If he’d recognized her face from the papers, he didn’t let on—nor did he treat her as a recent suspect. He was polite, professional, and apparently not much on small talk—which suited her fine in her present mood.
Over the long hours they sat waiting in the small regional airport for their flight to Lewis, they probably exchanged no more than a dozen words. It wasn’t until right before they landed when he mentioned his two young daughters that his dour, nondescript face brightened with a smile. He was positively beaming with pride at her genuine admiration as he showed her the phone pictures of the two redheaded and adorable twins. She hadn’t noticed until then that he had quite a bit of red in his brown hair. The girls were about six—five and a half, he later told her—and were about to start school in the fall. She took it that the girls’ mother was more excited about that than he was.
“Lots of trouble out there for young lassies,” he said somberly.
Annie could hardly argue with that.
Admiring someone’s children had a way of breaking the ice, and the sergeant was considerably more animated for the rest of their journey. He told her a little about the organization of the police force in Scotland and gave her an idea of what she could expect when they arrived.
Annie wanted to be angry with Dan for his guilt-motivated protective services, but she had to admit the presence of the sergeant wasn’t entirely unwelcome. She knew Jean Paul was dead, but the armed officer did provide some comfort after all she’d been through in the past week.
It was with genuine gratitude that she thanked the sergeant for his safe escort when they arrived at Lewis and were met by local police and MDP officers.
From Sergeant Brooks, she’d learned that the MDP was a separate civilian—not military—special police force tasked with, among other things, policing high-security sites from nuclear facilities to military facilities and oil and gas terminals around the UK. They were involved because of the oildrilling operations. Unlike most police officers in Scotland, the MDP were heavily armed and reported to the UK government rather than to the Scottish government—neither of which played well to the local population.
She was introduced to a few others (two men and one woman) when they reached the station. They weren’t identified by the local chief inspector, but Annie marked them as “spooks,” aka MI5. Or would it be MI6, which like the US CIA dealt with matters outside domestic boundaries?
She didn’t know, and it didn’t really matter. For the next three hours she answered all their questions about Jean Paul, Claude, and Julien as best she could. Unfortunately, as she’d been kept completely out of the loop—or cell, in this case—she didn’t know much. Julien had never told her about his family or background. Now she understood why.
The MI agents also asked quite a few questions about the man who’d helped her. There wasn’t much she could tell them other than he’d saved her life. What she’d guessed, she kept to herself. She wasn’t going to be the one to blow his cover. Whatever he was mixed up with, it was obviously serious and dangerous.
She hated that he’d left her, but she didn’t want to see him killed.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one acting protectively.
The men questioning her seemed to know more than they were letting on as well, but they didn’t press her too hard. Dan’s contact must have a very long and strong reach.
It probably didn’t hurt that they’d learned who her stepfather was as well. Well-known billionaires had a way of making people overly ingratiating, which was one of the reasons she rarely mentioned him.
It was close to eight when the authorities finally finished questioning her. They were happy to hear that she didn’t intend to leave right away and said they might have some questions for her over the next few days as the investigation progressed.
Her pink bag was returned—along with her things from the guest house, which had been seized when she was a murder suspect—and a young constable offered to take her to a hotel.
She was glad he didn’t suggest the Harbour Bar & Guest House, which had too many memories. He took her to the Stornoway Hotel, where a room was waiting for her.
Her mother had been busy.
Annie had had very little to eat over the past twenty-four hours and didn’t object when the very effusive manager told her a late dinner was being prepared for her.
After forcing a few bites of the vegetarian pasta dish down, she collapsed on the bed and fell asleep moments after her head hit the pillow.
It had been a long and difficult day. Tomorrow would be better.
But God, how long would it take for her to stop looking over her shoulder, wondering if he would ever show up again?
And when would she stop missing him?
•••
Dean didn’t know what was wrong with him. After getting rid of the receptionist in Oban, he’d caught the train to Glasgow, found a cheap hotel to sleep in, and made contact with the guy who was going to take care of getting him new docs. His passport would be ready in a couple of hours.
Everything was proceeding smoothly. He’d gotten away with minimal damage—and if that picture turned out not to have gone beyond Jean Paul’s phone, no damage. So why the hell couldn’t he relax? Why was he going over every detail of the past few days, feeling as if he’d missed something?
He couldn’t let go of the feeling that he’d made a mistake.
What had happened to his hard truths? He didn’t waste time by dwelling on things he couldn’t change. He’d always been able to accept and move on. It was one of his greatest strengths, enabling him to mentally adjust quickly to changing circumstances. On an op, those changing circumstances almost always meant when things went to shit.
But this with Annie...? His mind wasn’t adjusting, and it definitely wasn’t moving on twenty-four hours later. It was dwelling, big-time.
