She blinked. “These are your parents we’re talking about.”
“Exactly.”
Her brow furrowed. He’d never been blind to his parents’ quirks, but he’d never been this critical. It struck her as especially odd now, with his father missing. But she didn’t want to go there, so she said nothing.
“Where have you been?”
He sounded as if he’d fought asking, so she considered her answer carefully. “Here.”
“You never left Dallas?”
“Only for a while. I went to school. Came back. Had a couple of jobs, worked my way to where I am now.”
He looked at her over steepled fingers. “Which is?”
She gave him a sideways look. “I work at a hotel.” She decided not to tell him at the moment that her hotel could be seen through the big windows of this office. Or that she’d hesitated taking the job for that very reason.
“Doing?”
“Sous-chef. Mainly I work in one of the restaurants, although I’m on the banquet staff, too.”
She waited, thinking silence could work in both directions, and that she could do it, now that she was a little calmer. And if answering these questions would get him to help her keep Emma safe, the cost would be little enough.
“Stayed in the kitchen, then.”
He didn’t say it the way some did, his mother in particular, who had a way of using the phrase “kitchen help” that had set her teeth on edge.
“It was what I knew.”
“Use us as a reference?”
That cut, and she knew he’d meant it to. He would never belittle her job, he respected honest work. But what she’d done...
She pulled herself together inwardly. She’d done what she’d done, she’d thought it her only option at the time, and she couldn’t change it. She’d apologized, both for coming here and for what had happened four years ago. He deserved that. And she would beg, if she had to, for Emma. But she wouldn’t grovel at his feet. She would find another way.
“If I’d been braver, and smarter—and less scared for my daughter—at the time, I would have demanded a glowing reference as part of the deal.” She got to her feet. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Colton.”
“Leaving so soon?” He didn’t even react to the formality. She realized she was getting a taste of what negotiating with him must be like.
“This was obviously a mistake.” She grimaced. “I thought I was past making them this big, but obviously I was too scared by last night to think straight.”
His jaw tightened. She wondered if it was in outrage that she’d had the nerve to even begin to think he might help her. She wouldn’t blame him if it was.
“I can’t change what happened, but I am glad to have had the chance to apologize and explain. I know it makes no difference to you, but it does to me.”
She turned and walked toward the door. Her heart was sinking, and she felt panic hovering anew. Mrs. Amaro, she thought desperately. Perhaps she would watch Emma tonight while Jolie went back to the apartment and gathered some things. She didn’t want the girl to go back there, wondered if she would ever feel safe there again, even if the killer was found.
And then they would go...somewhere. She didn’t know where, but somewhere safe. She would think of something.
She had to.
T.C. watched her go. He was so angry at himself he said nothing. Well, angry at his body, anyway, for the instant, fierce response to her. If he’d had half that response to anyone else, he’d likely be married and have produced the precious grandkids his father kept nagging him about.
Had kept nagging him about.
And that unwelcome thought made him realize that after that first moment, he’d never once thought of Fowler’s accusations.
“Jolie.”
She stopped, half turned back to look at him. He steeled himself and ignored the flash of hope he saw in her eyes.
“Have you seen my father?”
Her brow furrowed. She seemed genuinely bewildered by the question. “Of course not. I would have told you, first thing. And the police. I wouldn’t have forgotten that, no matter what that woman did last night.”
Out of what he told himself was idle curiosity, he asked, “I thought it was too dark to see?”
“It was. That’s why I can’t say for sure she was blond. It could have been the light.”
“Then how are you so sure it was a woman at all?”
“I could tell when I tackled her.”
He drew back slightly. “Tackled her? You tackled an armed assailant?”
“Of course,” she said with a frown. “She had my little girl.”
And a knife, T.C. thought. Jolie might not have had the strength of will to stand up to his mother and father four years ago, but as a mother, she was clearly a tigress.
He wondered, only briefly because the images the thought caused were beyond disturbing, if the would-be abductor was indeed this killer, why she hadn’t simply killed the child—the witness—in her bed? Why try to take her? Had she intended to just kill the girl, but panicked when she was caught in the act? Had Jolie interrupted a murder?
And why was he even wondering, when he was not involved? He was so not involved, he insisted to himself.
When he said nothing more, she turned back and opened the door to the outer office.
“Mommy, look!”
The little girl’s voice was excited, happy. She appeared in the doorway, a large piece of paper in her hand. It appeared to be a drawing of some kind.
“The nice lady gave me markers. An’ a big piece of paper. So I could draw a picture.”
“Bless her for putting a smile back on your face,” Jolie said softly.
“It was a dog,” the child said, pointing. “But it got too big. So it’s a horse.”
“I can see that.”
T.C. watched this exchange with every effort at detachment. He failed miserably. Memories of the baby he’d held—rather inexpertly—who had smiled up at him and cooed, reached out and touched his cheek with seeming fascination, threatened to swamp him. And then he again noticed the Band-Aid on her neck, finally connected it with the story Jolie had told him, and nausea roiled his gut.
“Can I show your friend?” the little girl asked.
“Emma, no, I—”
It was too late; the child was already running toward him, confident, happy, the nightmares behind her for the moment. His first thought was what a good job Jolie had done with her daughter. His second was utter panic.
“See?” Emma plopped her slightly crooked drawing down on his desk. He saw the bits of red, black and green on her hands, which he guessed corresponded to a couple of smudged spots he noticed on the drawing.
“I...yes.”
“He’s eating grass. ’Cuz that’s what horses do.”
“Yes, they do,” he said, wondering if he sounded as awkward as he felt. The girl was busy explaining all the features of her drawing, and he caught himself just watching her rather than the paper she was pointing to. He could see traces of the baby he’d