’d called asking for a bomb squad, seeing her silhouette behind the wheel of a car that could explode at any given moment, the knee-weakening relief when he realized she was going to be okay, all combined to send a dizzying rush of emotions through him.
He grabbed a soft drink from the refrigerator and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. His parents were still out with friends, Jenna was in her room studying. Or at least she was supposed to be. Who knew what she was really doing.
He’d knocked on her door to let her know he was home, and she’d given him the brush-off. Studying. Yeah. Right. On a Friday night. He could only hope.
Samantha had been quiet at dinner, still processing the events of the day. She’d withdrawn into her thoughts, not yet ready to talk about what she was feeling. That was all right. Connor could relate.
Ah, Andrew, I wish you were here.
He stared at his soft drink and almost wished he were the type to use alcohol to dull the pain. But he wasn’t. Had seen the effects on too many people to believe drowning his sorrows was the way to go.
The knock on the door startled him. He glanced at the clock on the microwave: 9:36. Who could that be? Was Jenna expecting someone? No, not this late.
Caution reared its head. Too many incidents had happened in the last week for him to just answer the door without taking care. Of course, the person wouldn’t exactly knock on his door if he was going to kill him. Would he?
Paranoid’s better than being dead.
His hand went to the gun at his waist and unclipped the strap that held it in place. Tension invaded him, bunching the muscles at the base of his neck. With a soft tread, he made his way to the front door and glanced out the full-length side window.
Angie? The tension seeped away leaving that aching, nagging, breath-stealing hole in the vicinity of his heart. Hiding his initial shock, he opened the door. “Hello, Angie.”
“Connor.”
He stood there a moment, staring. A thousand memories flashed through his mind. Angie and Andrew. He and Jenna. Fun times, hard times. And the funeral. He cleared his throat. “Um . . . sorry, come on in.”
“Thanks.” She carried a small bag in her left hand. Stepping over the threshold, she walked straight into the den area.
Connor followed. “How’ve you been?”
She plopped onto the sofa. “Lousy. How about you?”
“Yeah. The same.” He lowered himself to the edge of the recliner.
She gave a small sad smile. “But God is good. He’ll get me through this.” She sent him a knowing look. “He’d get you through it too, if you’d let him.”
Connor shrugged. “Maybe.”
She raised a brow and he knew he’d shocked her that he hadn’t outright negated the idea of God helping him. She didn’t address it.
Instead, she sighed and leaned back. “I’m sorry it’s so late. I’ve been meaning to come by, but we’ve been . . . tying things up. Fortunately, Andrew knew his . . . death—” she bit her lip and closed her eyes, then sucked in a deep breath, blowing it out slowly—“that his death was a real possibility and was prepared. Everything was in order. He left some things for you.”
Connor’s throat clogged. He stood, walked to the window, and stared out into the night. “I don’t want any
thing
. I want Andrew back.”
He heard her breath hitch on a sob and the familiar feeling of guilt stabbed him. He wasn’t making this any easier for her.
Crossing to her, he settled on the couch beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Aw, Angie, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I want to make it better and I can’t.”
She leaned into his embrace for a minute, then pulled back with a sniff. “I know, Connor. It’s not your fault. None of it is. Andrew should have had his vest on, but he just . . . walked out without it that morning. I’m not even sure why. He just . . . did. And to be honest, it wouldn’t have mattered if he had it on. That bullet would have gone right through it. Maybe Andrew just figured, why bother?”
“Andrew marched to his own drummer, did things his way, the way he wanted to.”
“Yeah.” Angie nodded. “Which is why he left you this.” She rummaged in the bag. When she pulled her hand out, she had her fingers curled around into a fist which she held out toward Connor. “Here.”
Confused, he held his hand out. Angie unfurled her fingers and dropped a key into his palm.
Grief nearly doubled him over. “Angie, no . . . I can’t . . . it was just a joke . . . I . . . I . . . no . . .”
Her fingers stilled his lips. “It’s fully paid for and all the paperwork is in the glove compartment. Along with something else he wanted you to have.”
His throat worked, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t make his lips form the words.
Angie’s hand covering his jolted him. He lifted his gaze from the key to meet her eyes, not caring if she saw his own were filled with tears.
“I miss him,” he whispered. “And I feel so selfish saying that, because I know your heart’s been ripped out too.”
Finally, she let the tears swimming in her eyes fall to drip a salty path down her cheeks. And Connor couldn’t hold his back anymore either. Giving in, he touched his forehead to hers, his best friend’s wife, and joined her in shared grief for the man they’d both loved and lost.
Hidden on the steps, Jenna turned from the scene in her den to climb back up. She’d heard the knock on the door and thought it might be Patty. Coming downstairs to investigate, she’d heard Angie’s voice and stopped to listen. Now, she wished she hadn’t eavesdropped. Her dad’s grief reached out to her all the way across the room.
Tears blurring her vision, and constricting her breathing, she entered her room and shut the door with a faint click. Her dad was really hurting. Wow. She’d known he was mad, furious with the man who’d shot Andrew, but the raw grief she’d just seen threw her. Of course, she’d known her dad was upset, grieving, but she hadn’t realized exactly how
bad
he was hurting. And to see him actually cry . . .
Wow.
She slumped on her bed, wishing she could share his heartache. Just like she wished she could have poured out all of her grief on his strong shoulder after her mother died. All this pain. Would it ever end?
What if she ended it herself? Killed herself? It wasn’t the first time she’d thought about it.
What would happen to her? Did she really have a soul? Did she believe all that stuff about heaven and hell? About a God who cared about her? Her grandparents did. Her grandmother was always reading the Bible, trying to get Jenna to listen to her, to make right decisions, she said, that would affect the rest of her life.
If she killed herself, that would certainly impact the rest of her life. Too afraid to think along those lines very long, she stuffed the hurt down deep and pressed the power button on her computer.
Sighing, she grabbed her cell phone off the dresser and sent a text to 2COOL asking him if he could talk. While waiting for his reply, she pulled open the drawer of her nightstand. The envelope sitting there mocked her. Addressed to her, it held ten one-hundred-dollar bills.
One thousand dollars. She felt so . . . grown up. Yet, sneaky too, even though she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She’d already sent in her medical records and gone to have the physical at that doctor’s office. And they paid her just for signing a contract saying she’d be available for whatever gig came up in the next twelve months.
All this without meeting anyone officially. Everything had been done online, via telephone and text messaging. Danny said he would contact her soon, and they would meet and do her portfolio pictures. She was to use some of that money to buy herself the perfect outfit for the shoot.
Very cool. Yet, a touch of uneasiness whispered through her. Something seemed a little . . . off. Wishing she could put her finger on what it was that bothered her, she pulled out the contract. She’d asked for a copy and they’d mailed one to her. It all seemed straightforward to her, just two pages of stuff like they’d pay her this to do that and she agreed to follow their guidelines or she’d have to give the money back.
Sounded like a good deal to her.
A glance at her phone showed no response from 2COOL.
The door downstairs shut. Angie must have left. Her grandparents would be home soon and her dad would leave for his apartment. Maybe. Or maybe he was planning on staying here.
Jenna remembered her home in North Carolina. The place where her dad had lashed out and told her mother what a horrible person she was and what a bad influence she was being on Jenna. That had been where her mother had stormed out in anger, climbed into the car, and then wrapped it around a tree.
No one knew if it was an accident or not. Jenna liked to believe her mother hadn’t killed herself, but deep down doubts niggled.
Not that it mattered at this point. Her mother was dead and there was nothing that was going to change that.
But maybe she could do something to mend the rift between her father and herself. Maybe she could try to forgive him for driving her mother out of the house that night.
Possibly. Maybe then her dad would want to spend time with her. Would love her again.
Or maybe it was just too late.
Samantha closed her Bible, stood, and stretched out the kinks. Her kitchen table wasn’t exactly the most comfortable spot in the house, but she’d started reading 1 Peter as she waited for her coffee to brew and hadn’t been able to stop. Verse 8 in chapter 5 stopped her in her tracks. “Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.”
How true. How scary. How comforting to know God was on her side and she held power against that evil, could fight it not only with her profession, but with her prayers. And when it seemed like evil was winning, she just had to believe that God had everything in control.
Sometimes it was hard, though. Like today. Normally, she loved Saturday mornings, but with all the stress of trying to find a killer while staying out of his line of fire, she didn’t exactly doubt God, but she sure did wonder why he continued to let it go on. The evil in the world. Wouldn’t it be better to put them all out of their misery? To come back and dispense justice? To end the evil?