said.
“The shower is upstairs, third door on your left,” she said, intentionally interrupting him, fearing what he was about to say.
“Oh, okay,” he said, some of the tension leaching from his voice.
“Towels are in the linen closet in the restroom.” She motioned toward the stairs, afraid that if she spent one more moment alone with him she would say something else that would bring him even deeper into her life.
He nodded and silently made his way out of the living room and up the stairs. His footfalls echoed on the marble steps, their sad sound cascading down upon her. As the sound quieted, she exhaled long and hard. She needed to get a grip on herself.
She sat down on her couch, picked up her landline telephone and dialed her brother. Daniel’s phone went straight to voice mail. “Hey, Danny, I hope everything is going well in DC. Things up here… Well, give me a call when you can.” There was a crack in her voice as she spoke. No doubt Daniel would pick right up on it and be worried. “I’m fine, everything is fine, but I hope Anya’s okay. Just call.”
Ugh.
That wasn’t how she had anticipated that going. Once he got her message, she would have to talk him down off a cliff. He’d always been the worrying type. She hung up the phone, half expecting to get a call from him, but nothing came.
She waited for a moment before ascending the stairs to the third floor and to her bedroom. It was just as it had been yesterday, understated but tasteful. She could still pick up the scent of her Mademoiselle perfume as she entered the bathroom.
It was as if nothing had happened.
A towel hung on the hook next to a clean washcloth and bathrobe. The cleaning lady must have come, and all had been replaced and freshened. In fact, the only thing out of place in the entire house was her.
She pulled off her hospital gowns and tossed them in the bin as she turned on the shower and waited for it to warm. Steam began to rise around her as she stood examining herself in the mirror. For all intents and purposes, she seemed the same. Same eyes, same nose, same cheeks, but nothing felt the same. In one moment everything had changed.
She wasn’t entirely sure if it was because of the attack or because of the strange feelings she was experiencing with Jarrod.
It was though she were drawn to him by some invisible force. The words that came out of her mouth even worked to pull him closer. At the same time, all she wanted to do was push him away.
She wrapped a towel around her body and made her way out to her closet. Surveying the racks of clothes, she wasn’t sure whether she should go with business attire, or leggings and sweatshirt. Whatever she wore, it would send a message to him, but what she wanted to do was put on comfortable clothes and binge-watch Netflix all day.
She grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. A happy medium, for them both.
As she reached into her drawer of undergarments, a draft brushed against her bare shoulders. She started to turn, but a hand wrapped around her neck.
She dropped her clothes. “What in the—”
“Shut up, dammit.” A man’s hot breath wafted against her skin.
She tried to turn around, but as she struggled, the man’s hand tightened. Reaching to her left, she grabbed her Manolo stiletto.
“You can thank your boyfriend for this.” His accent was thick, guttural.
“Who are you?”
The tip of a knife pressed into her side. And his hand loosened slightly.
She stole the moment. Raising the shoe, she slammed it down as hard as she could into the man’s thigh. She rolled out of his grasp, grabbing her other shoe as he dropped to his knee in pain. He yelled, something in a foreign language she couldn’t understand but was sure was a string of expletives.
The man struggled to stand up, limping on his good leg, slashing at her with the knife. She pressed back into her closet as blood poured down the man’s leg. She had hit him perfectly in the inner thigh.
“Don’t come any closer,” she yelled. “Jarrod is coming. He’s here. He’ll kill you. Jarrod!”
The man lunged at her with the knife. She watched his eyes darken and his shoulders move toward her. His breath froze as the knife in his hand moved immeasurably slowly and the world stopped around them. She held the shoe high and bore it down. The heel pierced the soft, pudgy flesh of the man’s neck.
Blood pulsed from the hole she’d left as she drew the shoe back and slammed it down again.
The man fell as the red fountain sprayed from him, coating the clothes to her right. In a few beats, it slowed. The pool of crimson blood grew around him, staining the faux fur area rug that adorned the closet floor.
She stared at the shoe that was protruding from the man’s neck. The swooping swan-style jewels on the shoe were covered in tiny drops of blood.
Dang.
She’d always loved those shoes, even though they were too narrow and had done nothing but sit in her closet since the day she’d bought them.
At least she had finally gotten her money’s worth.
No matter what—or who—was to come, she couldn’t be taken by surprise again.
“Oh,” Jarrod said, standing at the doorway of the closet. He held the towel tight around his waist as he stared at the scene in front of him. “Yeah. Okay,” he said, stunned by what was unfolding.
“I… I…” Mindy stammered, pointing at the dead man on the floor.
“It’s okay,” he said, sidestepping around the man’s body and moving to her. Like him, she was wearing nothing more than a white bath sheet. “Don’t worry about this,” he said, looking down at the knife that still rested in the fat man’s hand. “Are you okay? He didn’t cut you anywhere, did he?”
She seemed surprised, as though she hadn’t even thought to check her body for any harm. She glanced down at her body, inspecting it. “I… I think I’m fine. Just… I don’t know.”
“You’re in shock. This is normal. You have been through a lot in the last forty-eight hours.” He took her gently by the arm and helped her navigate around the body and out of the closet. “Let’s just get you into the shower and then we’ll get out of here.”
There was blood on her hands and splattered over her white towel. In an effort to keep her from being even more traumatized, he moved her through the bathroom and kept her from seeing herself in the mirror. He let go of her and turned his back. “Hand me the towel. Then get in. I’ll get you some clothes. Anything you prefer?”
His question was met with silence. After a moment, there was the click as she opened the shower door, and then she gently handed him the towel.
He walked out of the bathroom, loudly closing the door behind him so she could be more comfortable. He made his way back to her closet and the body.
The dead guy was in his midthirties, obese and starting to bald. His features were familiar, but he wasn’t sure from exactly where.
There was no way anyone from the Gray Wolves could have known where he would be, or with whom, unless they had been following him. It didn’t seem possible. This man had to be here for her.
Which brought him back to the reality that, regardless of any feelings he held for the woman, he couldn’t do anything about them. He had to find out the truth and that was that.
He sent a quick email, with picture, to his people at the CIA and followed it up with an email to Zoey. Between his teams, it would only