Logan took the stairs so as not to trap himself in a suspended metal box. While he shuffled up the long, winding staircase, he took the pistol from his shoulder holster and flicked off the safety catch. Someone had broken in upstairs, and he had to know why.
When he came to the correct floor, he checked his corners. Nobody had come back into the hallway, which was a bad sign. It meant the intruder was probably still inside. Logan swallowed a dry lump and rounded the last corner, laying eyes on the damage done to the door. What he saw opened a whole load of new questions.
It wasn’t the neighbors’ door that was damaged. It was his own. Had they not communicated that outside, or had he simply made an assumption? It didn’t matter. They were in his home, and now he had another reason to give in to the anger boiling inside him.
Slowly, carefully, he made his way down the hall with his shoulder to the wall. If necessary, he was ready to drop to a knee and take a shot. He kept his gaze on the door, which hung ajar with a busted lock dangling from the doorjamb. Whoever was in his apartment wanted him badly enough to break in, and that left an unsettling feeling in his stomach.
Logan made it to the door. He pushed it open slowly, letting the creak ring out through the apartment. There was movement inside, but it quickly stopped. The light was on, a long shadow crawling up the wall. Logan steadied the grip on his gun, took cover behind the wall, and pushed open the door. What he expected was gunfire and danger. The heat of a bullet exchange. What happened instead was worse.
“Come in, Mr. Fox,” a soft female voice said.
Logan carefully peered around the frame. There was a woman sitting in his armchair, having turned it to face the door. She wore a plain black business suit and had long locks of auburn hair. Dark red lipstick drew attention to her pouting lips while a half-empty glass of whiskey rested in her hand. The intrusion was one thing, but something else stole his attention.
He knew the voice.
Quickly checking each of the small rooms for any sign of another person, Logan returned to the living room and tucked his gun away. He stood close to the armchair, letting his huge presence be known. It was something he had picked up early in his teen years, letting his size intimidate anyone he saw fit. This was no different.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“We needed to talk.”
“That’s what phones are for.”
“In person.”
“You could have made an appointment. My door—”
“I’ll pay to have it repaired. Sit down, won’t you? You’re making me nervous.”
Logan rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept since their first phone call, and he was starting to feel it. Trouble seemed to be following him lately, which made any sleep he did get broken and unrestful. If it weren’t for his two-day streak of sobriety, he might actually have questioned whether this woman was for real.
“I won’t sit, and that’s my good stuff.” He took the glass from her. The ice cubes clinked against the glass as he set it down away from her. She frowned but still looked beautiful. “The call you made the other night made its mark. I’ve thought about nothing else, and now I need answers. So cut the theatrics and get to the point. Is my little girl still alive or not?”
The woman looked up at him, her hands clasped in her lap. She seemed to assess him, breaking the stare only long enough to look him up and down. When she spoke, she did so calmly. It was as though she owned the room.
“It’s true,” she said bluntly. “But we can’t talk about it right now.”
Logan broke inside, wanting to collapse as he wrestled with this hope. Was it a lie? Could this stranger be trusted? If he could shake the truth out of her, he would, but by the time he made a move, she was already standing.
“Listen,” he said, picking her drink back up and knocking it back. The bitter taste was a small price to pay for the warmth to trickle down his throat. “Calling me is one thing, but busting my lock is another. And make no mistake, you will be paying for it. But what I need right now is answers. If you know something about my daughter, you’d better damn well speak up and share the secrets. I’m in no mood for head games.”
The woman breathed heavily, then rested a hand against his chest. She bit her lip as if considering something, then stepped back and fished a business card out of her purse. “I had to give you this,” she told him. “It’s my work address. Stop by later tonight, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Why not just talk now?”
“It’s safer at my place.”
“Safer?” Logan shook his head, talking to her back as she made her way toward the door. “What does that even mean? Hey, I’m talking to you. I need answers.”
“You’ll get them.”
That was the last thing she said before she left the apartment. Logan stood still, gazing down at the business card in his hands. He didn’t care for the game she was playing. Her confidence and air of mystery were far beyond his scope of patience. But what choice did he have? If there was a chance of seeing his daughter again, he was putty in her hands.
The other question was, what did she want from him?
There was only one way to find out.