Thread of Fear (29 page)

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

The nurse left, and Courtney shoved her purse on the floor and flopped onto the recliner. “FYI, I’ve taken charge of your social life. You’ve had two phone calls from a Garrett Sullivan, a visit from Nathan, a bouquet of carnations from someone by the name of ‘Brady’s Mom,’ and two drop-ins by a Special Agent Santos, who says he needs to
debrief
you as soon as possible, and who also happens to be a total hottie. He can debrief me, if you’re not up to it.”

Fiona blinked at her. “Wow.”

“Tell me about it. I had no idea you had so many men in your orbit. I’m thinking of becoming a cop.” She glanced over her shoulder as a male voice drifted in from the hallway. “Okay, here’s McDreamy. Look alive, okay? We want to get you home.”

I
n what Fiona felt pretty sure was a conspiracy, Courtney disappeared when it was time for Fiona to be discharged, meaning she faced an uncomfortable car ride with Jack all alone.

She didn’t know what to say to him. Every time she looked over and saw the bulge of the bandage underneath his T-shirt, she wanted to cry. He’d been shot. Because of her. And in a horrible twist of fate, the weapon had been
her
Ruger, which she’d personally loaded.

“You comfortable?” Jack adjusted the air vents toward her. “If you’re too warm, I’ll turn it down.”

“I’m fine.”

The hovering was another thing. For the past twenty-four hours, he hadn’t let her do anything for herself, not even go to the bathroom. She’d had to kick him out of there, cheeks flaming, so she could pee without an audience. He seemed to have appointed himself her personal bodyguard. And nursemaid. And chauffeur.

They pulled into her garage, and Jack slid the Honda into a parking space close to the door. Fiona looked around.

“Where’s your truck?”

“In the shop,” he said. “Should be ready soon. Just needed some bodywork.”

Bodywork? This was one of the many things she’d had yet to hear about. Jack had been sparing with the details from Saturday night, and she knew they needed to have a talk soon and just get it all out there.

At least Santos had given her the overview during her debriefing. The man who’d killed Natalie and Marissa and attacked Lucy was behind bars. His name was Scott Schenck, and his DNA matched samples recovered from the victims’ bodies. Schenck hadn’t started cooperating with authorities yet, but they were biding their time, hoping to wheedle a confession out of him eventually, along with the whereabouts of Veronica Morales.

Jack helped Fiona out of the car. They made it up to her apartment without incident, and he held her elbow while she stepped over the threshold, as if she were some frail old lady. After easing her coat off and hanging it, he went to put her overnight bag on the bed. He placed the bouquet of carnations on her dresser beside a vase of long-stemmed yellow roses that could only be from him. Fiona bit her lip and looked away.

It felt strange to be home. The faint smell of linseed oil and turpentine was wonderfully familiar, but somehow everything seemed different. Her gaze landed on the leather jacket hanging on the hook near the door. Stowed neatly on the floor below it was a pair of cowboy boots.

Fiona walked straight to the couch and sat down. She felt queasy and wondered if it was the Vicodin. She rested her head on the sofa arm.

“You okay?” Jack gazed down at her, his brow furrowed.

“Just tired.”

“You need a pill?”

“No,” she sighed. “I just need to close my eyes a sec.”

She did, and when she opened them next, she was staring at her alarm clock. Seven fifty-one. Somehow, she’d ended up in bed beneath the covers. She glanced at the window. It was light out.

Seven fifty-one a.m. She bolted upright, and her head seemed to implode. She sat motionless for a moment, until the pain faded.

She’d slept for fifteen
hours
. She looked down and realized she’d awakened at some point to put on a nightshirt and move to the bed. The memory was muddy. She resolved to pitch the rest of her Vicodin prescription in the trash this morning.

She heard the bathroom sink running and swung her legs out of bed. She smelled shaving cream as she crossed her apartment to discover a beautiful, half-naked man in her bathroom. He leaned close to the mirror and dragged a razor expertly over his jaw.

“Morning, sunshine.” He winked at her in the mirror.

“I can’t believe I slept so long.” She gazed into the mirror and was struck dumb by how
bad
she looked. The left side of her forehead was purple, with tinges of green around the edges. And Courtney’s assessment of her hair had been generous. With all the stitches showing, she looked like Frankenstein. Courtney thought she could fix it with a good haircut, but Fiona thought nothing short of a wig would help.

She tugged her hair over the wound self-consciously and caught Jack’s gaze in the mirror. Her attention was drawn
to the fresh white bandage taped to his shoulder. It was smaller than yesterday’s, but she still couldn’t stand to look at it.
Flesh wound.
What a load of bull. Why did he have to be so stoic about everything?

Jack rinsed the razor and tapped it against the sink, then pulled a towel off the rack.

“I’ve got appointments today.” He toweled off his face. “Courtney said she’d stop by on her lunch break and check in on you.”

“That’s not necessary,” Fiona said, and followed him into the bedroom. He opened the closet, and she was startled to see a row of men’s shirts hanging neatly on the rack. Jack pulled some black slacks off a hanger and stepped into them. Then he reached for a starched white shirt and shrugged it on. Fiona lifted her eyebrows and then had to remind herself to minimize facial expressions today.

“What appointments?” she asked.

He reached up to the top shelf of her closet—the one she couldn’t access without a stool—and she noticed a pair of men’s sneakers that hadn’t been there a week ago. Beside it was a pair of black dress shoes. He took the dress shoes down, along with a black leather belt.

“Job interviews,” he said. “I’ve got two meetings with people from the D.A.’s office this morning. Then I need to swing down to Graingerville and pick up some stuff. Files. My computer. Things like that.”

Her sluggish brain waded through the part about the computer until she got back to the first thing. “Job interviews? You’re trying to get a
job
here?”

He opened the dresser drawer that previously had been hijacked by Courtney and pulled out some black socks.
Fiona noticed a heap of boxer briefs as he closed the drawer.

He’d moved in. She spun around to the closet and inventoried its contents again. A shelf once occupied by her sweaters now held a stack of men’s undershirts.

“You’re moving here? Like, to Austin?”

He sat on the bed and pulled on his socks, watching her intently. “That’s right.”

“But…what about your house?”

“I’m selling it.” He rested his ankle on his knee and tied his shoe.

“But…what about your family? What about your rabbits?”

The side of his mouth ticked up. “They’ll be fine. I can visit.”

Fiona’s head was spinning. This was happening too fast. He couldn’t just sell his house and get a job here! Those were the kind of life events that took months and years to plan for.

“But don’t you think we should talk about this? I mean, moving to Austin is a big deal. What if we’re not compatible? What if”—she waved a hand back and forth between them—“what if we get sick of each other?”
What if you don’t love me?

He stood up and rested his palms on her shoulders. Gently, he bent down and kissed her lips. “You sick of me already?”

“No.”

“Good. Because I intend to be around awhile.”

She stepped back and folded her arms over her chest. God, she
hated
this nightshirt. Where had it come from? She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation look
ing this terrible. “I just mean…This is a big deal. I was under the impression you wanted to be a homicide detective again.”

“I never said that.”

“Yeah, but you’re a
cop
.”

His jaw tightened. “There’s an opening for an investigator at the D.A.’s. office. I think I’d be good at it.”

“But…it always seemed like—” A realization came to her and she covered her mouth with her hand. “It’s me, isn’t it? You can’t get a police job anymore because of me.”

He frowned. “How do you figure that?”

“Your injury.” Guilt swirled around in her stomach. “If you hadn’t gotten shot with
my
gun, you could apply for any job you wanted.”

He put his hands on his hips. They were narrow hips, compared to his broad shoulders, and she wasn’t used to seeing them without a gun tucked nearby. He’d always been a cop, and she’d ruined it for him.

“Don’t,” he said. “I see where you’re going with this, and just don’t, okay? You need to rest today. Next week you have to get back in the classroom, and you need to be all healed up. Why don’t you hang out on the sofa today and watch TV?”

“Hang out on the sofa.” She followed him into the kitchen. He pulled open her fridge, and she was shocked to see it stocked full. Orange juice, Gatorade, milk, eggs. Fat-free yogurt and Diet Cokes, which were for her, obviously. There was even a salad kit and a cellophane-covered casserole dish.

He grabbed a Gatorade.

“Who made casserole?”

He smiled. “It’s from my mom. She wanted you to have a speedy recovery, so she sent King Ranch chicken.”

“Your mother made me casserole.”

“Us.” He took a swig of Gatorade.

“You told your mother you were moving to Austin to be with me. Away from your family, and your house, and the town you’ve lived in your whole life.”

He put the Gatorade on the counter. “I haven’t lived there my whole life. And a house is just a house. It’s no big deal. I can get one in Austin once I get my equity out.”

“Houses in Austin are expensive.”

“I’ve got savings.”

She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t speak. It was all too much. What if he uprooted and moved to Austin and then hated her after a week? What if he was fickle, like Aaron?

“I think,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her, “that it would be wise to discuss all this some more before you pursue such a drastic course of action.”

He shook his head. “There you go again, with the lawyer talk.”

“I’m just being logical.”

He circled his arms around her, very gently, and pulled her against him. “Please don’t worry about all this today, okay? You need to get healthy. I need to land a job. Once we get those two things taken care of, we can have the relationship talk you’ve been hankering for. But right now, I’m running late.”

He kissed her mouth briefly, and then headed for the door.

“But…”

“Oh, and don’t be surprised if there’s a delivery today. I’m expecting a package.”

Relationship talk.
He hadn’t even told her he loved her.
And now he was acting like they had a future together. And she was
stupidly
allowing herself to feel happy about the idea. “But…”

The door closed behind him.

Fiona went into the living room and dropped down on the couch.

Jack had moved in with her. Just like that. He wanted a job in Austin and a house and a relationship with her. It was all of her deepest-buried yearnings come true, and she felt absolutely terrified.

She reached for the remote and flipped on the TV sitting atop her bookcase.

The
TV
.

Along with clothes, boots, and King Ranch chicken, he’d brought his TV. It was tuned to ESPN, of course. She shook her head and began mindlessly surfing channels.

Jack loved her. He hadn’t said it this morning, but she knew it in her heart. She couldn’t remember precisely, but she had this unshakable feeling that he’d said the words, over and over, while she lay in the ditch bleeding. She was almost sure he’d said the words again at the hospital, in the dark, as he’d kissed her hand and she’d felt stubble against her fingertips. It was coming back now—Jack Bowman hunched bedside her, telling her he loved her and she was going to be okay.

Suddenly her gaze focused on the screen, on a straight-haired young woman standing at a podium. She’d lost so much weight, she looked anorexic, but an enormous smile lit up her face.

Annie Sherwood.

Fiona sat forward and turned up the volume. The CNN newscaster was talking about miracles, and the camera
panned over to a solemn little girl with brown hair and eyes just like Annie’s. She was sitting beside Colter.

“God in heaven,” Fiona murmured, reaching for her phone.
This
was why Sullivan had called four times since Saturday.

Shelby Sherwood had beaten the odds.

Fiona stirred awake as Jack slipped into bed. He eased up behind her and pulled her against the warm hardness of his chest.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, his voice low.

“You’re not.” She nestled her head back against him. “It’s early. I just couldn’t keep my eyes open. How was Graingerville?”

“Good.” His hands strayed under the slinky black thing that was an improvement over last night’s sleep shirt.

“Did you see the news today?”

He kissed her neck. “Shelby Sherwood. I caught it on the radio.”

“I talked to my friend at the FBI. I’m going to start taking cases again.”

She felt his body tense, and she waited for an argument.

“You can take some time off,” he said. “Give your painting a year or two.”

“You know I can’t do that. I don’t
want
to do that.”

He sighed. “I know. I even understand, I think.”

She rolled toward him, and for a moment they just stared at each other in the dimness.

“I have a surprise.” He propped up on an elbow. “And why do you look guilty all of a sudden?”

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist opening it.”

“You mean my package came? From the Fuller Gallery?”

She arched up and kissed him. “It’s my favorite painting. How did you know?”

“I pay attention.”

“It was expensive. You didn’t need to do that,” she said, although she was secretly glad he had. The idea of parting with her fish painting had been bothering her.

“I’ve wanted it since I first saw it.” He flattened his palm over her stomach. “But that’s not the surprise.”

“What is it?” And as she looked up into his face, she knew. “You got the job.”

He smiled.

Half of her felt euphoric, but the other half was filled with anxiety. He’d be moving to Austin now for certain. “Are you sure we’re not rushing this? Maybe we need more time. We’ve just been through a trauma—”