Gail Barrett - Fatal Exposure

Aiming another quick glance at the shadows, she scurried down the empty street. The cold wind blew, sending goose bumps down her neck, and she buttoned her coat to block the chill. Returning to the area had been a gamble, she’d known that. And it was one she’d been reluctant to take. After Tommy’s horrific murder the three runaways had made a pact—they’d hidden the evidence, changed their identities and vowed never to reveal what had happened, no matter what the cost. Then they’d gone on the run, moving from city to city for years. Eventually Nadira—Nadine now—had moved to New York to get her medical degree. Haley had come to D.C. to start her shelter for pregnant teens.

And although she’d hated to admit it, Brynn had been lonely. Haley and Nadine were the only family she had. She’d finally decided to chance it, figuring enough time had passed. As long as she steered clear of her stepfather, as long as she avoided the Baltimore neighborhood where Tommy had died, no one would notice her here.

Her agent had helped. Although Joan didn’t know the details of Brynn’s past, she’d guarded her identity religiously from the start of her career—arranging her exhibits, appearing for her in public, hiring publicists to manage her website and promote her work. And no matter how intense the pressure—even after those awards—she hadn’t cracked.

That safety had been an illusion, of course. Parker McCall had just proven that. Now she had to keep him from discovering the truth about Tommy’s death before more innocent people got killed.

She darted across the road, the buzz of traffic on the distant beltway mirroring the hum of dread in her nerves. A few blocks later, she reached her agent’s house. Still hurrying, she unlatched the iron gate, crossed the small brick patio and rang the bell. Then she shot another furtive glance behind her, relieved that no one had followed her here.

So far.

Seconds crawled by. Her agent didn’t answer the door. Frowning, she stepped back and surveyed the windows, for the first time noticing that the house was completely dark. But Joan had to be in town. She always notified her clients before she took a trip. Brynn reached for the bell again, then froze.

The door was hanging ajar.

Inhaling swiftly, she spun around. The bare trees creaked overhead. The withered mums along the walkway bobbed in the frigid wind. Dried leaves tumbled across the bricks, skittering into the corners like frightened mice.

Longing for her missing handgun, Brynn nudged the door open wider and peered inside, but she couldn’t make out much in the dark. Her heart stuttering wildly, she crept through the open door.

She waited a beat, letting her eyes adjust to the shadows, the destruction making her reel. Tables had been overturned. Glass covered the floor, remnants of the once-majestic chandelier. Ruined paintings lay amid the shards, their canvases slashed, their gilded frames snapped apart like twigs.

Appalled, she glanced from the ruined foyer into the equally demolished parlor and tried to breathe. Joan’s row house had been trashed. But why? By whom? And where had her agent gone?

Her nerves coiling, she crept inside, inching past the staircase into the kitchen while trying not to make any noise. But broken plates crunched under her feet. Smashed groceries littered the floor, adding to the senseless mess. Behind the kitchen, Joan’s office looked as if a tornado had touched down with desk drawers ripped out, papers flung everywhere, her computer gone....

Along with any client information she’d stored on the machine.

Beating back a rush of panic, Brynn prowled back through the foyer and up the staircase, the creaking steps erupting like gunshots in the tomblike house. She checked out the vandalized guest rooms, then continued down the hall to the master bedroom and peeked inside.

Her heart skidded to a halt. Joan lay sprawled across the rug in a sliver of moonlight, her eyes closed, her skin sheet-white, her body completely still. Blood glistened on her forehead and matted her silver hair.

Horrified, Brynn raced to her side and knelt. “Joan.” Oh, God. The sixty-year-old woman was far too pale.

She seized her agent’s wrist, feeling frantically for a pulse. Each tortured second seemed an eternity before she detected a feeble throb. She was alive. But barely. Her skin felt much too chilled.

Desperate to save her, Brynn leaped to her feet, lunged for the telephone on the bedside table and punched in 9-1-1. “I need an ambulance. Fast,” she added, reciting the address. “Joan Kellogg. She’s been attacked in her bedroom upstairs. Hurry.” Ignoring the dispatcher’s questions, she hung up.

Then she dropped to Joan’s side again. “Hold on,” she pleaded. “Help’s coming soon. I promise.”

Her agent’s eyes fluttered open. “Brynn?”

“Don’t talk. Save your strength. An ambulance is on the way.”

Joan fumbled to grasp her hand. “Man...black hair. Snake tattoo. Looking for you...”

“Shh. It doesn’t matter now. Just rest.” Her throat thick, Brynn gently squeezed Joan’s hand, her clammy skin icing her heart. Where was the blasted ambulance? Why was it taking so long? She shot a desperate glance at the window, despising the feeling of helplessness—and guilt. Joan had nearly died because of her.

But who had sent the attacker? How had he connected Joan to her? Had he seen Brynn’s photo in the newspaper—or found her some other way?

“Go. Hide,” Joan croaked out.

“Forget it. I’m not leaving you alone.” She’d already caused enough problems. The least she could do was stay and protect her from further harm.

A siren finally cut through the night, and Brynn expelled her breath. Thank God. The ambulance was nearly here. But then a new worry thrummed through her nerves. In seconds help would arrive—along with the police. They’d ask questions she couldn’t answer, scrutinize her in ways she couldn’t afford.

“Go,” Joan whispered again, echoing her thoughts.

Red lights flashed outside the window. The siren abruptly cut off. Torn by conflicting emotions, Brynn dithered over what to do. She couldn’t abandon Joan, not after her agent had worked tirelessly to safeguard her. But neither could she stay and let the authorities find her here.

“Hurry...”

“All right,” she agreed. “I’m going. But I’ll call you later at the hospital. And I’m hiring you a bodyguard. I’m going to make sure you stay safe.”

Voices filled the house. Footsteps hammered on the stairs. Her pulse accelerating, Brynn grabbed hold of her backpack and rose, then glanced around the room. The house had to have a servant’s staircase. All these historic places did. Spotting a likely cupboard beneath the eaves, she rushed around the bed, flung the small door open and stepped inside. Then she felt her way down the unlit staircase, a steep, narrow passage with shallow treads. Seconds later, she emerged in the office behind the kitchen and exited the house through the alley door.

But as she blended back into the night, questions whirled through her mind. Who had attacked her agent? Not Parker McCall; he didn’t fit Joan’s description of that snake tattoo. And she couldn’t see him harming a woman, no matter how angry he became. She’d repeatedly provoked him in the alley, and he’d refrained from hurting her.

So someone else was on her trail, someone connected to her past. Someone ruthless enough to harm an innocent woman to get to her.

The gang leader she’d witnessed executing his prisoner? Her stepfather? She shuddered hard at the thought. Both men were equally vicious. Both men wanted her dead.

And now that her photo had appeared in the newspaper, they would hunt her down, endangering anyone connected to her. And who would be next? Haley? The pregnant teenagers in her homeless shelter? Some unsuspecting passerby on the street?