“Why did you take her away?”
Marshall stood in the center of the hushed hospital chapel, its backlit stained-glass cross sending beams of color to land on burgundy carpet around his planted feet. He hadn’t meant to come here. Hadn’t meant to pray—if his whispered question even counted as a prayer.
But here he was.
He stepped in between a row of chairs, fingers gripping the cloth back of a seat in front of him. “Other parents get to keep their kids. But you took mine.” There’d been no miracle for Laney—not like for Lenora. There’d been no doctor striding from the room with a grin and good news.
That’s why he was here in this chapel. Because with each step he’d taken away from Lenora’s room, the unfairness of it all had begun its gong-like chiming.
When Davis Saddler had told that story about his father spending the rest of his life fruitlessly searching for “his greatest treasure,” his daughter, Marshall had actually empathized with the criminal. Their circumstances might be different, but what if Marshall was destined for the same hopeless ending as Spinelli? Spinelli’s prison bars were literal but wasn’t Marshall trapped, too?
By anguish at all he’d lost. By his own inability to fix what was broken inside of him. By this endless cycle of one day thinking he was on the road to hope and healing and the next, feeling the stab of despair all over again.
Beth had said he could trust God with his broken pieces. He’d almost started to believe it. But how was he supposed to trust God to be careful with his broken pieces when He hadn’t been careful with Laney.
You weren’t careful then, no matter how much I prayed.
If he couldn’t trust God to fix him, if he couldn’t fix himself, then where did that leave him?
Impulse or maybe desperation surged through him and before he realized what he was doing, his phone was at his ear. One ring. Two rings. Did he actually want Penny to answer or—
“Hey, Marshall.”
His head pounded and he could feel his pulse in his ears. “Hi, Penn. Um, sorry. I don’t know why I’m calling.” True. Yet not. “I’m . . . I’m in a hospital and—”
“Are you hurt? Sick? Beth told me you’ve stopped with the meds, but maybe you shouldn’t have gone off them so fast or—”
“It’s not that. It’s . . . I don’t know how . . .” He closed his eyes and sat. “Penny, I—”
The sound of a baby’s cry rattled across the line. A sharp reminder. He shouldn’t have called her. She had a whole new life. She wasn’t his wife anymore.
And even if she were, he didn’t know what he needed.
You need Me.
His gaze flew to the cross once more.
“Marsh?”
He ended the call, jabbed the phone into his pocket. His head pounded. “If you want me to believe,” he said, his voice hard, “you’re going to have to give me something. Anything.”
He stared at the cross.
Nothing.
Enough of this. He jerked to his feet. He shouldn’t have come in here. He’d told Mara he’d be waiting outside Lenora’s room, so that’s where he’d be. Never mind that he’d never found that bottle of water or aspirin.
He was halfway up the chapel aisle when its double doors flung open. Davis?
The man was breathing hard, leaning crooked against his cane. “You need to come. Mara.”
“She’s already done seeing Lenora? That was quick.”
Davis was shaking his head before Marshall even finished. “She’s gone.”
Marshall’s gut twisted. Gone. Lenora? As in, she’d passed away? “But the doctor said she was doing good. How . . . what happened?” His picked up his pace.
Davis was still shaking his head, so rapidly now that his cane wobbled too. “Not Eleanor.”
He reached Davis just as the man’s cane slipped from his grasp. Marshall caught it with one hand while reaching out to steady Davis with the other. “I’m confused. What are you say—”
“Mara.” His voice had spilled over into a near yell. “She’s gone and Eleanor is upset. We can’t understand her. Something about a man—”
Marshall’s pulse quickened.
And then he was running, feet carrying him down hallways and around corners until the commotion from Lenora’s hospital room invaded his senses. A beeping machine, multiple voices. He skidded into the room.
Lenora was twisting against her pillows, her rasping voice pitiful and panicked. Unintelligible.
“You shouldn’t be in here.” A nurse touched his elbow and pointed to the door.
“The woman who was in here before, where is she?”
The nurse shook her head. “We don’t know. We’re trying to get our patient calmed right now.”
“But—”
With surprising strength, the woman nearly pushed him from the room. He spilled into the hallway, headache raging now, but his policeman’s reflex finally drove him past his panic. He scoured the space, gaze darting over every corner and doorway even as he jogged to the nurse’s station.
Two women looked up from computers as he caught his ragged breath. “I’m looking for a woman. Red hair, about five foot eight.” He combed his memory. “Jeans and a blue pullover.”
“A patient?”
“No, no, a visitor. She was just here. She was in room 302.”
He jabbed his fingers through his hair. Hadn’t his instincts tried to warn him? Outside Lenora’s room, earlier in the waiting room . . . on the drive. Those headlights.
He’d felt it in his gut, the knowing that something was off. But he’d let the hospital memories distract him. Let his pain and all his efforts to shove it down sidetrack him.
“I saw a woman with red hair.” A third nurse moved toward him now. “She was walking down the hallway a few minutes ago. She was with a man.”
Garrett.
Not Garrett.
Mara’s sprinting heartbeat collided with her disbelief. For what felt like the hundredth time, she tried to yank free from the man’s grip, but his hold only tightened, his fingers digging into her arm as he shoved her from the stairwell into the parking garage. Their steps tolled against the cement floor and their panting breaths echoed.
If not for the gun he’d flashed back in Lenora’s room, she’d have yelled for help. Called for Marshall. Called for anyone.
Finally, he twisted her around to face him. And it smacked her all over again.
Not Garrett.
Her instant panic when the man had grabbed her in Lenora’s room had morphed into terrified certainty. Garrett had finally come for her. She’d been sure of it.
But then the man had spoken into her ear and it hadn’t been Garrett’s voice. “I’ve got a gun. Stay calm and walk with me. If you don’t, I’ll happily use it.”
And it wasn’t Garrett’s face in front of her now. But in her fear, she fumbled to remember his name. Morton . . . Morris . . . Morse. Jim Morse.
The man with the briefcase. From the open house.
“You wanted to buy the Everwood.”
He flashed a menacing grin at her blurted words. “Seemed like a fine enough solution at the time but this will be much more expedient. Either you’re going to tell me where the painting is or you’ll make a nice little bit of leverage when I ask your friend Lenora where it is once she’s talking again.”
The painting? This was about the painting?
If only she’d been faster to act when he’d first edged into Lenora’s room. But his threat in her ear had sent shards of ice down her spine. And without a doubt in her mind that he’d meant what he said about using the gun, she’d let him tow her into the hallway and out the door underneath an exit sign.
“Where’s the painting?” he asked again.
“I have no idea.” The whirr and rumble of engines and tires bellowed in the parking garage around them.
“Fine. Then you’re coming with me.” He jerked her arm again, sending a spasm into muscle already tight with alarm.
Even as she yelped, she put every ounce of her strength into planting her feet, pulling away. Were those footsteps she heard now? A flash of color darted behind the man. Marshall? Willing herself not to look at the gun, she ignored the slice of pain in her shoulder and tried wrenching away once more.
He grunted, yanking her back to him, lifting his gun—
Halting footsteps. A surprise thump.
Jim Morse crumpled to the cement, his gun sliding under a nearby car.
Marshall? Garbled emotion churned inside her. Gasping for breath against the shock, the stabbing pain in her arm, Mara lifted her relieved gaze.
Garrett.
Everything tipped off axis all over again. Garrett. Who was supposed to be in France.
It took only a moment for realization and adrenaline to kick in. She whirled, panicked attention darting to the stairwell door as she picked up her feet and—
It was one moment too many. An arm rippling with muscle shot out to pin her against Garrett’s body. Garrett Lyman was no longer the lanky college kid she remembered. He radiated with ominous strength as he laughed into her hair then spun her back around to face him.
There was a glint of steel in his eyes. And a blade in his hand. “Let’s go.” He shoved her forward. Just like that, she’d gone from one horrific situation to the next.
“This is crazy, Garrett. Aren’t you supposed to be in France? How did you even find me?” And where was Marshall? What if Jim Morse roused and came after them?
“It was child’s play, Mara. I had a Google alert set up for you. There was a newspaper article. I caught a flight.”
So that fear had been well founded, after all. “It’s been a year. Why were you still—”
He slammed her against a black Buick. “Because I told you I would. I said I’d find you and I did. Now get in.” He wrenched the door open and thrust her inside. The lock clicked. She attempted to unlock it, but it clicked again. And again.
And Garrett was rounding the car. They’d be out of this garage within the next minute or two. And once he pulled out onto the open road, how would Marshall ever—
Phone!
She had it out of her pocket by the time the driver’s side door opened. She fumbled to open a new text.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
She heard Garrett’s growl, felt the air move as he landed in his seat and his hand lunged toward her—
Black Bui—
His hand closed over hers, squeezing until she dropped the phone. Had it sent? Had she even finished the text? He reached over her to grab the phone and tossed it out his door. “Nice try.”
“Why are you doing this?” Frustration poured out in her shrill words. “You can’t possibly think you’re going to get away with whatever it is you’re trying to do.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m a kid.” He jammed his key into the ignition. “You think I haven’t thought this through? I’ve known where you were for over a week, Mara. I didn’t go rushing in hot-headed and rash like last time. I waited.” He looked over at her, malice and desire twisted together in his taut expression.
“So that was you last week at the Everwood?” Stall. Keep him talking.
The engine sputtered to life. “Plan A didn’t work out. What of it?”
“And you’ve just been waiting around ever since? Lurking?”
“You’re a hard woman to get alone.” He peeled out of the parking space.
“You don’t have to do this, Garrett. You haven’t committed much of a crime yet, other than scaring me half to death.” Pain blazed through her injured arm. If he made it out of the parking garage—
He pummeled the accelerator, his knife tucked against the wheel under his left hand. At least he hadn’t gone after Morse’s gun earlier.
Could she reach for the wheel fast enough? Manage to get his knife? She gripped her door handle.
“Don’t bother trying again. Got the child lock on.”
Fine. She’d go for the wheel. She shifted, reached—
His elbow slammed into her hurt arm and her shriek split her eardrums. He whipped around a curve, barely avoiding an SUV going the opposite direction. And suddenly, up ahead, jarring daylight gushed in. Another thirty seconds and he’d be free of the garage.
“Garrett, please.”
He swore, gunning the accelerator.
Even if not for the half-finished text from Mara, Marshall would’ve known the Buick was his target. The moment he’d barreled out the door of the stairwell and into the garage, his focus had snagged on the fallen man’s form in a heap on the floor.
Then the black vehicle that lurched from its parking space.
It’d taken less than a split second to plan his own course. No point chasing after the car on foot. Instead, realizing his truck was parked a level below, he’d sprung toward the stairwell once more, scrambling down clanging metal stairs and surging into open garage. The odor of cigarette smoke and gasoline clung to chilled air as he ran toward his truck.
He reached the truck just as a flash of black flew by in his periphery. The garage’s exit was only one level down. If he didn’t catch up in time—
No, he wouldn’t even think of it. His tires squealed as he veered out of his parking space and swerved the direction the Buick had gone. One more curve and—There!
The Buick rushed toward the glare of sunlight that clashed with the shadows of the garage. For a moment, Marshall hoped for an easy resolution. There was a booth up by the exit, a long bar stretching across the ramp.
But no, instead of slowing, the vehicle in front of him only sped up.
Over the pounding of his headache, Marshall fought for a decisive calm. Okay, then. He knew what he had to do. At least there weren’t any other moving vehicles around.
He pressed his pedal to the ground, heard the growl of his engine, the images outside his windshield blurring but for his moving target up ahead. He was gaining ground.
Wait until the last second . . .
He was nearly on top of the Buick.
Now.
He pounded the brake and jerked on his steering wheel and though his insides quaked, the truck did exactly as he’d hoped—curving off to the side as its back end swung around. “Please, God . . . Mara.”
The prayer burst from his lips as his truck bed crashed into the back of the Buick, clanging, scraping metal and shattering glass . . .
He shot from his seat and out into the air, first angling toward the Buick’s passenger side, but reversing course when he saw the driver’s door open and a figure pitch forward.
Garrett.
“Stop!” He roared the word, long legs catching up to the kid in three easy strides.
But just as he reached him, Garret whirled around, wielding a blade and a holler of his own. “Get back.”
Marshall slowed his steps. Garrett’s blond hair was mussed and a trickle of blood ran down one side of his face. It was all Marshall could do not to turn back to the car, check to see if Mara had been injured too.
“Kid, I have chased down criminals holding far worse in their hands than a measly knife. You might as well—”
“I’m not a kid.” Garrett charged at him with another howl.
Marshall braced himself for the impact, planting his feet but leaning enough to avoid the plunging of Garrett’s knife. The blade merely nicked his torso as he latched onto Garrett, shoving him to the side.
With a grunt, the kid hit the back end of a jeep but he managed to stay on his feet. Before he could charge again, Marshall grabbed him from behind and stretched for the hand that grasped the knife.
“Marshall!”
Relief flooded him at the sound of Mara’s voice but he didn’t turn. Garrett had surprising strength, butting against him, jutting an elbow into Marshall’s ribs, refusing to loosen his hold on the knife. Marshall whipped him around and slammed Garrett’s arm against the jeep once, twice.
Finally, the knife clattered to the ground.
Still, Garrett fought back, throwing a wild punch that barely brushed Marshall’s cheekbone before Marshall wrestled him down. He pinned both of Garrett’s arms to the cement floor as footsteps hurried toward him.
“Marsh, are you okay? You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” he panted. “Stay back, all right?”
More footsteps—security guards, thank goodness. By the time they reached him, he’d hauled Garrett to his feet.
The moment he handed off Garrett to a guard, he spun toward Mara. She stood motionless, face as ashen as the cement walls of the garage. If not for the way she cradled one arm, he’d have pulled her into his hold without another thought—and wouldn’t have let go for anything.
The moving lights of a security vehicle flashed on the wall behind her and voices faded around him. He stopped in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Mara. I’m so—”
“Sorry? Marshall, you just . . . you’re bleeding and . . . what in the world do you have to be sorry for?”
He cupped her cheeks in his hands. “Are you okay?”
“Mostly. Something’s up with my shoulder. Might be dislocated.”
“I’m sorry about the crash. I couldn’t think of any other way to stop him. If he’d gotten out onto the open road, it would’ve turned into a car chase and—”
“I know. And it’s not the crash that hurt my shoulder. Garrett did that. Or maybe that Morse guy. I don’t know.”
Because Marshall had left her alone. Because despite his gut instinct, he’d let down his guard. Let emotion distract him. He dropped his hands. And who was Morse? The crumpled man, obviously, but what did he have to do with this? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Marshall, would you stop apologizing?” She leaned into him, still supporting her arm and avoiding where Garrett’s blade had ripped his shirt and cut into his side. “You just saved the day.”
Garrett’s raised voice sounded in the distance. Marshall and Mara would need to answer questions, probably go down to a police station and make statements. But he couldn’t move from this spot. Couldn’t let go of the guilt slamming through him, just as heady as the relief from only moments ago.
“I should’ve known. After the lurker last weekend . . . then on the way here, there were these headlights and . . . ”
Mara shook her head against his chest. “I knew you’d come. I distracted him as long as I could. Because I knew you’d come.”
And then, as if the shock had finally slid away, she succumbed to tears. As carefully as he could, he wrapped her in a tender embrace as her tears wetted his shirt. “It’s okay, Mara. It’s over now.”
His head was leaden and his lungs still scraped and he was pretty sure Mara wasn’t the only one shaking right now. She needed to see a doctor about her shoulder and his side could use a bandage. He needed to send officers to pick up the man she’d called Morse.
But for now he needed to hold her.
And to believe his own murmurs, even if only for a few feeble, fleeting seconds. “It’s all okay.”