Nora Roberts - The Witness

“Take a minute.” Riley spoke gently in what Griffith knew wasn’t his going-in-soft voice but sincere concern. “Take your time.”

“They spoke in Russian, but I could understand all—or nearly all—of it. Ilya was angry, but not so much that Alex was dead.”

She closed her eyes, took a breath, and relayed the conversation she’d heard word for word.

“That’s pretty exact,” Riley commented.

“I have an eidetic memory. I ran, because Ilya knew I’d come to the house. I knew he’d ask about me. I knew they’d kill me, too. So I ran. I didn’t pay attention to where I ran—I just ran. I left my shoes. I couldn’t run in the shoes, the heels, so I left them on the terrace. I didn’t think. I just reacted. If I’d thought, I would’ve taken them with me. They must have found the shoes. So they know I saw. They know I heard.”

“We’re going to protect you, Elizabeth. I promise you.” Griffith reached out, laid her hand over Elizabeth’s. “We’re going to keep you safe.”

Griffith stepped out of the room with Riley, clamped her hands on her head. “Jesus Christ, Riley, Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. Do you know what we’ve got?”

“We’ve got an eye witness with a memory like a computer, who speaks Russian. We’ve got motherfucking Korotkii, that slick bastard Ilya Volkov. And if God’s good, we’ll get Sergei. If she holds up, she’ll break the back of the Volkov crew.”

“She’ll hold up.” Eyes hard and bright, Griffith glanced toward the door. “We’ve got to call in the brass, Riley, get her into a safe house. We’re going to need the U.S. Marshals Service.”

“Screw that.”

“We ask, or they take. We ask, we stay in.”

“God damn it, I hate when you make sense. Let’s get it started. You know what else I noticed about the witness?”

“What’s that?”

“She looked nearly as sick about her mother coming in as she did about the rest of it.”

“I think getting grounded’s the least of her worries.”

Elizabeth let it blur. It didn’t matter where they took her. She wanted only to sleep. So she slept in the car with the two detectives and Ms. Petrie. When the car stopped, she got out without complaint, all but sleepwalking into a small, clapboard house. She accepted the T-shirt and cotton pants Detective Griffith gave her, even managed to change into them in the small bedroom with the narrow twin bed. She feared her dreams but was powerless against the exhaustion.

She lay on top of the bed, used the cop blanket to cover herself. She felt the tears slide through her lashes as she closed her eyes.

Then she felt nothing.

She woke midday, dry and hollow.

She didn’t know what would happen next. All of her life she’d known exactly what was expected of her, when it was expected. But there was no list, no schedule, to lean on now.

It shamed her to be hungry, to wish for coffee, a shower, a toothbrush. Everyday things, ordinary things. Julie would never be hungry again, or do ordinary things.

But she got up, wincing a little as her sore feet hit the floor. She hurt, she realized, all over. She should hurt, she determined. She should be in misery.

Then she remembered her mother. Her mother was coming back, might already be back. That, she decided, would be more punishment than pain and hunger.

Wanting the punishment, she cracked the door open. Listened.

She heard voices—just the rumble of them—smelled coffee. Smelled, she realized with another wince, herself. She wanted the punishment but hoped she could take a shower before it was delivered.

She stepped out, walked toward the sound of the voices.

And froze.

A stranger stood in the small white-and-yellow kitchen. A tall man, almost gangly, he poured coffee from a carafe into a thick white mug. He paused in the act of it, smiled at her.

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.

“Do you want me to contact the prosecutor? You know he wants to talk to her asap.”

“Let’s give her time to get some food in her belly. But, yeah, better if he meets with her here before we move her. And better if she has a little time before she realizes she could be living in a safe house for months.”

“Maybe years. How could somebody smart enough to be going to Harvard—at sixteen, no less—get herself mixed up with the Volkovs?”

“Sometimes being sixteen’s enough.” John laid bacon in the skillet, set it sizzling.

“I’ll make the call. Tell them two hours—give her time to get dressed, eat, settle.”

“Check on the mother’s ETA while you’re at it.”

“Will do.”

By the time Elizabeth came back in, wearing jeans and a blue tank with a thin froth of lace at the edges, he’d piled a plate with bacon, eggs, toast.

“Did Detective Griffith pack everything you needed?”

“Yes. I wasn’t sure what to do with the suitcase. You said we weren’t staying here.”