He wore jeans, a white shirt—and a shoulder holster.
“Good morning. Or afternoon. I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal John Barrow. It’s all right, Elizabeth. We’re here to keep you safe.”
“You’re a U.S. Marshal.”
“That’s right. Later today, we’re going to take you to another safe house.”
“Is Detective Griffith here?”
“She’ll be here later. She got you some clothes, some things.” He paused for another moment when Elizabeth only stared at him. “You gave her your key, told her it was all right if she went to your house, got you some clothes, your toothbrush, that sort of thing.”
“Yes. I remember.”
“I bet you could use some coffee, some aspirin.”
“I…I’d like to take a shower, if that’s all right.”
“Sure.” He smiled again, set the carafe and mug down. He had blue eyes but not like her mother’s. His were a deeper tone, and warm.
“I’ll get your bag. I’m here with Deputy Marshal Theresa Norton. I want you to feel secure, Elizabeth—do they call you Liz?”
Tears stung the back of her eyes. “Julie called me Liz. Julie did.”
“I’m sorry about your friend. You’ve had a rough time of it, Liz. Theresa and I are going to look out for you.”
“They’ll kill me if they find me. I know that.”
Those warm blue eyes looked straight into hers. “They won’t find you. And I won’t let them hurt you.”
She wanted to believe him. He had a good face. Thin, like the rest of him, almost scholarly. “How long do I have to hide?”
“Let’s take it a day at a time for now. I’ll get your stuff.”
She stood exactly where she was until he came back, carrying her travel Pullman.
“Why don’t I fix up some food while you’re cleaning up,” he suggested. “I’m a better cook than Terry. That’s not saying much, but I won’t poison you.”
“Thank you. If it’s no trouble.”
“It’s not.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know where the shower is.”
“That way.” He pointed. “Then hang a right.”
He watched her go, then picked up his coffee, stared into it. He set it down again when his partner walked in from the outside.
“She’s up,” he said. “Jesus, Terry, she looked closer to twelve than twenty-one. She should never have gotten in that club.”
“You saw the ID she forged. She could make a living.” Small, tough, pretty as a daisy, Terry hit the coffeepot. “How’s she holding up?”
“By one rough strand of grit, if you ask me. Polite as your great-aunt Martha.”
“If I had a great-aunt Martha, she’d be a bitch on wheels.”
“She never asked about her mother. About Griffith, but not her own mother. That tells you something. I’m going to fix her some bacon and eggs.”
He pulled open the refrigerator, got out what he needed.
