Shirlee McCoy - Safe by the Marshal's Side

“Yes,” she admitted. Nine nights out of ten, she woke in a cold sweat, her heart pounding with fear. She hoped that would change once Joe’s murderers were in jail. Knowing both men were off the street for good would go a long way in giving her peace of mind.

“That’s not surprising. You’ve been through some tough times. It’s going to take a while to get over it,” he said as he slid the omelet onto a plate and placed it in front of her. “Not that that makes the nightmares easier to deal with. Go ahead and eat while I make mine. Then I’ll show you the photo of the doll.”

“Okay.” She stabbed at the omelet, surprised by Hunter’s words. That was the most he’d ever said to her. At least, the most that he’d said that didn’t have something to do with the case and her safety.

She hadn’t thought he had it in him to care much about anything. Maybe she’d been wrong.

She took a bite of egg. No salt or pepper. No onions or green peppers, but it tasted good, and she really was hungry.

Hunter sat down across from her, a pile of scrambled eggs on his plate. He’d taken a lot more time with her food than with his own.

“Good?” he asked.

“Very. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. I’m just doing my job.”

“Your job is to protect me. Not feed me.”

He eyed her for a moment, his brow furrowed. “My job is to keep you healthy and safe until the trial. ‘Healthy’ means that you eat regular meals so that you don’t fade away to nothing.”

“I don’t think you can call this a regular meal. It’s not breakfast, lunch or dinner,” she pointed out.

“It’s food, and you need it. You didn’t eat breakfast or dinner yesterday.”

“Did you have cameras set up in the safe house?” She sounded as horrified as she felt.

“No,” he said. “I checked in a couple of times yesterday, remember? One bowl in the sink after breakfast. Two plates at lunch. Sophia’s little pink plate in the sink after dinner.”

“I snacked. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Sure it is. Like I said, I have to—”

“Keep me healthy and safe until the trial. I know,” she sighed. “Let’s change the subject, okay?”

He raised one dark brow. “Why?”

“Because I’d rather talk about the doll.” And because thinking about Hunter noticing all the things about her that he’d noticed made her uncomfortable. Even if he had just noticed because it was his job.

His dark eyes speared into hers, and, for a moment, she thought that he was going to press for more.

Finally, he stood. “I printed out a photograph. I’ll get it.”

She didn’t follow him from the room. She needed a couple of minutes to gather her thoughts. She wanted to see the photo, but she didn’t. If it was Sophia’s doll, the men who’d murdered Joe had picked it up. She didn’t remember seeing it in either of their hands, but then, she’d only caught a glimpse of John Fiske. He’d already been heading out the back door as she’d walked into the kitchen. He’d glanced over his shoulder to say something to his partner and had seen her.

Annie had been within seconds of dying that day. If the gun Luke Saunders had been carrying hadn’t malfunctioned, she’d be dead. If Sophia had been home, she’d have been dead, too.

She shuddered, washing Hunter’s empty plate and her own. Anything to keep the memories at bay. They were a heavy burden. One she didn’t think she’d ever be able to lay down. She’d wanted so badly to save Joe. She’d pressed dishcloths to the wound in his chest, trying to sop up the blood. She’d held his hand and touched his cheek and told him he was going to be all right. She hadn’t believed it. He hadn’t, either.

Don’t let anything happen to the baby.

His last words to her, and she’d promised that she wouldn’t.

“Please, Lord, help me keep that promise. For him and for me,” she whispered as she dried the plates and put them away.

The apartment floor creaked, and she knew Hunter was returning. She settled back into a chair, the eggs sitting like lead in the pit of her stomach.

Hunter took the seat across from her, sliding a folder across the table. “Are you sure you want to do this tonight?”

“It’s morning, and I’m sure.”

She might be sure, but her hands were trembling. Hunter noticed that and her pallor. She was ashen, her eyes bright blue in her pale face.

Any other time, any other witness, and Hunter would have been impatient for her to do what needed to be done. He was impatient. He needed her to look at the picture. If the doll had been taken from the Delacorte house, it would be a lot easier to connect the guy who’d used it to intimidate Annie to Saunders and Fiske. One more nail in the guys’ coffins.

Once they found the person responsible.

Yeah. He was impatient, but this was Annie, and she had a softer heart than other witnesses he’d protected. So many of the people Hunter had ushered into witness protection had been criminals hiding from criminals. He hadn’t felt sorry for their troubles because they’d brought them on themselves. Annie was different. Her husband had brought trouble into her life. Her only crime had been in loving a guy who’d borrowed money from the wrong people to feed his gambling addiction.

“It can wait,” he said.

She shook her head. “No, it can’t.”

She flipped open the folder and lifted the photo.

As crime-scene photos went, it was pretty innocuous. Hunter had seen a whole lot worse than the headless doll wearing the pink dress.

Annie dropped the photo as if it was a venomous snake.

“Is it—?” Hunter started to ask.

“I need some water.” She cut him off, pushing away from the table. She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it at the sink, her hands shaking so hard water sloshed onto the floor.

She set the glass on the counter and grabbed the dish towel. There were tears in her eyes. He should have ignored them, kept his distance, let her clean up the water and get her emotions in check.

But she looked vulnerable and young, her shoulders slumped as she halfheartedly swiped at the drops of water. She’d given up her family to testify. Given up the friends and support system she’d had before her husband’s murder.

She’d been cautioned against making too many friends in Milwaukee. Until the trial, they wanted her disconnected, free from the temptation to say too much, the danger of slipping and revealing her identity.

She had no one.

Except for him.

For some reason, that mattered to Hunter more than he wanted it to. He told himself it was because he had a younger sister, and that he’d have wanted someone to take care of her emotionally if she’d been in the same situation. He thought the reason might be a lot more complicated than that. Annie was a beautiful woman with a beautiful spirit. That was a difficult combination to resist.

He knelt beside her, took the cloth from her hand. “I’ll clean it up.”

“You’re a U.S. marshal. Not a maid,” she replied, but she scooted away and sat on the floor, her back resting against the cupboards, her arms around her knees.

“I’m whatever I need to be.” He finished wiping up the water and dropped the cloth into the sink.

When she didn’t move, he sat beside her. “Right now, I think you need more than a U.S. marshal. I think you need a friend.”

“Don’t be nice to me, okay?” Her voice broke, and she dropped her head to her knees.

“Aren’t I always nice?” he responded, knowing he wasn’t. Hoping the comment would make her smile.

Or at least keep her from crying.

“Nice?” She turned her head, eyeing him dispassionately. “I suppose some people would call you that.”