“It’s called conversation.”
Shaking her head, she reached for her coffee cup. “I skipped it. When can I see the files?”
“Why’d you skip? Is something wrong?”
The waitress returned with two hot plates of food. The number six came with a couple of scrambled eggs, pancakes, and bacon.
Bowman reached for his fork. “They don’t mess around with the portions here.”
“It’s good.” Absently, Riley poured syrup on her pancakes.
“How is Hanna?”
She hesitated, trying to decide if she wanted to attempt conversation. Then, remembering the video, she dialed it back a notch. Needing his help didn’t make it any easier for her to ask for it. “Excited about her trip to Atlanta.”
“You said triathlon, right?”
“Yes.”
He sat back. “What’s eating you?”
“This case. That there might be a killer after me.”
A cold chill seeped through her bones. Dying scared her, of course. But the idea of leaving Hanna behind terrified her. She’d been so sure about telling him about the video this morning, and then she found out he’d gone behind her back and spoken to William. Would he have told her if she’d not confronted him?
He dropped his gaze to his pancakes and cut a large piece dripping with syrup. “You have no security at your house, correct?”
Her appetite vanished as she stared at the half-eaten pancakes. “Good locks on the doors.”
“That’s not enough.”
“What do you suggest?”
“The company understands security better than anyone. Let us install an alarm system.” He sat back as if sensing he had her attention. “The cost is on us. We have a vested interest in keeping you safe.”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t think of it for yourself. It’s for Hanna.”
“Do you ever play fair?”
“When I can. When I can’t, I don’t.”
She swallowed a retort. It wasn’t about her anymore. There was Hanna. “Okay. But this isn’t for me. It’s for Hanna.”
“Understood.”
The video loomed. She needed someone’s help. Specifically, Bowman’s. She drew in a breath. “Hanna is at practice this morning, but this afternoon she is going on her trip to Atlanta.”
He watched her.
“The team will be back Friday.”
Again, he said nothing, sensing she needed something.
“And honestly, right now that’s a good thing. I want her out of town now.”
Bowman let the comment sit.
“Someone sent me a video.”
“What kind?”
A waitress moved up to their table and refilled their coffee cups. Riley sat back, tapping her index finger on the table as she waited for the woman to move on. When they were alone again, she said, “Not here. Someplace private.”
“My place,” he said.
“I have to drop Hanna off at eleven.”
“I’ll text you the address. Come directly to my house.”
“Okay.”
After she walked Bowman out the door, Riley doubled back to Duke’s office. She knocked on the door.
“What?”
“On a scale of one to ten, that’s an eleven on the not-too-happy meter,” she said.
Duke glanced up, a reluctant grin curling his lips. “So what’s the deal with the suit?”
“He’s with Shield Security. When he was with the FBI he worked on a string of murders in New Orleans.”
Duke sat back in his chair. “What does he want with you?”
She trusted Duke with nearly all her secrets, but this case reached too deep for her to share it with anyone else now. “He thinks the murder case I’m working on reminds him of the New Orleans murders.”
“He dig up any suspects?”
She leaned against the doorjamb, not sure if she wanted to open up an old wound. “Nothing yet.”
“It’s not like you to sound glum.”
“The case, the victim, reminds me a little of me back in the day. Remember when you found me, Duke? When I first came to town on the bus.”
His expression sobered. “Yeah, I remember.”
“What was I like?”
“Doped up. Too thin. Pale.”
Hazy images of the Greyhound bus flashed in her mind. The seats were rough against her cheek, and she smelled the strong scent of corned beef. Someone near her was eating a sandwich and the smell made her sick to her stomach. “Did I say anything that you remember? Did I give you any clue about what happened to me?”
He pulled off his glasses and leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “You could barely stand, let alone form sentences. Why?”
She shrugged. “I wonder about those days from time to time.”
“Why?” He got up, pushing up his sleeves and exposing tattooed forearms. “That was a lifetime ago. You’re a different person now.”
“Sometimes it feels like yesterday.”
She had never pieced together the details of that first day in town, but she also had never really wanted to until now. “Why were you at the bus station?”
“My volunteers were working the station that day. We were trying out a program of meeting runaways before they landed into real trouble.”
“Was Maria there?”
“Yeah, I suppose. The bus station outreach was her idea. She wanted to get to the kids before the street did.”
“You don’t go to the bus station as often as you did then.”
“The kids seem to find rides by hitchhiking. That’s why we have the youth shelter.”
“How many people have you saved?”
“Not enough. Out of every hundred kids we make contact with, three or four might hang around here for more than a meal, and of those, maybe two a year turn their life around.”
“Why did I trust you?”
“Can’t say that you did. You were spitting mad. You tried to slug me.”
“I did?”
“Kid, you were such a mess. But there was something about you. If not for Maria and me, you wouldn’t have made it five steps on the streets without someone taking advantage.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “What do you remember?”
“Not much. I lost seven days and all I can say is that cigar smoke still makes me sick to my stomach.”
He shook his head as if chasing away a memory. “Whatever you took, you were really high.”
“I’ve never taken drugs. Not once in my life. Someone did that to me.”
“I took you to a doctor. He said there were no signs of abuse.”
“I remember that.” Riley had recoiled at the doctor’s touch. She was terrified. But the doctor was nice and patient, and finally she allowed the pelvic exam.
A sigh shuddered through him. “When I drank, I lost lots of days. Too many days. It’s not a good feeling not knowing what you did or didn’t do. But you have to decide to let it go.”
“I know you’re right.” Riley shook her head and grinned. “I have no idea why I’m letting this case get to me.”
“It’s not like you.”
“You’re right. It’s stupid. I’m fine.” But it was all lies. She wasn’t fine. Someone had left a video documenting her trip to the abyss.
“Maria and I are always here, if you need us.”
“I know. Thanks.”
Cassie’s skin felt like it was two sizes too small as she watched Darla unlock the motel room. Sniffing, she scratched her arm, craving the crack she’d had yesterday. She’d heard it was addictive but figured she could handle it. She was tough, or so she thought. Gristle and bone, her mother used to say.
But living on the streets this last month had tested her each day. Yesterday, the weight of living out here had grown heavy. She was tired of scrounging for food, selling her body, and searching for a decent place to sleep. The nights had been really bad. First there’d been word about Vicky dying, and t
hen Darla had convinced Tony to let Cassie work for one of Jax’s clients. Tony was happy, making $500. He told her to be nice.
Darla flipped on the lights and dropped a plastic drugstore bag on the bed. “You need to hit the shower and wash your hair. I bought hair dye.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“It’s fine, but the client likes dark hair.”
“Most of Tony’s clients like blondes.”
Darla shoved her hard toward the bathroom. “Get in the damn shower.”
Cassie took a step but stopped. “You promised me a taste.”
Darla rustled in the bag for the box of hair dye. “Get cleaned up first. Then I’ll give you a little treat.”
Cassie didn’t like Darla. The woman was all smiles to the clients, but Vicky said more than once she could be meaner than a snake. “I want my taste now.”
Darla lifted her darkening gaze. She fished a knife from her pocket and crossed the room in a split second. The knife pressed against Cassie’s neck, pricking the delicate skin until it bled. “Get in the shower.”