Lucy shook her head. “One minute—it’ll clear my head.”
“I’ll wait here.” April spoke softly to the officers while Lucy stepped outside.
The cold air did clear her head, and she watched the snowfall, thicker than when she’d arrived thirty minutes ago. She still felt ill, but she rarely got sick. She figured it must be grief. She missed Cody. She loved him—not in the way he wanted her to, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t cared for him deeply.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the cold.
Forgive me for thinking you’d do anything to scare me.
Though her skin was flushed, she was cold outside. She turned to go back inside, and the door was farther away that she’d thought. Her black sweater was damp and white from the snow, but she didn’t remember walking away from the doors. Everything was too bright—the snow, the lights in the entry, radiating colors and razor edges.
Something was wrong with her, but she knew she wasn’t sick. It was something else, and panic rose as her heart pounded. She couldn’t think coherently. She opened her mouth to call for April, but only a squeak came from her throat. The church and snow spun around her, faster and faster, and she thought she was a spinning top. Around and around and around …
… she was lying in the snow. She’d fallen … but she was at the bottom of the stairs. How? The streetlight above her beckoned her, a hand, as if God Himself was taking her up to Heaven.
She wanted to go. She was so sad, so lost.
Sean.
Her heart thudded painfully in her chest and she focused on the steady, too-fast beat. Did her heart really beat this fast?
Sean, help me. I don’t want to die.
She tried to stand but couldn’t. Her hands dug into the newly fallen snow. She reached for her phone, but it wasn’t in her pocket. It wasn’t there because she’d left her coat in the pew in the church, and her phone was in that pocket.
She wanted to cry, but no sound, no tears, came. She had no control over her body, as if she were paralyzed. She desperately wanted Sean to pick her up and carry her to his bed. To hold her. To kiss her. To make love to her. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about the future, the possibilities, but Sean had walked into her life and she didn’t want him to leave.
She’d crawl. She could crawl home. No, that was two miles away. April would wonder why she was outside for so long. April … who was April? She felt she should know, but she couldn’t remember. What was she thinking? Crawling home? Where was home? Did she have a home?
She tried to call out again but couldn’t. Her mind swirled, as if in a blender, her head aching, her stomach clenching. She was so hot, she stared at the blinding snow and expected to see steam rise from where her fingers clawed the ice.
Sean.
Who was Sean?
“Let me help you up.”
The voice sounded a million miles away. She rolled over, her body heavy, lying in the snow. She looked up, but didn’t see anything, only a vague shape and a gloved hand.
“Thank you,” she tried to say, but her tongue was thick and dry.
I want to go home.
She couldn’t remember her address.
She was lifted off the ground. She thought she heard her name from far, far away …
A female voice calling, “Lucy? Lucy, where are you?”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Sean and Kate pounded on the glass door of the florist shop. It was five after seven and they had closed.
He’d screwed up. Why hadn’t he pushed the florist earlier for a positive ID? He could have come back with Lorenzo’s picture and verified the receipt that showed that he’d bought the roses. Why had he believed it so readily? Because Lorenzo was obviously still in love with Lucy? Because he was her ex-boyfriend?
Mallory could be lying through his teeth about not being Lucy’s stalker, but Sean wasn’t taking any chances. There was too much doubt, and far too much at stake.
Kate called out to the woman behind the counter. “FBI—we have an emergency.” She held her badge up to the glass.
Lucy hadn’t answered her cell phone, but she’d probably silenced it during Mass. He sent her a text message and hoped she’d read it.
Dillon is on his way to Holy Trinity. Don’t leave the church under any circumstances. Text me back, let me know you’re okay.
If Noah had called thirty minutes earlier, Sean wouldn’t have left Lucy at the church. He’d have stayed with her, even though she told him not to. But he’d thought she was safe. Mallory and the others were behind bars and no one was going to hurt her.
He pictured her hurt and scared, and his mind snapped into focus. Self-pity wouldn’t help.
He needed to think clearly.
“Dammit,” Kate muttered when the woman frowned at them and didn’t come to the door. Kate pounded harder. “Police! Emergency!”
“Maybe she doesn’t speak English,” Sean said.
“She speaks English,” Kate said. “She just doesn’t want to be bothered.” She hit the door one last time. “Police!”
The woman shuffled to the door. She unlocked it and cracked it open. “We’re closed.”
“FBI, we have some questions about a customer.”
The woman frowned. “I can’t help you.”
“Yes you can. You have security tapes.” Kate pointed to the cameras. “Were you working Monday morning?”
“Yes, but—”
“I have a couple of pictures for you to look at. Please let us come in.” It sounded more like a command than a request.
The woman hesitated, then sighed and let them in. “My daughter said someone was asking about a delivery. She’s not supposed to talk about our customers.”
Kate strode to the counter. “On Monday, you had a customer calling himself Cody Lorenzo, who ordered a dozen red roses to be delivered to Lucy Kincaid on Volta Place.”
“Yes. He paid cash.”
“I need you to look at some pictures and tell me if one of these men said he was Cody Lorenzo.”
She frowned. “I don’t know if I can help you …”
“You can,” Kate said. “This is important.”
The woman shrugged, and Kate showed her first the picture of Lorenzo. The woman showed no sign of recognition and shook her head. “No,” she said. “The guy who came in here was white, not a Mexican.”
Sean tensed.
Kate showed her the picture of Mick Mallory. The woman again shook her head. “This guy is too old—the guy who came in didn’t have gray hair.”
“He could have been wearing a wig or hairpiece,” Sean said.
“It’s not him. This guy looks Irish—round face, blue eyes—but the guy who came in had a skinny face. Average, under forty. Short.”
“How short?”
The woman frowned and looked from Sean to Kate. “Shorter than you,” she said to Kate.
Kate was nearly the same height as Lucy, about five foot seven. That put the guy at five and a half feet.
Kate frowned. Her last photo was of Biggler, and he was five foot ten. Kate flipped the picture.
“No,” the woman said. “None of them. Now what’s going on?”
“We need your security tapes from Monday.”
When the florist went in the back, Kate turned to Sean and said, “Mallory must have another partner.”
Sean wasn’t so sure.
“Sean, what are you thinking? You’re unusually quiet.”
“This has nothing to do with Mick Mallory.”
“Cody being killed by the same man who sent Lucy flowers? It has everything to do with Mallory.”
Something didn’t feel right to Sean, but he didn’t know what it was. He looked at his phone for the tenth time since he’d sent Lucy the text. Lucy hadn’t responded to his message. He sent another message.