And fifteen minutes later, he was the one to tell her the man was gone.
CHAPTER 21
Rowan didn’t see John after the funeral. She didn’t understand why she felt oddly empty. After all, John had family and friends in from all over the country to pay respects to his brother. And Tess needed comfort and strength, something that John had in abundance.
But at three in the morning when Rowan woke from another nightmare, she wished he were there to hold her.
Foolish, she thought as reached under her pillow for her Glock and sat up in bed. She’d lived with her nightmares on and off for twenty-three years without relying on a man to comfort her. Why now? Why John?
She held the cold gun in her hands and stared into the darkness outside the large picture window. It was a moonless night, but the stars were so bright they seemed touchable.
Bobby, come for me. Please. I need this to be over.
Her inner strength began to melt. The carefully constructed wall that had protected her for so long crumbled at her feet. She was a trapped animal, pacing, pacing, pacing. Waiting for someone to come and shoot her. A mouse being toyed with by a cat. As soon as the mouse lost hope and cowered, the cat killed its prey.
Was that what Bobby was doing? Toying with her until she broke? Playing with her until she screamed with rage or retreated into her mind with insanity?
Did he want to turn her into their father? A hollow shell of a man, a victim of his weak mind and guilty conscience?
What if she didn’t give him what he wanted? What if she didn’t plead for mercy or beg for death? What if she simply stood there and took whatever he intended to give her?
It wasn’t John she thought of just then. It was Michael.
And Doreen and the Harpers and the florist and pretty Melissa Jane Acker.
She wouldn’t let Bobby win. Not for herself. For them. The victims of his glee, the down payment for his plans. They deserved justice. They deserved peace in the grave.
Peace would only come when Bobby was dead and buried and rotting in hell.
Sleep wasn’t going to come, she realized, as she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side. She slipped into the running shoes that always had a place by the side of her bed and laced them in the dark.
Four in the morning. She couldn’t wake Quinn now for a run, but she’d love one as dawn crested over the Malibu mountains and lit the ocean. Five-thirty. Until then, maybe she could get some writing done. It had been weeks since she’d been able to write a word.
She quietly walked down the stairs and let herself into the den. She closed the door and booted her computer.
She wasn’t working on a fictional House of Terror. At least, she wasn’t writing the book she’d started three months ago. She’d realized after Doreen Rodriguez was killed she couldn’t write fiction anymore, at least not now. Maybe not ever. Not pretend murders and unreal evil.
But her new work was still called House of Terror. And her new work had the same crime.
Only the victims were real, the murderer real, the survivors real.
For the first time, she was writing true crime.
A huge weight lifted from her heart.
It was seven when John knocked on Rowan’s door. Quinn Peterson answered immediately, expecting him.
“Collins talk to you?” Peterson asked as he locked the door and reset the alarm, his voice rough from lack of sleep.
“Yep.” John glanced around the room, not realizing he was looking for Rowan until he didn’t see her. “Where’s Rowan?”
Peterson nodded toward the closed den door. “She’s been in there since four this morning.”
John frowned. He didn’t like Rowan’s habit of locking herself in her den. “Have you checked on her?”
The agent nodded as he led John into the kitchen. “I was sleeping on the couch and the sound of the computer woke me. She said she was writing and wanted to go running at six. But when I went in then, she hadn’t moved and told me to give her ten minutes. But then Roger called, and-” he ended with a shrug.
“You told her?”
“Oh, yeah. She’d strangle me if I kept any news from her. I told her everything we know about Bobby and the woman in Dallas.” He handed John a cup of hot, black coffee and refilled his own mug.
“And her reaction?”
“At first angry, then pleased that the woman got away. Almost emboldened. Then she went back to writing.”
“I’m going to talk to her.” I need to see her.
“Did Collins ask you about going to the safe house?”
John nodded. “I agreed.”
“Good.”
“I don’t think Rowan is going to feel the same.”
John walked down the hall and stood outside the den. Faintly, he heard fingers tapping on the keyboard in spurts of speed.
He hadn’t wanted to agree with Roger Collins’s request that he escort Rowan to a safe house while the manhunt for Bobby MacIntosh raged. He wanted-needed-to be there when they caught Bobby. The bastard who’d killed Michael. The bastard who had been tormenting Rowan until she almost broke.
He almost wanted Bobby to break into the house so he had an excuse to kill him.
But he didn’t want to endanger Rowan. Keeping her safe had become more important than anything else. Keeping her alive until Bobby was caught or killed, then keeping her by his side. How, he wasn’t sure. These feelings were new to him, confusing. Disconcerting.
He couldn’t just walk away with a kiss and goodbye.
She had become important to him in a short period of time. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. He trusted no one else to protect her, no one else to ensure her safety. So he agreed to escort her to the safe house and stay with her until MacIntosh was caught. It was one of the hardest decisions in his life, but he felt it was right. Keep her safe.
After the fiasco in Dallas, MacIntosh would be enraged. More likely to make mistakes. So it was only a matter of time.
The prostitute was under twenty-four-hour protection as well, Collins told John, in case MacIntosh went after her to finish the job. Apparently, she’d taken extensive self-defense training and had been warned by a friend that the man she knew as Rex Barker might be dangerous.
That knowledge probably saved her life.
John stared at the door, dreading talking to Rowan about the safe house, but the clock was ticking. It had to be done. He knocked once on the door and opened it.
Rowan sat at her computer, hands poised above the keyboard as she glanced over her shoulder. She caught his eye, and John saw a side of Rowan he’d never seen. A spark in her eyes, a light in her face-something was different. Maybe it was the slight smile on her lips-was she happy to see him?
He’d missed her. The realization hit him with an almost physical force and he would have taken a step back if he hadn’t stopped himself.
Yesterday, he’d seen her in the back of the church and wanted her at his side. For comfort. Had she been with him, the entire day would have been a little easier. But she’d left at the end of the service, and he had too many obligations to follow her.
It left a hole in his heart. Something he desperately wanted to fix now. Seeing her this morning almost made up for being apart the night before.
She’d said something, but he’d missed it.
“I’m sorry, what?” he asked, feeling like a lovestruck teenager.
“Is the girl okay? Sadie Pierce?” Rowan swiveled the chair to look at him. She wore gray sweats and a faded blue T-shirt, her hair pulled back, and she had on no makeup, but Rowan couldn’t have looked more appealing to him.
What was wrong with him? He didn’t form romantic attachments, especially with women he worked with. Or protected. That wasn’t his M.O., and he didn’t want to start now.
“She’s under protection,” he said. “Spent the night in the hospital and was released, minor injuries. She’s resilient.”