Donna Young - Secret Agent, Secret Father

With the window shut, the air grew thick with the sweet scent of baking cookies. A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’d say, handsome, that patting you is a self-defense mechanism to divert your constant cravings for warm milk and chocolate chip cookies.”

Her oversized, navy sweatshirt fell to midthigh—its Annapolis insignia covered her midriff like a big yellow target. The shirt, combined with the thick cotton of her dark leggings, provided more than enough warmth to allow her to go barefooted.

Still, she threw another log onto the fireplace’s burning embers. Its muted glow matched her melancholy mood.

Overstuffed furniture of glossy, dark oak and warm tweeds filled the room. She hadn’t packed up the rich, brown chenille throws that draped the back of the couch. Putting it off had been a silly defiance, she thought. But even as she did, her hand ran over the nearest throw, her fingers curled reflexively into its thickness. After five years, she wasn’t quite ready to give up the first true home she’d ever known.

The buzz of the oven timer broke through her thoughts, but the growl of her stomach prodded her into the kitchen. Tiles of white and cornflower-blue checked the six-foot counter—effectively separating the kitchen from the main room without diminishing the cottage’s warmth.

For once, Charles Renne had agreed with her decision to move. In fact, her father encouraged her. Surprising, since he hadn’t agreed with any of her choices in years. She’d been fourteen when her mother had died. But the war of wills had started long before.

She snapped off the oven and opened the door. The heat blasted her in the face. She hesitated over a long, drawn-out and downright decadent sniff.

The small flutter in her belly told her she’d gotten the baby’s attention. She laughed, low and easy. “Okay, sport, one plate of cookies and glass of milk coming up.” With an expertise born from cravings, she took the cookies from the oven and slid them onto a nearby cooling rack.

Lately, her battles with her father had flared to a whole new level. One that heightened after her refusal to reveal the baby’s father.

The baby was hers. Only hers, she thought stubbornly.

That characteristic she inherited from her father. But it hadn’t made the past pleasant for either father or daughter.

Four years ago, she’d stopped by a cigar bar called The Tens to meet a group of college friends.

The pungent smell of whiskey and the more earthy scent of imported cigars drew her in, but it was the low murmur of conversations and clink of glasses—a backbeat to the smoky jazz—that seduced her.

Two weeks later, she dropped out of premed and bought the bar with the rest of her trust fund. An emancipation of sorts, she thought in hindsight.

For the past several years, she’d indulged her passion for fast cars and jazz clubs and leaned ever more closely toward liberal ideas. And the more she indulged, the more distant her father grew. The more distant he grew, the more she hurt.

But over time, the freedom she’d gained became precious and the pain bearable.

The doorbell rang, startling her. She glanced at the mantel clock.

Almost midnight.

Unease caught at the base of her spine. She pushed it away, annoyed. “Who is it?” she asked, but heard no response. Only the wind whistling through the crack beneath, tickling her toes. She curled them against the floor. A look through the peephole proved useless.

“Hide.” The command came low, splintered. Still, she recognized the underlining timbre, the slightly offbeat drawl that turned one syllable into two.

“Jacob?” She yanked open the door. He sat next to the door pane, his back propped against the side of the cottage. Blood coated him from top to chin, dripping off the slant of his jaw onto his torn shirt and his black dress slacks. “Oh my God. Jacob!” She fell to her knees beside him.

His eyes fluttered open, focused for a brief moment, one black pupil dilated to more than twice the size of its partner. Blood rimmed the iris until no white could be seen. “Hide, Grace.” He rasped the order. “Before they kill you.”

His head lolled back. Fear gripped her. Quickly, she placed her hand under his shirt. Please, God. The rhythmic beat of his heart remained steady beneath her palm. She closed her eyes briefly against the sting of tears.

The rain and wind spit at them. She raised his hand to her cheek, felt the ice-cold fingers against her skin. She glanced around and saw no car. How had he gotten here? Walked?

Her nearest neighbor was down the beach, too far to call for help. If she left him outside, he’d be worse off by the time the ambulance got there.

A few weeks ago, the doctor had said no heavy lifting. What would he say if he knew the father of the baby lay half-dead on her porch?

“Jacob!” She screamed his name, but he didn’t stir.

She scrambled inside and grabbed her purse from the counter. She’d call the ambulance from the front porch—

Then she heard it, the familiar ring tone of her cell phone.

She dumped the contents of her handbag onto the counter, ignoring the lipstick and keys that fell to the floor. She snagged her phone, saw the displayed name and punched the button.

“Pusher?” She flipped the overhead switches on. Lights flooded the room, making her blink. A glance to the doorway told her Jacob hadn’t moved. She ran back to his side, checked the pulse at his neck.

“Grace? Thank God.” Pusher Davis paused on a shaky breath. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine but I need you to—”

“Then you haven’t talked to anyone?”

“Talked…” she said, momentarily off balance. Using the cuff of her sweatshirt she wiped the blood from Jacob’s forehead, trying to get a good look at the injury beneath. “Pusher, I don’t have time for this.” His skin grayed in the porch light. She had enough experience to know he’d lost too much blood. “I need you to—”

“Helene’s dead.”

“Helene?” Tension fisted in her chest. “Dead?”

“Grace, I found her body outside The Tens. In the back alley.”

Helene, dead? The fist tightened, catching her breath on a short choke of surprise. It couldn’t be true. She’d just seen Helene earlier that day. They’d met at their favorite sidewalk bistro for a farewell lunch.

“It’s Monday night. The bar should’ve been closed. She shouldn’t have even been there this late. What happened?” The question slipped from her lips, but a prick at the nape of her neck told her the answer.

“She’d been shot,” Pusher answered, then paused. “Grace, last time I saw her she was with Jacob Lomax.”

She studied the wound in Jacob’s shoulder, forced herself to inhale. Hide, Grace, before they kill you.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” she answered, then took another breath to steady herself. “Are the police there?”

“Not yet. But I’ve called them.”

“Pusher, listen to me.” She nearly screamed the words. “I need you to stall them when they get there. They’re going to want to talk to me, but I can’t right now.”

“I don’t think you understand, Grace. Helene has been murdered—”

“I understand.” She cut him off, not trying to stop the urgency of her words. “Jacob Lomax collapsed on my porch a few minutes ago. He’s been shot, too,” she added, deciding to put her trust in Pusher. “And until I find out why, the police will only complicate things.”

“But if Lomax is there—”

“I told you, he is.”

“Then why the cloak-and-dagger, Grace? If Jacob has been shot, this could have been a robbery. A simple case of wrong place, wrong time. I’ve seen it before.”

“I don’t think it is and I need some time to make sure.”