The silence grew tedious as they stepped into the garage elevator. She noticed the steely look on Zach’s face. Claustrophobic, though he staunchly denied it. It brought her back to a day when the two of them, teenage rebels cutting school to go to the beach, had discovered a massive drainage pipe and stupidly gone in to explore. The deeper they’d gone into that cement tube, the sweatier and more panic-stricken Zach had become until she’d thought he was going to pass out. Grabbing his wrist, she’d led him from the pipe to a spot of sand where she’d held him around the shoulders until his breathing quieted.
“Sorry, Vi,” he’d said, mortified, forehead pressed to hers.
She’d squeezed his fingers, kissed him on the cheek, made a joke and never mentioned the incident again. It was her gift to him, a secret kept, a silent pact from two childhood friends. And he’d kept her secrets, too. In eighth grade Gil Fisher had stolen her journal from her locker. Violet wasn’t a writer, but inside were her sketches of the boys she’d had crushes on, complete with colored hearts around them. Gil was prepared to share her private drawings with every kid in the school until Zach got a hold of him. Whatever he’d said to Gil she would never know, but Gil had promptly handed back the journal and none of them had ever spoken of it. She wondered for the millionth time if Zach had seen the last picture in the journal, a picture she’d sketched of him.
As the elevator shuddered upward, the tight line of his jaw indicated that he was gritting out the ride. She wished she had the nerve to take his hand again and tell him she still understood, had his back through whatever would come. She yearned to comfort him about Jordy’s death. How the touch would comfort her, too, still the wobbling in her stomach and the trembling in her knees. But they had roles to play, didn’t they? Instead, she watched the buttons light the way to the third floor and stepped out next to him.
Violet sighed. “Satisfied? We made it to your car safe and sound. Box checked. The first part of your job is done.”
He frowned. “You’re not just a job, Vi.”
He didn’t look at her when he said it, and she knew the words hadn’t been easy for him to get out. She gentled her tone. “I know. Thanks for everything.”
“I’ll get you settled in at your apartment. Make sure everything’s secure.”
“Not necessary.”
“Did you get an alarm system or a Doberman since I was there last?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll check the doors and windows, since your roomie’s out of town.”
She threw up a hand. “Okay. You win.”
“That’s a first.”
“It probably won’t happen again anytime soon.”
“Then I’ll just bask in the glow.”
She stopped at the rear bumper when he touched her shoulders.
“Really, Vi. Kidding aside. I want you to be careful.” His hands wandered up her back, coming to rest on her neck under her hair. The blue of his eyes lulled her, his face so incredibly handsome.
A squealing of tires split the air. Zach’s head jerked up. A car peeled around the curve, a flash of a familiar face behind the wheel, big, barrel-chested.
Her attacker.
Joe Brown.
Eyes slitted, ruthless, determined half smile.
The car bore down on them. Zach shoved Violet behind him.
In terror she grappled to get hold of his shirt and pull him back with her between the parked cars, but he was turning, reaching for his side arm, shouting.
The car careened on, charging toward Zach and Eddie like a heat-seeking missile until the front bumper plowed into the rear of Zach’s SUV.
Glass shattered somewhere close, pinging her with tiny chips. She stumbled.
Zach leaped backward, pulling Eddie with him, crashing into the side of the vehicle. A bright drop of blood splattered the rear passenger window.
Zach lay on the ground, eyes closed, while Eddie whined and pawed at his chest.
Zach felt pressure on his rib cage, a flash of hot pain on his cheek, followed by the clammy squelch of a probing dog nose. Cold from the cement floor seeped through his uniform shirt. The sensations coalesced all at once into a frantic need to move. He opened his eyes and jerked to a sitting position, sending Eddie into another round of high-pitched yelping. He saw himself mirrored in Violet’s brown irises as she stared down at him. She pressed a hand to his sternum.
“Stay still. I’ll call for an ambulance.”
He ignored her, struggling to his feet while scanning the parking lot for Joe Brown. He was long gone. Zach bit back a growl of frustration, jerked his radio free and called in. The on-duty police and TSA were alerted to look for the vehicle. It was the best they could do. He declined medical help, of course. Mercifully, Violet appeared unharmed. One thing had gone right, anyway.
“How did he know you were leaving with me?” he mused. “Seems unlikely he would stick around to tail us.” It wasn’t coincidence, either. LaGuardia had multiple police parking areas, both outdoors as well as the garage, so it hadn’t been a fortunate guess on the part of Brown. They might have been followed from the terminal, but he probably would have noticed that and no one had tracked them into the elevator.
Violet frowned and he knew what she was thinking.
“Your boss knows you left with me?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“So it would be easy for him to pass that on to Brown...”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Violet said, but she didn’t sound convinced. He wasn’t, either.
Carter’s text buzzed in his phone.
Anyone hurt?
Violet’s okay.
You?
Just my pride.
He put the phone away before Carter got a chance to snap off a snarky reply.
Violet was pulling at his wrist, turning him to face her. “No matter how they found out, they’re gone and you’re bleeding. Stay still.”
“No, I’m not hurt.”
“Yes,” she said in the overly controlled voice she used when he was driving her to distraction. “You are.” She pointed to the side of his head.
He felt then a trickle of warmth and swiped at it, his fist coming away with a smear of red. “I’m not hurt,” he repeated, hoping he didn’t sound like a cranky child.
She grabbed a tiny packet of tissues from her purse and pressed one to his temple, pulling it away to show him the blood. “Not-hurt people don’t bleed on other people’s clothes.”
He noticed another spot on the front of her uniform.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I must have hit the door handle on the way down. I’ll wash it.”
“No, you’ll have it dry-cleaned, you big oaf,” she said, but her smile was soft as she dabbed at his cut. “Doesn’t look deep. Cops will send a unit to check on you, or an ambulance, right?”
“Told ’em not to. Need every cop out looking for Brown.”
She heaved out a sigh. “And you say I’m stubborn.”
“You are. Way more stubborn