Brayden wished the sight of the man didn’t send a wave of futility through him. He wished it didn’t propel him back fifteen years to a time when he was helpless to do anything about what had happened. To the one other moment he’d glimpsed Jesse Garibaldi’s face in person, before he had a name to attach to the gruesome crime.
Weak, he thought now, unable to shake the rumbling fury and accompanying loss.
The laughing, smiling man, who was slapping someone on the shoulder in a friendly gesture was the one responsible for his father’s death. Yet there he stood. Wealthy. In control. No one in Whispering Woods the wiser.
That fact dug into Brayden, and without even realizing it, he started to push to his feet. A tug on his hand stopped him. He glanced down, feeling strangely surprised to meet with resistance. Reggie sat on the bench, her green eyes full of concern.
“Hey.” Her voice was low and laced with understanding.
She knows, he realized.
Even if no one else in the town had figured it out, she had. And somehow, that was enough. Brayden sagged back against the bench.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
He ran a hand over his hair, trying to think of something to say. Reggie beat him to him.
“It’s him, isn’t it? Jesse Garibaldi is the man you said you’ve been chasing. The one who bombed the Freemont Station.”
He managed a nod and a thick, one-word reply. “Yes.”
Her gaze flicked toward the other man, then back to Brayden. “We don’t have to stay here.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look a bit like you’re going to charge across the square to throttle our host.”
“I like to think I have a bit more self-control than that.” The statement sounded a little forced, and he exhaled a thick breath before admitting, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him up close. I wasn’t expecting it to hit me quite so hard.”
Reggie’s hand tightened in his. “We can go somewhere else, Brayden. We can talk about it. Or not talk about it, if that’s what you’d prefer. Either way, we really don’t have to be here.”
He looked down, preparing to choose the not talking about it option. Instead, he found himself wanting to say it all, just as he had a few minutes earlier.
And that means something.
“Is that offer to hang out at your apartment still open?” he asked.
“Definitely.”
“Then let’s go.”
As he guided her away from the fair to the street where he’d parked his car, he couldn’t stop himself from letting the words overflow.
“I was fourteen when it happened,” he said. “Just barely. My brother Harley was twelve. Things were tense in our house because my dad was on some big, secretive case. He’d been spending more time away from home than at it, and it was hard on all of us. My mom was fed up with Harley and me, tired from working herself and they had a big fight just before he left the house the last time. He told my mom that the job was almost over, and when it was, his career would be made. She asked if that was just going to mean more cases like this one, and she told him she couldn’t handle it if that happened. I remember the whole thing like it was yesterday.”
“That sounds hard, Brayden,” Reggie replied.
He nodded tightly. “I chased after him when he left that day, and I said a lot of things I regret.” They reached the sedan, and he paused in his story for a second to let her in, but started up again as soon as she’d given him the address and they were on the move. “I was so mad. Self-righteously so. And fully on my mom’s side. But when I finished ranting at him—in the middle of our quiet neighborhood, no less—he didn’t yell back. He just told me really calmly that he needed to see justice served. That he had to take this guy off the street because too many lives were at stake to do things any other way. He said that his family was what motivated him to do it, and that one day I’d understand. I swore I never would.”
“But that changed.”
He nodded again, recalling the look on his mother’s face as he burst into the house a few minutes after the confrontation. “When I turned around and headed home, I was still pretty ticked off. Came home, kicking furniture and swearing. Not my usual MO, and my mom didn’t appreciate the sudden change in my demeanor. We fought, too. Then Harley got involved, and it was a real, you-know-what show. Once we all calmed down, though, my mom explained that she was taking out a bad day on my dad. Reminded us that his job was one of the most important ones in the world. Then she called my dad. She made my brother and me listen while she apologized for losing her patience. I think it was her words and attitude that brought me around so quickly. If she’d still been angry when the bomb when off...”
“Then you would’ve blamed the job,” Reggie filled in softly.
“Exactly. Instead, I saw things from my dad’s perspective. He was trying to make the world a better place for us. He died as a result, but the only thing he would’ve regretted about it—aside from the family loss, of course—is the fact that he never got a chance to finish his case.”
“And that’s part of what you’re hoping to do. Justice for your dad...and on his behalf.”
“My gut tells me they’ll turn out to be one and the same. There’s no doubt in my mind that Jesse Garibaldi is behind the Freemont City bombing. And he’d only have gone after the evidence in that room if it covered up something worse.”
“Something worse than murder.” Her voice shook noticeably before she cleared her throat and added, “Does your team have a theory?”
Brayden tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Not a firm one. Something worth a lot of money, for sure. But it was impossible to know for certain. Every shred of whatever my dad and his partners were working on was destroyed. And the man responsible was never held accountable. And to make matters worse, his identity was a mystery.”
“A mystery? What do you mean?”
“The bomber was a minor. He turned eighteen four days after he committed the crime. Our lawyer told us that when my mom wanted to sue privately.”
“So he was tried as a minor.”
“Yep. Name hidden from the public. And since it took a whole year for the trial to process, he got away with time served. Then...an expunged record.”
“But you tracked him down.”
“We used the few details we had to keep the search alive. The birth date. The crime signature. We kept things flagged in newspapers and online. Eventually applied all of that to our police resources. And I knew what he looked like. I’d played kid detective and went to court one day. Sneaked into the closed session, and actually lasted all of five minutes before I got caught and kicked out.” He paused, recalling how he’d stared and stared, memorizing the details of his father’s killer’s visage, vowing never to let them go. “It was a good enough look to embed his face in my mind for good. So I’d know it was him even if everything else didn’t line up.”
“And now that you’ve found him?”
“My brother does some work in records. Since we have a name, he’s digging through to uncover anything and everything about Garibaldi’s past. I’m slotted to stay here and uncover anything current.”
“And I guess you found something.”
“Guess I did.”
He might have added something else, but they’d reached her street, and he was on automatic alert, looking for signs that anything might be wrong. A suspicious car or an out-of-place person. But the road was empty, the short row of apartments still. Extra quiet because of how many people were at the fair rather than at home. Satisfied that they weren’t under any obvious surveillance, Brayden flicked on his signal and pulled the car into the parking lot at the side of her squat-looking apartment building.
As he brought the vehicle to a halt, he threw Reggie a quick glance. Her gaze was fixed on her building, and that plump bottom lip of hers had been pulled between her teeth once more. She made no move to exit quickly. A strand of dark hair stuck to her cheek, and this time he didn’t hesitate to pull it away and tuck it behind her ear.
She tipped a little smile his way, but it faded away as quickly as it’d come.
“What?” he said.
“I was just thinking about the dress I’d planned on wearing to the dinner tonight.”
“And?”
“And it crossed my mind that it wouldn’t look very good over a bulletproof vest. I should be worrying about whether my purse matches my shoes well enough, and instead that goes through my head.”
“You can think about the shoes and purse,” he assured her, reaching over to close his fingers on hers. “I’ll take care of the insane part.”
“You’ve got a lot of experience with bulletproof vests under dresses?”
“None. But I’ve got a fair amount of experience keeping people safe.”
After a final squeeze, he released her hand, then let himself out and moved around the car. By the time he reached her side of the vehicle, her attention was focused on the apartment building once more.
“Something wrong?” Brayden asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Not sure?”
“The third window from the left...that’s my living room with the yellow light shining through. But I’m almost positive that two seconds ago, that light was off.”
Brayden turned his attention to the window, his gut already churning.
There it was. A dim yellow glow in an otherwise-dark, shade-drawn building.
He studied it for a long moment. In a normal situation, he’d call for backup, then go after the invader himself. This situation, though, was far from normal. He couldn’t very well leave Reggie in the car on her own. No way did he want to bring her along, either.
What other choice is there? Drive away? Find somewhere to hide? Maybe head back to the fair and pretend we never saw the light?
He shook his head to himself, his mind working through it quickly. Whispering Woods wasn’t exactly a mecca of secret spots. Without tourist season in full swing, anonymity was an impossible dream. Fewer people meant no crowds to blend into. On top of that, if someone was in Reggie’s apartment, he wanted to know who and why.
Could it be Chuck?
He really thought not, though he supposed nothing was 100 percent certain.
Maybe the guy who clocked you over the head back near Tyler Strange’s hideout? Or Tyler Strange himself?
He glanced up again. There was nothing to say that whoever was up there wasn’t simply lying in wait. One of the only things they had going for them was the possible element of surprise. If he could use that, he would.
“Reggie...” he said, looking down at her in the passenger seat. “Can you see the courtyard and parking lot from up there?”
Her inhale was audible. “As in, if someone was inside, could they see us?”
There was no point in denying the intent behind his question. “Yes. Exactly.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. If I’m standing right at the edge of the living room window, I can only see as far as that big shrub right there.”
Brayden followed the incline of her head, relaxing a little as he spied what she meant. The bush had a ballooned-out top that bowed out below the second story. A perfect, natural shield.
“And what about if we walk across the lot?” he asked.
“If we move along the edge there—” She paused to indicate a low wall between the concrete stalls and a grassy area. “Then I think we’ll be fine. If someone happened to be looking out the window at the exact moment we crossed to the patio by the door, they might see us. But not well.”
“Is there somewhere out of sight in the lobby?”
“Somewhere out of sight?”
“A place to hide.”
She groaned. “Again? Seriously?”
“Let me know when you’ve got your firearms license, a black belt and eight years of field experience, and we’ll talk about not hiding you.”
She sighed. “There’s a supply closet for the maintenance guy.”
“Good enough.”
He climbed out, then moved to her side to open her door, too. He wiggled his palm, and she sighed again, then took it and let him pull her out. Spontaneously, Brayden brought the back of her hand to his lips. He lingered for a second before releasing her, then bent to grab his weapon from the glove box. He snagged his clipable belt holster, too, and with habitual ease, fastened it to his side and secured the gun inside.
“Ready?” Brayden asked.
“Never been more prepared to hide in a closet in my life.”
With a dark chuckle, he reached for her hand again so they could move together—closely—to the hip-high wall. They reached the door quickly, and Reggie freed her hand and shot him a rueful smile as she pulled out a small ring of keys—which had been fastened to the hem of her uniform using a safety pin—and held it up.
“Learned that trick was I was kid,” she told him as she shoved one into the lock and twisted it. “Lost a lot of keys when I was about twelve.”
Brayden smiled back, then reached out to grab the door. As his hand closed on the metal handle and yanked it open, the muted thump of boots on linoleum carried to the lobby from above.
His smile fell away—the noise could belong to someone who should be there, but it could also belong someone who shouldn’t.
“Normally I’d insist on ladies first,” he said. “But right this second I’m going to suggest coming in behind me.”
“I won’t argue.”
“Good. Put your hand just below my shoulder so I can feel where you are.”
She complied, and Brayden stepped forward, his fingers finding his gun. He moved quickly but cautiously, taking in every detail of their surroundings as they entered. Four couches, pushed together at their corners, formed a centerpiece for the lobby. In the middle of those was an obviously fake tree. The rest of the space was open. One wall held a row of mailboxes, another a community board. A third wall served as the entrance to the first-floor apartments. The final wall was home to both the marked stairway and the closet Reggie had mentioned. Brayden studied the latter for a second. Its door had angled slats on the top and a solid bottom. Not lockable, but it would do.
“No elevator?” Brayden asked, his voice automatically dropped low enough for her ears only.
“No,” she whispered back. “Only three floors. No real need.”
He didn’t like the idea that there was only one way up and one way down. It made it that much more likely that he’d run into someone.
And how will you know if it’s a friendly neighbor, or a gun-toting thug?
Thinking quickly again, he led Reggie toward the closet. “Do you know everyone in the building?”
“Not well. But to look at, yes.”
“Give me the fastest rundown in the world. No names, just descriptions.”
She closed her eyes and reeled off a list, “First floor. Asian couple in one, guy in a wheelchair in two. Three is vacant, and four is a brunette with a Yorkie. Second floor. Five and six are one unit, guy’s an artist and he looks like one—beard and ponytail, always covered in paint. Seven is an older man with an anchor tattoo on his left hand, eight is me. Third floor. Spinster sisters in nine—they never leave the apartment. Ten is our local dental hygienist, red hair down to her butt. Eleven is the hygienist’s boyfriend, buzz cut and an eyebrow piercing. Twelve is a single mom, baby’s about six months old.” She opened her eyes. “Good?”
“Perfect.”
He pulled open the closet door and was relieved to see that it was spacious and not filthy. At least while she was hiding, she wouldn’t be suffering. He stepped back to make room for her and found her staring at him, worry evident in her green eyes.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Aren’t you going to repeat it?”
“What?”
“The list.”
“Worried I might coldcock one of your neighbors?”
“It’s not funny.”
He exhaled. “I know.”
“So?” she prodded.
“Asian couple, wheelchair, Yorkie, beard, anchor tattoo, spinsters, redhead and pierced boyfriend, mom with baby.” Brayden paused to draw in a breath, then winked. “And prettiest brunette in Whispering Woods.”
Reggie’s cheeks colored. “Thank you. And that was pretty impressive.”
Brayden tapped his temple. “Virtual notebook.”
She stepped backward into the closet. “Make another note in there, okay? This damsel in distress would like it a lot if you didn’t get hurt.”
“That makes two of us. I’ll be back in five minutes. Seven, tops.”
“I’ll be counting.”
He started to close the door, but her voice stopped him three-quarters of the way there.
“Brayden. Wait.”
“What?”
“My apartment key.”
He turned back, and found her holding out the item in question. When he reached for it, though, she grabbed his shirt collar. She pressed a swift, firm kiss against his lips, then released him with a breathy exhale.
“For luck,” she said, dropping the key into his palm.
“And good motivation to come back,” Brayden teased.
“That, too,” she agreed.
He pulled her in again, kissed her forehead, then her mouth once more before letting her go. He was smiling as he closed the closet door. His cheer faded, though, as he made his way across the lobby. He could think of a dozen worst-case scenarios. Mistaking a resident for an intruder. Or the reverse. Or getting mistaken for an invader himself.
Stop, he ordered silently.
Thinking through every possibility was neither productive nor cathartic. He shoved the what-ifs to the back of his mind and entered the stairwell cautiously. Slow through the door. Relaxed in appearance. Hand ready to go for his weapon if the need arose.
The concrete interior was empty, and silent except for the buzz of the industrial lights that hung from the wall.
Good.
Brayden quickened his pace. The faster he got to the second floor, the less chance someone had to intercept him. He took the steps two at a time until he reached the landing. There, he paused. No sound carried through the door. Vigilant in spite of the quiet, he eased open the door. Then stepped into the hall.
A crash and a muffled curse lifted from behind one of the walls and put him on alert, and Brayden’s thumb automatically flicked open the holster while his palm closed on the gun.
Steady, he cautioned.
The self-directed warning was unnecessary, really. Over the course of his career, he’d only fired his weapon twice in the line of duty. It was a last resort both times, and even though it wasn’t something he was afraid to use again, it was still an option taken only when words wouldn’t work.
At the moment, though, it just felt right to remind himself of that fact. There was a lot at stake. His and Reggie’s lives. Putting away a man he’d been after for a decade and a half. He didn’t need to blow any of it by having an out-of-control moment.
He stood still, waiting. No further disturbances came to life, and after a few seconds, the familiar sound of a popular game show carried through the door labeled seven.
Anchor tattoo, Brayden thought. Getting his quiz skills sharpened.
Letting out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding, he chalked up the previous clatter to some domestic mishap. With his hand back off his weapon, he slid past and moved toward Reggie’s unit. Careful to be as quiet as possible, he tried the knob. Left, then right. It didn’t budge either way. He turned it a second time, just to be sure it was locked. It definitely was. It just didn’t quite feel like good news. Not yet anyway.
Brayden dug Reggie’s key from his pocket and eased it into the hole. The mechanism inside clicked loud enough to make him wince. He waited for a reaction. There was none—just reigning silence. So he turned the handle again, this time all the way, and pushed the door open. As it swung inward, he turned sideways and flattened himself against the wall. Still nothing.
A quick glance into the apartment entryway yielded total darkness.
So what about that light?
He’d seen it himself from the parking lot. Wondering about it made him draw out and ready his gun. It also made him move slowly. In past the little rack of shoes. Along the overstuffed coat closet. To a hasty halt at an open archway.
With extra caution on his mind, he tipped his head around the wall, half expecting to be either jumped or shot at as he did. All that happened was that he caught a glimpse of Reggie’s kitchen. Stainless steel appliances and a few dishes on the counter. A cutout over the sink that led to the living room. Everything looked normal.
Brayden breathed out slowly, then crouched down a little and moved on. The living room was equally still. The overhead light was out, and a fish tank glowed an eerie blue in one corner.
He scanned it all quickly but thoroughly before slinking along the wall to the short, adjoining hall. At the end of it, the bathroom door sat open, and in the mirror, he could see that it was empty. The clear shower stall and pedestal sink left nowhere to hide.
Next was the bedroom, and Brayden was torn about entering it.
On the one hand, he was genuinely curious about where the pretty waitress slept. Bedrooms were intimate. They provided clues into people’s preferences. Silk sheets or flannel, a tidy space or one cluttered with mementos. In his police work, he often found unexpected but invaluable clues inside the private spaces.
Though in this case, of course, it was a personal curiosity. His attraction to Reggie made him interested in her habits.
Does she leave the bed a mess in the morning, or is she more fastidious than that? he wondered.
That question alone was enough to give him pause. He would’ve preferred to be invited into her room, not forced in by circumstance. He stared for a long moment at the white door, wishing the circumstances were different. He made himself go in anyway.
A long window, covered in a nearly sheer brown curtain let in enough light that he could see just fine without turning on a light. The bedroom was spacious, especially for an apartment. There was more than enough room for the king-size bed—which immediately brought to mind a tumble of dark hair on white sheets—and still space leftover for a lumpy reading chair, a tall armoire and an old-fashioned dressing table. Her closet was open, revealing an obvious love of all shades of green.
Probably to go with her eyes, Brayden thought absently.
His own gaze swept the room, making sure it was clear, but also noting the details. Hints of Reggie’s life were everywhere. A ribbon name tag from the Frost Family Diner hung from a mirror. A framed picture of an older couple decorated the solitary nightstand.
Half-made, Brayden observed as he bent to check under the bed, amused by how one side was smooth and the other was shoved back to reveal a well-loved pillow.
He let himself stare for one more moment before deciding the room was as empty as the rest of them, then pivoted on his heel and started to walk out. A flash of out-of-place color caught his eye and made him stop. Tucked just under the corner of the curtain was a familiar shoe. One he’d last seen sticking out of Chuck’s waistband.
Brayden’s heart rate jumped, and he grabbed the shoe and took off from the apartment at a run.