“Murdered.”
“I did my best to protect you kids. I wish you could understand that.”
“I understand you didn’t get Annie the help she needed.” She felt her nails bite into her palms. She realized she was slipping into a loop with her father—she accusing, he defending—the same argument over and over.
“How will it help your sister if you dig up the past? Look to the future and let the dead remain dead.”
Heather stared at him. How had he found out so fast? Planted bugs? Spies? From Lyons? Or had he been informed by a clerk just in passing? How didn’t matter, really. He knew.
“No,” Heather said.
“Just no? That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Think of your sister, your brother,” Dad said. “They don’t need to know all the details of your mother’s murder.”
“I am thinking of them,” Heather said. “And if you’d been honest with us from the start, we could’ve helped Annie much sooner. I think the truth will be good for all of us. I’ve got to go.”
Shrugging her purse strap up higher on her shoulder, Heather turned and opened the car door. Her father’s hand wrapped tight around her wrist. She stopped, glanced up at him. His gaze, hazel-eyed and clear, met hers.
“Let go,” she said.
“I want you to know, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re alive. Glad that Prejean saved your life. If Stearns had killed him…” A muscle jumped in James Wallace’s jaw.
“Stearns risked his life for me. When he shot Dante—” Heather fell silent, heart pounding. He’d slipped that comment in so casually, so smooth. Hooked her like she was fresh out of the Academy.
Glad that Prejean saved your life.
How could he possibly know?
She’d told only one person what Dante had done; a whispered phone conversation with the only person who wouldn’t judge her or think her nuts. A tumbler of brandy in her hand, her throat aching with each word, she’d shared Dante with her sister.
I didn’t walk away. I just stepped back for a bit. To figure things out.
Then call him, Heather. Let him know you’re worried about him, that you care.
Heather jerked free of her father’s hold. She slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door. She breathed in the faint odor of vanilla from the Starry Night air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. She felt as tight and hard as a fist. Struggled to breathe around the twisted knot of anger in her chest.
James William Wallace stepped back, a rueful smile tilting his lips.
Bureau man. Father. Husband. And a coldhearted, lying bastard.
Had her phone or Annie’s been tapped?
She keyed on the engine, slammed the Trans Am into gear, and peeled out of the parking garage
She needed to warn Dante.
THE DOOR CLICKED SHUT behind Caterina and two sets of eyes watched as she crossed the room to stand in front of the ADIC. Rutgers’s assistant, SA Brian Sheridan, stood behind Rutgers’s chair like one of the royal guards Caterina’s mother had described from her time centuries before in the Italian court, his gaze distant and his face serene despite the sweat drying on his forehead.
“I wasn’t aware you were in D.C., Cortini,” Rutgers said with a frown. She tapped a finger against a neat stack of folders on her desk.
“That was the idea,” Caterina said, seating herself in one of the chairs positioned before the desk. Leather creaked. She glanced at Sheridan. “Our conversation needs to be private.”
Sheridan’s gaze was no longer distant, but fixed on her, hazel-eyed and sharp. Midthirties, and judging by the fit of his well-tailored suit, in excellent shape. No doughnuts and lattes for this royal guard.
“Go ahead,” Rutgers told him.
Gaze still on Caterina, Sheridan said, “Yes, ma’am.” He walked across the office in quick strides. The door shut quietly behind him.
Caterina set up her audio jammer on the ADIC’s desk. The slim, dark metal device was designed to look like an iPod, but she had no doubt that Rutgers knew exactly what it was and why it was being used. Caterina switched it on. It chirped and burbled and squealed as it desensitized all audio recording equipment in the room.
“I’ve been sent to deliver a message,” Caterina said, holding the ADIC’s gaze. “A decision has been reached.”
Rutgers stiffened. “A decision? Regarding…?”
“The Bad Seed fiasco and the Bureau’s mismanagement of the aftermath,” Caterina clarified, although she knew perfectly well that Rutgers understood her.
“But we’re still looking into the matter,” Rutgers protested, leaning forward in her chair. She rested a hand on the stack of folders as if protecting them. “We’ve destroyed all evidence.”
Caterina shook her head. “Not all. The footage from the center’s med-unit security cameras is still missing. And some of the evidence is two-legged, walking, and definitely not destroyed.”
Rutgers closed her mouth. Her hands slid from the folders to her lap. She regarded Caterina for a long moment. “Dr. Moore and Dr. Wells are the people responsible for Bad Seed. If anyone is to blame for this mess, it’s them.”
“Moore’s still missing and Wells retired from the project five years ago. So responsibility falls to you.”
“Am I to understand you believe me at fault in this? This wasn’t just a Bureau-directed project. Your handlers played a part as well.”
“What I believe is of no concern. What is of concern are my instructions.”
“I see. And what are your instructions?”
“I’m to take care of all loose ends.”
Rutgers drew in a sharp breath. “All?”
“All, but one.”
“Dante Prejean,” Rutgers said, her voice flat. “And what about Wallace? We’ve offered her the SAC position in Seattle. You can’t mean to—”
“She’s no longer your concern,” Caterina cut in. “End your surveillance of Wallace. Call your people off Prejean. And, if Moore should turn up, please let me know immediately.” Caterina had a feeling Moore was dead, scattered ash. But, until she’d confirmed that suspicion, she’d operate as though the missing scientist were alive.
Rising to her feet, Caterina added, “If anyone rabbits, I’ll assume they were warned. And I’ll assume the warning came from you.” She held the ADIC’s brown-eyed gaze until the woman finally glanced away, jaw tight. “I hope I’ve made myself clear.”
“Completely.”
Caterina scooped up the audio jammer from the desk, but didn’t switch it off. She held it in her hand. “This decision is final. There’s no appeal.”
Rutgers looked at her then, and her eyes were as dark and bitter as scorched coffee. “There never is.”
Caterina switched off the jammer and slid it into her pocket. With a quick nod of her head, she spun on her heel and crossed the now silent room to the door.
“I feel like I’m working in the dark here,” Rutgers said.
Caterina opened the door. “You shouldn’t. Adapting to darkness isn’t difficult in our profession.” She stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her. “That’s the problem.”
6 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH HER WINDOW
Seattle, WA
March 22
CHOOSING A WINDOW AT the back of the unlit house, Dante removed the screen and rested it against the white bricks. He forced the window open with a hard, quick, upward jerk. The lock snapped with a wood-muted crack. He paused, his fingers on the window frame, listening. He heard nothing. No barking dogs. No fast-drumming heartbeats. Just silence.
Pushing aside the cream-colored curtains that belled out of the open window, Dante swung a leg over the windowsill and climbed into the darkened room. He straightened. Lowered his hood and shook his hair back from his face.
He breathed in Heather’s scent of sage and rain-wet lilac, a fresh after-the-storm smell. Her energy, her presence, warm and strong and sun-spiked with authority, illuminated the room.
br /> He slid his shades up to the top of his head, his latex shirt creaking with his movement. He stepped farther into the room. Plush sofa and recliner, along with the easy chair, coffee table—magazines and books strewn across its polished surface. A blue, star-flecked fleece throw draped the recliner.
Dante walked through the house, drinking in the details of Heather’s everyday life. He trailed his fingers along the back of the sofa, the recliner—soft cushions, slick vinyl.
Kitchen: A couple of plates in the sink, a green DONE light glowing on the dishwasher, rose and purple accents, twilight colors. The mingled odors of rosemary, olive oil, and lemon lingered in the air.
Dining room: A runner of green leaves and purple grapes draped the small table. A musty and old-blood odor wafted up from a couple of dinged-up cardboard boxes on the table. Printed in black marker on the sides of the boxes were the words WALLACE, SHANNON, CASE NO. 5123441. Photos were spread like tarot cards across the table’s dark wood surface, crime scene photos.
Dante grasped the back of the chair in front of the table, the rings on his fingers and thumbs clicking against the wood, and leaned forward.
In the dirt beneath winter-stark branches, a woman lay half-curled, her gaze on the sky above. Dante’s heart skipped a beat. She looked so much like Heather—red hair, heart-shaped face, lovely even in death.
A sister? She’d mentioned that her sister had fronted WMD before the band had split up, a sister who suffered from migraines too.
A sudden thought pulsed through him. His hands squeezed around the chair’s hardwood rung. Not her sister. Her mother. Murdered and discarded. Like his own.
Pain prickled behind his eyes, snaked through his mind. Voices whispered.
You look so much like her.
Dante-angel?
Shhh, princess. Hush, p’tite. Sleep.
Closing his eyes, Dante touched fingers to his temple. Tried not to listen to the whispers. Sweat beaded his forehead. Focus on Heather. Focus on now. The voices faded until all he heard was the steady thump of his heart.
Dante opened his eyes. He studied the photos, the report pages scattered on the table. Was she reviewing her mother’s case or reopening it? Heather looked for truth in everything she did. No matter how much it hurt. And no matter who it pissed off.
It’d nearly killed her in D.C. He’d bet anything she wasn’t any safer here.
He remembered how she’d looked the last time he’d seen her at the hospital, her face pale, eyes shadowed, sorrow pooled in their blue depths. She’d looked vulnerable, fragile. So alone.
He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to walk away again. Didn’t know if he could actually tell her good-bye. Didn’t know if he wanted to heal. Didn’t know if he deserved to heal. But he wasn’t walking until he was sure she was safe.
Shoving himself away from the chair and the crime scene photo collage, Dante walked down the hallway to the bedroom. Heather’s scent surrounded him, warm and intimate, and he breathed it in.
An inquisitive mew caught Dante’s attention. An orange cat curled at the foot of the bed opened its golden eyes and regarded him calmly.
“Hey,” Dante said, holding his hand in front of the cat’s nose. The cat sniffed his fingers, then rubbed the side of its face against the edge of his hand. He stroked the small, furred head with two fingers. The cat yawned, tongue curling lazily. “I hope you ain’t supposed to be the guard kitty, minou, cuz you’re sleeping on the job, you.”
Dante trailed his fingers across the neatly made bedspread, and a dark restlessness uncoiled within him as he remembered Heather in his lap, her arms wrapped around him, holding him tight as they rocked together. Remembered the feel of her skin—warm and soft and firm, the honeyed taste of her lips, her blood. Remembered the white silence that had cupped around them like hands sheltering flame from the wind.
It’s quiet when I’m with you. The noise stops.
I’ll help you stop it forever.
But pain still blazed within. White light flickered and strobed.
No. Focus. Stay here. Stay now. Keep her safe.
Forcing himself away from the bed, Dante walked across the carpeted floor to the dresser against the wall. Several framed photos stood grouped together, one of Heather with a girl sporting a purple Mohawk and pharaonic black eyeliner and a guy with reddish-blond hair in jeans and tee. The girl and guy both looked enough like Heather to be her sister and brother. In another photo, Heather cuddled an orange cat, her cheek pressed into the cat’s fur, her blue-eyed gaze happy, content.
The same cat now bumping up against Dante’s leg, back arched for pats. Smiling, he bent and petted the orange head. “I see you’re part of the family and not security,” Dante murmured. “Good thing for me, huh?” As the cat swiveled, purring, Dante noticed only three legs. “Looks like a good thing for you too.”
Dante straightened, kissed the tips of his fingers, and then touched them against the photo of Heather and her kitty. He’d wrapped a finger around the iron pull-ring of the first dresser drawer when he heard a faint step-step out in the living room—or maybe just outside it—followed by silence.
Dante tilted his head, held his breath, and listened.
A heart’s steady rhythm, a mortal heart’s steady rhythm. A faint scratch against wood. A key? No, sounded wrong. The window.
Dante spun and strode out of the room. As he sprinted down the hallway to the living room, pain prickled, restless and sharp, against his temples and behind his left eye. He stopped when he saw a gym bag tossed into the room through the open window. It landed on the carpet with a heavy tunk.
The battered bag with frayed straps reeked of old smoke, pot, and cigarettes. A hand holding a crowbar grasped the windowsill. Dante moved. He seized the crowbar-wielding hand and, with one hard jerk, hauled the asshole in through the window. A loud rip tore through the silence as the asshole’s hoodie or jeans snagged on the broken lock.
He smelled her, this B&E chick, before he saw her, vanilla and cloves and lavender soap, but underneath that a chemical tang smudged her scent. Pain spiked his temples at the smell, scratched like thorns across his thoughts.
Grabbing both of B&E Chick’s shoulders, Dante whirled and slammed her to the floor. Her head bounced against the carpet. Her breath whoofed out and Dante caught a whiff of booze—tequila. He straddled her, snugging a knee against either side of her ribs. Held her tight.
Something whistled through the air, moving fast. Without looking, Dante swung his left arm up and out. Cold steel smacked into his palm. The crowbar. He jerked it away from little Ms. Break-and-Enter. Tossed it. The crowbar thunked onto the carpet. Dante looked into her kohl-smudged, dilated eyes.
And realized with a cold shock that he recognized her.
Whipping her head forward, she smashed her forehead into Dante’s face. Bone crunched and pain followed hard and fast like a one-two brass-knuckled punch. Blood trickled from his now broken nose. “Fuck!”
“Get off!” B&E Chick screamed, squirming and kicking.
Not just B&E Chick, but Annie Wallace. Former front woman for the defunct WMD. He’d recognized her scowling face from the photos on Heather’s dresser.
Dante grabbed a double fistful of Annie’s black hoodie and jumped to his feet, yanking her up with him. She swung a fist but missed him by a mile. He slammed her against the wall and braced an arm against her chest. When he saw her throat muscles tense, he beat her to the punch and head-butted her first. Their heads met with a loud clonk.
Her head thumped back into the wall, denting the plaster. She looked up at him, blinking, more startled than hurt. Her eyes were sky-blue, not Heather’s shade of deepest twilight. She was about the same height as Heather, five four or so to his five nine.
Her hair, streaked electric blue, purple, and black, framed her face and swept razor-cut ends against her shoulders. Metal rings and studs gleamed at her eyebrows, ears, and bee-stung lower lip.
He touched his nose. Pushed. Winced. The bon
e cracked as it slid into place. He sniffed back blood. “You gonna calm the fuck down? Or we gonna do this all night?”
“Fucker,” she spat, her kohl-lined eyes locking onto his face. She stopped struggling. She sucked in air, eyes widening, the pupils dilating even more.
Dante sighed and looked away, muscles taut. He knew his looks hooked into people, mortal and nightkind, and reeled them in by the crotch. Hot and bothered. Wanting him, wanting what they saw, anyway. Sometimes that was okay. Sometimes it was fun. But only sometimes.
“Hey.”
Dante swiveled his head back around. And she kissed him. Warm lips tasting of tequila and clove cigarettes. He pulled back, felt a smile tilting his lips. “First the head-butt greeting, followed up with a sloppy kiss. Is this how y’all do it in Seattle?”
“Who the hell are you? How come you broke into my sister’s house?”
“Toi t’a pas de la place pour parler. I ain’t the only one,” Dante said, nodding at the crowbar on the carpet. “How come you’re breaking in?”
She glanced at the crowbar. “Nuh-uh. You broke in first.”
“I’m a friend. Just wanted to see if Heather was all right.”
“Most people knock on the door first to see if someone’s home,” she said, lifting her chin. “Then wait for them to answer it.”
Dante glanced at the crowbar on the floor. “Yeah? And you know this how?”
“Heard it from, like, normal people,” she said. She pushed against his arm. “You can let go now. I promise not to make you bleed anymore.”
Dante snorted. “You didn’t make me bleed. The broken nose did that.” He stepped back, releasing her.
Annie rubbed her forehead. “Hard skull, man. Your nose looks okay to me, you big baby. By the way, I’m Annie.” She extended her hand.
“I figured. Heather’s talked about you.” Dante grasped her hand and shook it. “I’m Dante.” Her grip was firm like Heather’s, but hard, like she was still challenging him, trying to make him wince.