Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel (5 page)

Stifling a yawn as the song wound down, Darcy set her mug back on the coffee table. “That was great, Star.”

“I agree.” Mark looked her way. “Tired?”

“A little. Hot chocolate makes me sleepy sometimes. Yours is great, by the way. There’s a hint of some flavor I can’t quite identify.”

“My secret ingredient.” He winked at her. “Feel free to turn in anytime. I tend to be a night owl.” He transferred his attention to Star. “You seem wide-awake. Would you like another glass of wine?”

She held out her glass. “I was beginning to think I’d have to ask for the
second
one too.”

“Well, you are underage.”

“I’m also in a private house and I’m not planning to drive anywhere tonight—unless you want to loan me your Porsche.” She giggled, swallowing a hiccup.

Mark chuckled. “I wish.” He rose and started toward the kitchen, speaking over his shoulder. “Darcy, would you like anything else?”

“No, thanks. Star . . . are you sure you don’t want to call it a night?” Based on that giggle, her roommate had already had too much liquor.

“After this last glass of wine.”

“Okay.” Darcy set the cushion aside and stood, suddenly bone weary. “I’m heading for bed.”

“I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can sleep through anything.” That was true enough. Laura had to bang on the door every morning to rouse her for school, thanks to her clandestine late-night texting and surfing. “’Night, Mark.”

“Sleep well.”

She left the two of them chatting, yawning again as she climbed the steps in the two-story brick row house Mark had gutted and refurbished in the historic downtown district. She didn’t know much about rehabbing, but it looked nice and he seemed proud of the way he’d modernized the interior without changing the character of the exterior. Plus, it was really neat and orderly—even more so than Laura’s house, where everything had a place.

But all she cared about was the private, snoreless room where she could fall into bed without worrying about her belongings disappearing.

Ten minutes later, teeth brushed, dressed in her favorite fleece sweatpants and a T-shirt, she crawled under the covers, pulled them up to her neck, and snuggled into the comfy mattress. The voices in the living room below were muted, though Star’s higher-pitched laugh floated up through the ceiling as Darcy’s eyelids drifted closed. It was nice to hear her laugh, even if her upbeat spirits were wine induced. After the tough life she’d had, she deserved a few pleasant, carefree hours.

And in the final seconds before sleep pulled her into oblivion, Darcy made a mental note to thank their gracious host for giving her newfound friend an evening to remember.

With a glance at his watch, Mark grimaced and twisted on the tap in the master bathroom sink. He’d hoped to be in bed by ten,
but Star hadn’t cooperated. She’d nursed that last glass of wine forever, growing more garrulous with every sip.

But all was quiet now—and the wine had been better in many ways than other options.

After testing the water, he adjusted the temperature and washed his hands, drying them on a nubby towel. Then he examined them under the light. They weren’t as chapped as usual; that was a plus. The cold, dry weather wasn’t helping, though. He’d have to put some lotion on before he went to bed or the skin would crack and peel again.

First, though, he’d visit the closet.

Tossing the towel over his shoulder, he walked to the wall in the master bedroom. The closet door slid open noiselessly, and he pushed his own clothes aside to give him access to the long garment bag that hung on the high hook at one end.

His pulse began to pound, and he took a deep breath. Months had passed since he’d had any reason to open the bag, week after week of despair when his search had seemed doomed to failure. But thank goodness caution and logic had triumphed over the temptation to take another chance on the days he’d hit bottom.

A shudder rippled through him as he recalled his previous poor choices. But he’d learned from those mistakes. Hard as it was to accept, the truth was that while redemption was possible, miracles weren’t. Some people were beyond saving. The trick was to find a person tottering on the brink. A person about to plunge into the abyss but who could still be pulled back. A person who would be grateful for his intervention and reward him appropriately.

And now, it seemed, his patience may have paid off.

Wiping his palms against the denim fabric of his jeans, he reached up and unzipped the bag.

It was every bit as beautiful as he remembered.

Gently releasing the garment from its protective bag, he draped it over his arms and crossed to his bed. The perfume-saturated sachet in the bottom of the bag had infused the fabric with the subtle but
familiar scent of vanilla and jasmine, and he breathed it in. Love, hope, pain, fear, disappointment, hate . . . the emotions swirled around him, jumbled, indistinct, indistinguishable, the memories surging and crashing over him like waves in a storm-agitated sea.

He stopped at the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, waiting for his chaotic thoughts to quiet.

A full minute later, as the clock in the living room emitted a muted bong to mark the half hour, he opened his eyes. Better. He could think again.

He lowered the dress to one side of the queen-sized bed, straightening the skirt so it ran the length of the mattress. Then he hesitated and looked toward the door. Should he lock it?

No need.

No one would bother him this night.

He left the garment to finish his preparations for bed, finally padding back barefoot in his sweatpants and T-shirt. Pausing beside the dress, he traced the scalloped edge of the sweetheart neckline. Stroked his fingers down the long, smooth, white satin skirt studded with glistening beads. Touched the buttons, one by one, at the bottom of the delicate alencon lace sleeve.

The gown was perfect.

And ready.

All it needed was a deserving occupant.

After circling the bed to the other side, Mark slathered lotion on his hands, tugged on a pair of cotton gloves, and turned out the lamp on the nightstand. He slipped under the covers, shifting onto his side to gaze at the gown shimmering beside him in the moonlight from the window.

Maybe this time.

T
he trip to the shelter was a bust.

From his spot at the far end of the room, Dev gave the basement-turned-dormitory a final scan. Every cot had been claimed, and his walk-through with Laura had confirmed Darcy wasn’t among the occupants. Not a single guest had professed any recollection of the teen after studying her picture. None of the volunteers on duty had worked either weekend night. And even though he and Laura had hung around for a couple of hours, Darcy hadn’t shown.

So much for a quick and easy solution to this case.

Laura rose from the molded plastic chair a few feet from the now-deserted registration desk and joined him, her expression disheartened. “I guess there’s no reason to wait any longer.”

“No. It’s late and they’re full up. The chances of her showing at this hour are nil.”

“That’s what I figured.” She sighed and started toward the pegged wall that held their cold-weather gear.

He followed, reaching around her to retrieve her wool coat.

“Thanks.” She sent him a weary smile. “Your mother raised you well.”

“I’ll tell her you said that. She sometimes thinks all her effort to turn me into a gentleman came to naught.” He positioned the coat so she could slip her arms into the sleeves.

“One sec.” She grabbed for the knitted scarf draped over an
adjacent hook and tugged. When it stretched but didn’t give, she tipped her chin up to inspect the snag—revealing a purple tinge on her jaw that hadn’t been there in his office this morning.

“Hey.” Dev caught her arm, and she sent him a questioning look as she pulled her scarf free. “What’s this?” He was tempted to touch her chin, but tapped his own instead.

“Oh.” She lifted her hand to the bruise, her lips quirking in a rueful twist. “I was attacked by a can of chicken noodle soup.”

Holding up her coat, he arched an eyebrow. “That’s a new one. Care to explain?”

She turned her back to him and slid her arms into the sleeves. “I was reaching for the soup when you called this afternoon. The ring startled me, I fumbled, and the can hurtled out at me.”

His smile faded. “So this was my fault?”

Tossing the scarf around her neck, she swiveled back to him. “Hardly. Just chalk it up to frayed nerves and my klutziness.”

“The nerves I can buy. The klutziness—not a chance.”

Their gazes met. Held. Eyes the same hue as her azure scarf and framed by the longest sweep of lashes he’d ever seen sucked him in. His lungs stalled, and the background hum of voices receded.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, a warning bell began to ring.

He ignored it.

Lifting his hand to her jaw, he gently angled her head for a better look at the mar on her creamy complexion. Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his fingertips, and a powerful temptation to cup her cheek in his palm swept over him.

Powerful enough to scare him into retreat.

He yanked his hand back, pivoted away, and snagged his fleece-lined jacket from the hook behind him, buying himself a few seconds to regain control.

Off-limits, Devlin. Get a grip.

Exerting every ounce of his self-control, he managed to suppress the urge to touch her again. But it shouldn’t have been so
hard. He’d mastered those types of impulses long ago, and that self-discipline had saved his life—and his heart—on more than one occasion. Only once had his resolve faltered, and that deadly error had reaffirmed what he’d always known: business and pleasure didn’t mix.

He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

No matter how lovely the woman.

“You might want to put some ice on that after you get home.” He tried for a dispassionate tone—and almost succeeded. “Your jaw’s a little puffy.”

“Okay.” Her response came out scratchy. As if she, too, had been unnerved by the simple touch.

He swiveled back, seeking confirmation of that, but she dipped her head to work on her buttons, hiding her face from his scrutiny. “So what do we do now?”

He knew what he’d like to do—but that wasn’t an option. So he shifted gears.

“The storm’s not supposed to let up until tomorrow night. I’m betting we have twenty-four hours, minimum, before Darcy leaves town.” His tone was cool, polished, professional. Better. “In the meantime, I’ll keep calling Rachel in Chicago to see if she’s heard from her.”

“Do you think Darcy might come back here again?”

“It’s possible. That’s why I plan to pay a return visit tomorrow night. If she’s not here, I’ll talk to the volunteers and show her picture around again. If that doesn’t pan out, we’ll set up round-the-clock surveillance at Gateway Station once buses start running again. I’ll also call the other shelters and ask them to review their weekend guest lists, in case Darcy went to a different one under her real name.”

Laura tugged on her gloves and moved toward the exit, leaving him to fall in behind. “It sounds like you have all the bases covered. But I wish we could do more.”

So did he. Trouble was, they had no more leads to follow—yet.

“Brace yourself.” He edged past her at the top of the stairs, turned up his collar, and pushed the door open. A powerful gust of wind rocked her, and he grabbed her arm. “Steady.”

“Thanks.” Head bent, she dived into the storm.

He stayed by her side, retaining a firm grip on her arm as they plodded through the drifts of snow toward the Explorer. The winter mix felt like sandpaper against his cheeks, and he edged closer to the slender woman beside him, using his body to deflect some of the wind—and wishing he could shield her from both the stinging sleet and the wrenching guilt she carried over Darcy’s disappearance.

That wish went deep. Deeper than it should, in view of the fact they’d met mere hours ago. And it was without recent precedent. Years had passed since anyone had triggered his protective instincts in more than a professional capacity.

What in the world was going on?

“Your car is buried.”

Laura stopped beside the Explorer, and he gave the vehicle a quick inspection. She was right. In the hour they’d spent at the shelter, it had disappeared beneath a mountain of white. But he’d come prepared.

“It won’t take long to clean off.” He guided her toward the passenger door. After unlocking it, he pulled it open, holding her back as an avalanche from the roof slid toward their feet. Once the snow settled, he helped her in, circled the vehicle, and took his place behind the wheel. “Buckle up.”

“Top of my list.” She groped for her seat belt and peered through her side window. “Is it getting worse, or am I imagining things?”

“It’s getting worse.” He started the engine and cranked up the defroster, then grabbed the ice scraper with the attached brush from behind the front seat. “Sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He cleaned the windshield as quickly as he could, pellets of sleet pinging off the exposed glass as fast as he cleared it. Now that ice had been added to the mix, driving would be even trickier.

Time to get this show on the road.

As he brushed himself off and climbed back behind the wheel, Laura sent him a worried look. “Do you think we should be driving in this?”

Putting the engine in gear, he dodged the question with humor. “Since I don’t plan to spend the night in my car and the shelter’s full, our only other option is to build an igloo.”

She tugged off her scarf as the heater kicked in. “I left my igloo-building tools at home. Why don’t I just say a few prayers instead?”

From her tone, he couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious—but he suspected the latter.

“Can’t hurt. And for what it’s worth, I grew up in Minnesota.” Pressing on the gas, he eased the Explorer toward the middle of the deserted street, leaving a wide berth on either side. “Trust me, if we’d let weather like this stop us, we’d have spent our winters in hibernation. I’ve driven on plenty of roads in far worse condition and in vehicles far less suited to blizzards.”

In the muted glow of a snow-clad street lamp, he caught the brief flicker of her strained smile. “That’s an impressive credential. I’ll try to relax.”

But it didn’t happen. As he drove through the unplowed side streets leading out of downtown, snow crunching under the tires, the tension emanating from the passenger seat in the silent car was as thick as the coating of ice on the pine tree outside his office window—and just as ready to snap.

While navigating the next corner, he sent Laura a surreptitious glance. Her hands were clenched in her lap, her attention riveted on the road ahead, and her back was ramrod straight. It was a repeat performance of the trip down, when his attempts to start a conversation had led to nothing more than monosyllabic answers. And every time he’d reached for the lidded cup of coffee in the holder between their seats, he’d half expected her to slap his fingers and tell him to keep both hands on the wheel.

The lady might be okay visiting homeless shelters, but it was clear she didn’t like snow and ice.

A mound of snow appeared in front of him, blocking his way, and his defensive driving skills kicked in with a spurt of adrenaline. Swerving to avoid the obstacle, and anticipating the fishtail that sent his back bumper careening toward a tree near the shoulder, he corrected the skid. Despite his adept handling of the situation, however, Laura gasped and clutched the edge of the seat.

Yep. Totally freaked. It was the kind of reaction he’d expect from a stereotypical sheltered librarian—but not from a woman who’d lived on the seedy side of town for a year and had no doubt been forced to dodge much more dangerous things.

As if reading his mind, she spoke, her subdued voice not quite steady. “Sorry. I’m not normally such a wimp, but I was in an accident years ago in an ice storm during a high school ski trip. Our bus missed a curve on the mountain road and rolled over. Since then, I’ve avoided driving in ice and snow whenever possible.”

No wonder she was gun-shy of slippery roads.

Yet she hadn’t let a very legitimate fear stop her from coming with him tonight to help search for Darcy.

Laura Griffith a wimp?

Not even close.

Kicking himself for jumping to conclusions, he lightened his pressure on the gas pedal. He might be used to barreling through this stuff, but there was no reason he couldn’t slow things down for the woman beside him. Besides, there was nothing waiting for him in his apartment except mindless TV and a frozen pizza.

“That makes sense.” He flexed his fingers on the wheel, debating whether to probe a bit, and decided to go for it. “Were you hurt in that accident?”

“I fractured my arm. But the girl sitting next to me was killed. Broken neck.”

A muscle in his jaw clenched. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged and tucked herself into the far corner of her seat. “It’s ancient history. I never expected the memories to come back
with such a vengeance on the drive down. Sorry if I’ve been less than communicative.”

“Not a problem. Painful memories have a tendency to crop up under the right circumstances. It happens to me sometimes too.”

The instant the words left his mouth, he regretted them . . . but he didn’t regret the effect they had on Laura.

She angled toward him, her posture more open and approachable. “I guess you’ve seen some bad stuff in your line of work.”

Oh yeah.

He expelled a slow breath and tempered his response. “Enough.”

“As a PI—or with the ATF?”

“Mostly with the ATF, in my undercover work.”

Frowning, he tightened his grip on the wheel. That was another piece of information he didn’t offer clients. Few people knew about his deep cover work—especially his last assignment.

And that was one confidence he had no intention of sharing tonight.

“Wow.” Laura’s voice was hushed. “I’ve read about undercover operatives. That’s a tough life. How did you get into that line of work?”

He dodged another pile of drifting snow that had encroached on the road—maneuvering more carefully this time in deference to his skittish passenger—and chose his words with care. “My dad was a cop. I think he passed on the law enforcement genes, because that’s all I ever wanted to be. But after a few years, I got restless and decided to ratchet up the action. An ATF agent had done some training for our department once, and I got in touch with him. He walked me through the application process, and the rest is history.”

“Did the job have all the action you expected?”

“Yeah.” And then some
.

“Yet you left to become a PI.”

Flashing lights appeared ahead, and he could make out the distinctive metal-against-asphalt rumble of an approaching snowplow. He slowed to a crawl and pulled over as far as possible to let the
bulky vehicle pass—and to give himself a moment to compose his response. The bare facts, he decided. Then he’d change the subject.

Once the snowplow lumbered past, making no appreciable dent he could discern, he picked up speed again.

“I had an opportunity to go into business with one of my best friends from college. So tell me how you came to be a librarian.”

To his relief, she took the hint and switched gears.

“Simple answer? Books have always been my best friends. They saved my life the year we lived in the tenement. I could lose myself in the pages of a story, pretend I was anywhere but there. Plus, library work is orderly and quiet and predictable—in sharp contrast to life with my mother.”

“She was the impulsive type?”

“
Spontaneous
was the word she preferred. She thrived on adventure and was always up for a new escapade. No two days were alike with Carol Griffith. My dad was a moderating influence while he was alive, but once he was gone . . .” Her words trailed off and she turned her head to stare out the passenger-side window into the darkness.

Dev waited her out. There was a lot more to her story, and he wanted to hear it all. But the Explorer’s snug, cozy cocoon, which insulated them from the world and created a sense of intimacy, was likely to do a better job of encouraging confidences than the third degree from him.