“Who knows about this?”
“No one except you, me, and Lucy. And possibly a local cop. He’s the first I want to check out. I don’t think he’s involved, but he has access.”
“Give me the names. I’ll take care of it personally.”
“For now, two—Cody Lorenzo, a D.C. cop, and Frances Buckley, the director of WCF. She’s former FBI.” Because he’d assured Lucy he’d be discreet with Prenter’s victims, he’d take care of those himself.
“Got it. I’ll run these and call you later.”
“Duke—”
“What?”
“If you want to talk to me about how I’m running RCK East, call me. Don’t put Jayne in the middle of it.”
Duke didn’t say anything for a moment. “Fair enough. But you have to understand—”
“No, I don’t have to understand anything about your lack of faith in me. I’m twenty-nine. You were running Rogan-Caruso when you were twenty-nine. I thought this move was a positive step, that it proved you trusted me—”
“I do, Sean.”
“Not when it matters.” He hung up.
Lucy came back into the dining room with her laptop packed into its case and a thick file folder. “I’m ready.” She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just a disagreement with my brother.”
“Business or personal?”
“Both.”
She nodded in understanding. Sean leaned over and kissed her lightly. “We’re going to find out exactly what’s going on. Trust me.”
“I do.”
Duke had known him his entire life and didn’t completely trust him. Lucy had known him for a few weeks and was putting her future in his hands. In their hands, because she was just as involved in this as he was. Sean wasn’t about to let her down.
They walked down the hall and she gestured toward a vase of red roses. “Thank you,” she said as she opened the alarm panel.
“For what?”
“The flowers.”
Sean halted mid-step. He stared at the roses, as if the answer of who sent them was printed on their petals. He said flatly, “I didn’t send you flowers.”
“But—” Lucy’s voice caught when she saw the truth in his expression.
Sean looked at the table and saw the card. Fury and fear raced through his bloodstream as he read the brief message.I had a terrific time at the ice rink yesterday. I’ll see you soon.
“I didn’t write that. Who knew we went skating yesterday?”
The panic that crossed Lucy’s face was tangible.
“No one,” Lucy whispered. “No one.”
TWENTY-TWO
Lucy was wrapped up in her own thoughts as Sean drove to WCF. She hated feeling like a victim again and vowed she wouldn’t. She wasn’t a victim. She’d fought back six years ago, and while she lost a couple of rounds, she’d won the battle. She’d survived. She’d prospered. She had a life and a future and family.
Someone watched you yesterday at the ice rink. Some sicko saw you with Sean. Saw you kiss him. Dirtied what was pure and fun.
Her stomach heaved and she closed her eyes, prayed that Sean couldn’t see her inner turmoil. But when her eyes were closed, memories of what Roger Morton had done to her flooded her mind: flashes like a camera, others watching as she was raped and beaten.
She couldn’t bear the thought that her affection toward Sean had been tainted by a voyeur. A stalker. Pain seared her, physical angst, until she could hardly breathe.
The flowers and card told her he was a stalker. Her mind knew it and rebelled against it, angry and ready for action. But the intangible spectator, watching her as if she were a show, fueled the ember of pain that she still harbored deep inside.
Intellectually, Lucy could tell herself that she wasn’t a victim, that she was a survivor and everyone involved in her attack was dead. She could repeat the mantra endlessly, but it didn’t change how her stomach felt, or the prickle across her skin when people looked at her, or the way her throat tightened when she let her guard down and the memories flooded in unexpectedly.
It had all been better, until now. Kate’s lies, Morton’s death, the stalker. Everything felt real again.
The car stopped before she realized they were already at WCF headquarters.
Sean said, “I wouldn’t have sent you red roses.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. He reached out and put his hand on her cheek, then ran his fingers through her hair.
“I would have sent multicolored daisies, dozens of them in yellow and white and blue and purple and pink and every color I could find.”
“Why daisies?” she whispered.
“Because they would make you smile, then laugh, and you would smile again every time you looked at them. Every time you saw a daisy, you would think of me. Because no one else would give you such a whimsical bouquet of flowers.”
He pulled her the short distance toward him, meeting her halfway, and kissed her. It started soft, as if he intended to give her a quick, supportive kiss. But it didn’t end. His mouth pressed against hers, confident, calm, but insistent. His hand held her neck, his fingers moving in small circles like five dancing fairies, easing her tight muscles. Her lips parted as she relaxed, her nerves calmed, and she leaned into Sean, her right hand finding his face, the rough stubble beginning to push through his skin. She rubbed lightly, the sandpaper texture alluring, then her hand moved to his soft, thick hair, savoring the contrast.
Sean kissed her repeatedly, as if to assure himself that she was here, and she returned the urgency, her internal pain and fear retreating deep inside, behind locked doors, where she prayed it would stay.
He reached down and unbuckled her seat belt, then pulled her as close as possible with the console separating their seats. Lucy put her head on Sean’s chest and closed her eyes, feeling peace and safety and hope.
Somehow, they would find the answers. And whatever those answers were—whoever was responsible—Lucy would survive. She’d survived worse.
Before she had her family. Now … she thought she might have something else. Someone else.
“Lucy,” Sean said quietly in her ear, “are you okay with this?”
“Giving you a tour so you can bug WCF offices? I don’t know. But—I understand why you have to do it. But as soon as I get the files I need, we go to Kate, right?”
He smiled. “Right, but I wasn’t talking about WCF. I was talking about us. About me. You. This.” He kissed her.
She licked her lips, then firmly kissed him back, showing him that she was very okay with this. “Actions speak louder than words.”
“Maybe I just want to hear how much you like me.” He grinned devilishly. “I have a very sensitive ego. It needs constant reminders that I’m worthy of you.”
He said it playfully, but Lucy heard just a hint of awe and apprehension in his voice, as if she were special and he really did need to know how she felt.
“I like you,” she assured him. “You’re wonderful. You’re worthy of me. Let’s get this over with and take our mutual admiration society home.”
“Before we go upstairs, call Kate. We need to know about the flowers.”
Noah needed daylight.
He’d been holed up in Kate’s windowless computer room at Quantico all day. While he understood the need for the added computer power, he didn’t understand why they couldn’t have set up anywhere else. His cubicle at regional headquarters had a window.
“Your tension is suffocating me,” Kate said.