RHONDA: Hope you are safe. It looked like the shooting was scary. Maybe you should change jobs. Maybe there’s a way you could help the investigation without coming back. What if I talked to them for you and they sent photographs of suspects to look at? What do you think?
I typed out my reply and reread it.
ME: Don’t contact the cops about any of this. That would put me in danger. I have to stay hidden for now.
RHONDA: Are you safe?
ME: For now.
That she would even suggest such a thing made my mouth go dry. Any contact with the police could leave a trail to me for the killer to follow. The task force in the Boston PD had known I’d gone to Atlanta. The chancethat one of them had been the leak wasn’t high, but any chance was too high to tolerate.
I’d seen his face, and those eyes, but I didn’t know him. I couldn’t help. I couldn’t tell anyone who he was.
Zane
When I woketo the early morning light, I sat up and checked the room. A long, relieved breath escaped me. The comforter hadn’t been dislodged. The sheets were still tucked in. Nothing was damaged.
Maybe the meditation had cured me. Nothing kept a SEAL down. Not only did my tattoo proclaim it, but I knew it as truth.
After using the bathroom, I checked the hallway.
Peyton was still asleep, judging by the lack of lights or noise.
After slipping into my spare cargo shorts, I headed downstairs. I had to open four cabinets to find the boxes of coffee and a French press. No simple percolator or coffee machine in sight. Personally, I was into the machine that took pods and was quick.
In addition, none of the boxes were my standard Starbucks. All of them had fu-fu names I didn’t recognize. Since I drank my coffee black, I chose the box labeledBlack Ivory, an illogical name if you asked me, but what the hell?
After heating water in the microwave, I soon had a steaming-hot French press full of coffee.
“I have to get the paper.” Peyton’s melodic voice sounded from behind me.
Turning, I found her in tight blue leggings and the same color sports bra. Did I notice how delectable she looked? Any man with functioning eyeballs would.
I hadn’t heard her come down the stairs, but that was probably because she was barefoot.
She backed toward the door.
I crooked my finger at her. “Not so fast. How do you feel this morning?”
“Fine, Dr. March.” Sarcasm laced her voice.
The cut on her wrist was red. “Let me see that hand.”
“It happened when they tore the watch off me,” she explained as she held it out.
I turned it over. “Where’s the watch now?”
She nodded. “The counter behind you.”
Her wrist wasn’t as bad as I’d thought, just an irritated and rather deep scratch. “I’ll get it fixed.”
“You don’t need to do that. It’s fake.”
I added my other hand to her injured one and captured her eyes. “I said I’ll get it fixed for you.”
She huffed, but corralled her opposition.
“It’s time to test you again.”
