Michelle Karl - Silent Night Threat

When an email had come from her, he’d deleted it. When a letter arrived, he’d burned it. If her faith and her father had turned her against him, made her believe she was better than him, he wanted nothing to do with it or with her, ever again.

And now Natasha was in his FBI vehicle, wearing clothes from the hospital lost-and-found box—a button-down plaid shirt and a pair of oversize swim trunks tied tightly at the waist. Her clothes had been taken for testing. A twelve-year-old daughter, he repeated to himself. Could Natasha have kept something like that from me all this time?

She wouldn’t be able to answer that question until she got her memories back. He tried not to care, and he tried to tell himself he could be patient. Now that he worked in the area, he could ask her about Hayley someday in the future. But something deep inside persisted in wanting to be near the girl now, or at the very least catch a glimpse of Hayley. At least then I’ll know, he thought. One way or the other. A father would recognize his own daughter, wouldn’t he? For both their sakes, he hoped his suspicions were wrong. Then he could put it out of his thoughts and concentrate fully on wrapping up this case and getting out of Natasha’s life as quickly as possible.

“Do you think we could swing by my place first?” She held the sheet from the doctor out in front of her. “It can’t be too far of a detour.”

Chris’s heart skipped a beat. “I don’t see why not. The NASA physician isn’t expecting you at a certain time?”

“I’m supposed to get there as soon as possible, but there’s not a set time, no. Before everyone goes home for the day, I assume.” She chuckled softly, then sighed. “I’m already at an embarrassing disadvantage by not being able to remember critical pieces of information. I’d rather not further embarrass myself by showing up to my place of employment in lost-and-found couture.”

“Point taken. Your address is on the sheet from the hospital, right? Punch it into the GPS, and we’ll make the stop.”

He turned the volume up on the radio once she’d entered the address, and the cheerful sound of Christmas carols resonated through the SUV’s interior, discouraging further conversation. What would they say to each other, anyway? Any conversation would be one-sided and risk mentally taxing Natasha further. The whole situation seemed like a terrible mess, and in his professional opinion, it seemed like she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A mugging gone sideways, maybe—though that didn’t explain the drone or the car wreck. That was targeting, plain and simple, possibly by muggers who thought she’d caught a glimpse of their faces? It seemed a little extreme to go to such lengths, but he couldn’t discount any possibility.

“It’s going to be a pain replacing my ID,” she muttered. “It’s not like I can call the credit-card companies and confirm my identity to replace the cards. And at Christmas, too! There’s no time to get this figured out and get all my cards replaced in just a week. I hope I’ve already done the shopping for Hayley’s gifts. No child should wake up to an empty space beneath the tree. Oh, I hope I already have a tree, too.”

“Maybe the credit-card company’s security questions will jog your memory, or maybe those will be some of the details you didn’t lose,” he suggested. “You never know until you try.”

“Good point.” She sighed again. “And thank you. For doing this, for driving me. You didn’t need to.”

“I kind of did. It’s been my assignment to find you, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you to fend for yourself after all that’s happened. Besides, you haven’t quite found all of yourself yet, so to speak.”

She laughed, a strong, deep sound that warmed him from the inside. He’d forgotten how much he missed that sound—and he hadn’t counted on how much it would hurt to hear it again.

“I appreciate that. And I definitely could use a friendly face for a while longer. Technically, right now you’re my oldest friend.” She grew quiet for a few minutes before continuing the conversation. “Are you married, Agent Barton?”

“Christopher. Call me Chris.”

“Okay, Chris. Are you married? Kids?”

There was that lump in his throat again. “No, can’t say that I am.” He sneaked a look at her. She blinked at him with her wide-eyed innocence, and it took all his restraint not to blurt out the truth. But what good would it do? Her head had started pounding at the hospital after a few questions from the police. Tossing out information from a bad situation that had happened twelve years ago would serve only to exacerbate her condition. As soon as he thought she was healthy enough to handle it, they’d talk. This wasn’t the kind of conversation he wanted to delay any longer than necessary.

She reached over and squeezed his upper arm. “Hey, it’s okay. These things happen when they’re supposed to happen.”

“Did I look sad?” Well, that was embarrassing.

“Kind of, yes. A muscle in your cheek has this tic...” Her voice trailed off as everything inside the car seemed to grow still. Even the radio had grown quiet, causing the silence to permeate every molecule of air between them.

All those years ago, she’d used to kiss that very spot on his cheek every time he’d retreated inside himself. He’d been the glue holding his family together—between his mom’s ill health, his dad’s gambling addiction and his younger brother’s tendency to spend nights locked in a cell, someone had needed to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Natasha always knew when the weight of responsibility was beginning to crush him underfoot, and she used to tenderly place her lips against his cheek.

“Make a left turn in fifty feet,” said the disembodied voice of the GPS. “Your destination will be on your right.”

“Does any of this look familiar?” Jolted out of memory, he scanned the street as they turned onto it. She lived in a decent-looking neighborhood, a typical middle-class residential area. Inflatable Christmas decorations lay flat on a number of lawns, colorful fabric puddles waiting for nightfall so they could come to life. Other homes were decorated with strings of lights, plastic reindeer and garland streamers that rustled in the breeze. He’d grown up in Florida, but after a few years in the Midwest and farther north, in states that actually received snow in December, it was odd to reconcile inflatable snowman decor with green lawns and palm trees.

He noted the decreasing house numbers, then pulled the Suburban up alongside the curb in front of a row of attached condos. They were tall, boxy buildings, with beige siding and single-car garages. It looked like a few of the units were slightly wider than the others. A double staircase led from the ground level up to the main floor, and a set of sliding glass doors opened onto a small balcony on each top floor. The front yard of each wasn’t much more than a bland, rectangular bit of grass with a young tree in the center.

“You’re number thirty-seven, right? I think that’s what I read on the paper.” For some reason, he’d expected Natasha to live in a fancy Tuscan-style home, something with a three-car garage, a colonnaded porch, tall palm trees and a pool out back. Something more like the home she’d grown up in, a place that aligned more with her family’s beliefs about wealth and social status.

“Thirty-nine, actually,” she said, folding the papers back up. “I used to live in thirty-seven, but Hayley and I swapped units with our neighbors right before my launch, really lovely people. Thirty-seven is one of the slightly wider units with an extra bedroom, and since they had a baby on the way with two other children under three, we—” She froze midsentence. “How do I know that?”