Cassie Miles - The Girl Who Couldn't Forget

The green-painted door was opened by a tall, dark-haired man in a suit.

Her phone squawked as the 911 operator answered, “Hello, what is your emergency?”

“You called the police,” the man said.

Though law enforcement had failed her many times, Brooke needed backup. She shouted Franny’s address at the phone and added, “We need help. Hurry.”

“That’s not necessary,” he said.

“Where’s my friend? What have you done to Franny?”

“Take it easy.” He slid his hand inside his jacket. “Everything is fine.”

Really? Then why are you reaching for a gun? She sprayed a blast of pepper spray. He dodged and threw up his arm for protection, but she knew that she’d scored a partial hit. While he winced and squinted, she darted into the apartment and positioned herself for another, more devastating blow.

“Brooke, stop!” Franny rushed from the back of the apartment. “What are you doing?”

“Taking care of this creep,” she said.

She fired a karate kick at his knee and missed. Her next attempt aimed at his groin.

Her foot shot toward him. Before it connected, he grabbed her ankle and held on. It was all she could do not to lose her balance.

He held a wallet with his credentials toward her. “FBI.”

“Let go of my leg!”

“Are you going to kick at me again?”

“Not if I don’t need to.” She brandished her pepper spray. “Don’t try anything.”

He dropped her ankle. “I ought to arrest you for assaulting a federal officer.”

“Everybody please settle down,” Franny said as she stepped between them. “Agent Sloan, you’re not going to arrest anybody. Brooke, don’t be a brat.”

Oh, this was rich. The wildly irresponsible Franny Hennessey was telling her not to misbehave. As far as Brooke knew, that badge was a fake. If he was really a fed, he should have showed his credentials the minute he opened the door. Okay, maybe that was what he tried to do. Maybe this was as much her fault as his. Still, she said, “I’m not going to apologize.”

“Don’t care.”

He glared at her through his right eye. The left squeezed shut, though the redness that came in reaction to the spray spread across his throat and stopped at his cheekbone. The blotch looked painful. “If you please,” she said, “I’d like a closer look at that badge.”

Without relinquishing his grasp on his wallet, he held his ID inches away from her nose. The documents appeared to be official. She read his name: Special Agent Justin Sloan.

She didn’t usually make mistakes like this. Assaulting a fed? She placed her hand on her chest and felt the drumming of her heartbeat. Her adrenaline was running high, which wasn’t a bad feeling, but not a good one, either. If she’d been home right now, she’d be opening mail and eating her midafternoon snack of fruit and crackers. Instead, everything was up in the air.

She turned to her friend. “Why is he here?”

“I contacted him.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I was trying to get ahold of Agent Gimbel. Remember him? The guy who handled our case?”

“Of course I remember.” He was a kind man who had taken a genuine interest. She hoped nothing bad had happened to him. “Why couldn’t he come?”

“Gimbel retired. The FBI office sent Sloan instead.”

He pointed to Brooke’s phone, which was still connected to an emergency operator asking questions. “Are you going to talk to her?”

This situation just got worse and worse. She’d requested emergency assistance, and she knew from past experience that nothing would divert the officers from coming to her aid. Rather than wasting time with long explanations to the dispatcher, she disconnected the call. Another rule broken.

Sloan asked, “Franny, do you have milk?”

Her ingenuous blue eyes opened wide. “Are you thirsty?”

“He wants milk to counteract the sting of the capsaicin in the pepper spray,” Brooke explained as she snapped the cover onto the small canister and returned it to her fanny pack, where she also kept a supply of medicated wipes to use in case the pepper spray got onto her fingers. She opened the package, took out a wipe and handed it to Sloan before using one on her own hands. “Water is ineffective in washing off the oil-based propylene glycol.”

“About that milk,” Sloan repeated.

“Come with me,” Franny said as she scampered barefoot toward the arched doorway leading to the kitchen. “I always have milk for the cats. Don’t worry, I don’t give them much. It’s not healthy, you know. But they do love it.”

Brooke trailed behind Special Agent Sloan and Franny, whose curly black hair bounced around her elfin face. For some unfathomable reason, she was wearing a purple sequin tiara. In her paisley-patterned yoga shorts and pink T-shirt with a sparkly unicorn on the front, she looked childlike and vulnerable. Actually, she was only four years younger than Brooke, who was twenty-six but felt like she’d already lived three lifetimes. No tiaras for her. She kept her long hair slicked back in a no-nonsense ponytail, which she twisted into a bun.

Her attention shifted to Sloan. He was tall, approximately seven inches over her five and a half feet, and he appeared to be in good physical condition. His gray suit jacket fit neatly across the wide expanse of his shoulders. There was something disturbing about the way he moved. Athletic and masculine, he seemed to exude confidence. Or was it arrogance? Either way, his presence unnerved her.

When she looked away from him, her gaze ricocheted around Franny’s small apartment, where the decor was based on clutter, half-finished projects and more clutter. Brooke counted no fewer than four cats. The table in the dining area was covered with stacks of unopened mail, multicolored scraps of fabric and a sparkling array of beaded jewelry. Beside the table was a wicker basket of unfolded laundry that a fat gray-and-white cat was using as a bed. A teetering tower of books lurked in the corner. Instead of a curtain, Tibetan prayer flags draped across the dining room window, offering an alarmingly clear view of the sidewalk outside. Any passerby could easily see into the house. The security here was even worse than her last place.

In the kitchen, dirty dishes filled one side of the double sink. Half-eaten meals were scattered across the counter. Brooke couldn’t help herself. She started washing the dishes.

“What are you doing?” Franny asked.

They’d had this conversation a hundred times before. “Left-out food attracts mice. I’ll have this cleaned up in a sec.”

“Don’t bother.” Franny laughed and pointed to a black cat and a calico. “My mousers will protect me from varmints.”

“Do any of these cats actually belong to you?”

“I don’t own them, if that’s what you mean.”

As soon as Franny moved into a neighborhood, she made a point of befriending the local feline population. Brooke never knew from whence the cats came or where they went or why they liked to hang out with her friend. Maybe they recognized a kindred spirit.

“If you’re looking for something to do, take care of him.” Franny pointed to Agent Sloan, who had found a carton of milk in the fridge. “You broke him. You should fix him.”

There was a certain amount of logic in what she said. If Franny is making sense, I must be losing my mind. Brooke directed Agent Sloan toward a straight-back chair beside a table where pots, pans and a basket full of green glass baubles took up most of the space. She took the carton from him, searched the cabinets for a clean bowl and poured the milk. While trying to find a fresh dish towel in the drawers, she said, “Take off your jacket, and be careful where you touch. The left sleeve probably has pepper spray on it.”