Vicki Hinze - Survive the Night

“I heard him,” Madison said. “That’s Paul and he said Crawford. As in Gary Crawford?”

“It is, and he did, but we don’t know if Crawford is involved. It could be someone else.” She’d explain in person.

“Either way, Paul sounds worried.”

So, too, did Madison. “He is.” Della held Paul’s gaze. Beyond worried. Guilty. Sick inside that maybe he had led Crawford to put a target on her back. Understanding all too well that displaced guilt felt as real as earned guilt, she clasped his hand.

“I take it he’ll be with you, then?”

“He will.” It’d take an earthquake or a brick of C-4 explosives to hold him back—if Della wanted to and, honestly speaking, she didn’t.

“All right. Be safe on your way in. People are still dancing in the street. The mayor said this is the biggest festival crowd he’s seen in thirty years. We’ll be waiting for you in the conference room.”

“Thanks, Madison.” Della ended the call, locked up the cottage and then returned to Paul on the porch.

“You’ve been crying.”

She hadn’t been. But walking into her home had put her in a cold sweat. “You know I don’t cry anymore.”

“But you’re upset.”

“I am.” She rubbed her arms. “Wondering what he touched.” She shook. “Everything looks fine, but I still feel as if I need a bath.”

“That’s normal.”

“I know. But I still hate it.”

He opened the SUV door. She slid inside, onto the buttery-soft leather seat. “I hope you’re wrong. Dawson’s bad enough, but he’s sick. Crawford is...”

“A monster who likes to kill.” Paul’s eyes burned with worry, guilt and now regret. “Della, if I’ve put you on his radar—”

“Don’t go there. We don’t know, but we are where we are. At least we’ve got each other.” She buckled her safety belt. “Can you get me a dossier on Crawford, just in case?” She honestly didn’t believe he was involved. This smacked of Leo Dawson, but it’d make Paul feel better if she weighed in his concerns.

“It’s waiting for you. I emailed it while you were locking up the cottage.” Paul put the gearshift in Reverse and then backed out of the cottage’s driveway.

He was always thoughtful, prepared and protective. Della loved those qualities in him. “When you get yourself a wife, she’s going to appreciate many things about you, Paul Mason.”

“Yeah, I do good email. That’ll impress her.”

Della smiled at him. “You do good everything.”

“Thank you.” His smile broadened. “I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Was it? Really? All he’d done for her, and she’d never offered him kind words? That was pathetic. “I think you’re an amazing man. The way you helped get me here and find a job and a place to live.”

“That’s just part of my job.”

So was talking her through the hard times. Being with her on the anniversary no mother should have to acknowledge. “You do it well, and it’s a lot more to those who need it.” She rubbed his arm “I’ve seen people you’ve helped, Paul. They look at you with such respect and admiration.”

“They were in a jam. Anyone could have done what I did.”

“Could have, but didn’t.” She stroked back an errant lock of hair from his ear. “You did.” A tenderness she didn’t want to feel filled her. It startled her. This was Paul. She couldn’t have these feelings for Paul. He was her best friend. And one of the first rules of survival was to never risk what you couldn’t afford to lose.

“Della?”

“Yes?”

“You get to me, too.” He spared her a glance. “We’re going to have to talk about that someday.”

“But not today.” She lifted her phone. “Today—tonight, I need to get sharp on Crawford before we get to the office.”

“That’s fine.” He looked entirely too happy. He knew she didn’t want more. She knew he didn’t want more. They had to keep things the way they were or they could end up with nothing. How in the world could she stand her world without him in it?

“Della?”

She didn’t dare look at him. “Mmm?”

“Quit worrying and just read.”

He knew. He always knew. She loved and hated that. “Reading.”

Two pages in, she was half-sick. Three, and she thought she was going to have to ask Paul to stop the car so she could throw up.

“You okay?” His face shone green in the light from the dash.

“You said he wasn’t sick, he just likes to kill. But this man is truly one sick puppy.”

“What page are you on?”

“Three.”

He grimaced. “You haven’t gotten to the really bad stuff yet.”

Della felt the blood drain from her face. How much worse could it get?

She didn’t want to know. She really didn’t. But if he could be her stalker...

Clasping Paul’s hand, she turned to page four.

* * *

While the street was still full of festival celebrators, the reception area of Lost, Inc., had been cleared of people. The door chime echoed through the empty downstairs. Moments later, Jimmy, the most junior investigator and chief gofer, called down from the top of the stairs to the second floor. “We’re upstairs in the conference room, Della.”

She looked back at Paul. “I wish I felt better about this. Are we making a mistake? If it is Dawson or Crawford, we could be making targets of these people, too.”

Paul paused on the steps. “You’ve seen Dawson’s work. I’ve seen Crawford’s. If we could do it alone, we would. We can’t.”

He was right. She didn’t have to like it, but she would have to be crazy not to admit it. They walked down the narrow hall and into the conference room.

Madison was seated at the head of the long wooden table near the window. Her assistant, Mrs. Renault, sat to her right, and Doc, the agency’s doctor-turned-investigator, next to Mrs. Renault. Jimmy couldn’t take his regular seat to Madison’s left—a man Della had not met sat in it. She stilled, shooting a worried look at Paul and whispered, “Who is he?” With his shaggy golden-brown hair and full jaw colored by five o’clock shadow, he couldn’t be active-duty military.

“Captain Grant Deaver, an OSI officer from the base.”

The hair on Della’s neck stood on end. Had Major Beech reported what had happened at her cottage? “What’s he doing here?”

Paul didn’t look any happier about Deaver being present than Della. “I have no idea.” He sent Madison a questioning look.

“Come and sit down.” Madison smoothed her long blond hair back from her face. “Grant recently left the military and, knowing his qualifications, I snapped him up. He’s on staff here now with the rest of us.”

An odd feeling pitted Della’s stomach. Madison said the right things, but the look in her eye was at odds with her words. Something was off. Why had she really hired Grant Deaver? Unsure, Della took her seat, and Paul sat down beside her.

Mrs. Renault, svelte and sophisticated in all things at all times, opened her notebook and poised her pen, prepared to go. She had the best electronic equipment money could buy—Madison would accept nothing less—and Mrs. Renault used it. But she also still took notes by hand for her backup copy. That determination to cover all bases made her an excellent assistant for Madison as well as a fountain of information for the rest of the staff. The woman seemed to know everything about everything and everyone.

“Della, you said you were in trouble and needed our help.” Madison leaned back in her high-back chair. “Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”

For the next fifteen minutes, Della briefed them on Leo Dawson and the events from her past, all the way up to receiving the package tonight. It was more information than she had ever given anyone except Paul, and given a choice, she’d have elected to have a root canal without anesthetic over baring her soul to her coworkers now. But Dawson had been in her house. Or Crawford. Or someone else. And that changed everything.