He nodded tightly. As if she really had hurt him? But he was the man who fell in and out of love as often as he changed military bases.
“Rachel? Your new job? Your reason for being here?”
“Oh, right.” She toyed with a cardboard salt shaker, fidgeting, edgy. She was running on fumes. “The new branch has been busy, but productive. We train and work with both emotional support animals and psychiatric service dogs.”
“What’s the difference?” he interrupted.
“Huh?” His question, his genuine interest, caught her off guard. “An ESA—emotional support animal—provides companionship, the presence offering a calming effect. But a PSD—psychiatric service dog—performs acts. It’s about more than emotional support. A service dog may remind a person to take medications. Retrieve a medication bag. Nudge the handler during a fear-paralysis stage. Provide deep pressure therapy during a panic attack.”
She rolled the salt shaker between her palms. “But that’s beside the point.”
“And your point is?”
Her gut clenched. The point wiped away the possibility of flirting or attraction or what ifs. “I got a call from a caretaker that one of the veterans I’d been working with was having a breakdown that freaked out even the dog. So I went, helped calm the dog, and before I knew it, the combat vet, Brandon…” Her hands rolled the shaker faster and faster. “He told me things. Scary stuff about someone in his chain of command selling secrets from a satellite defense program. Brandon said no one would listen to him because of his PTSD.”
Liam’s foot slid from his knee, both boots on the floor. “And you believe him? This Brandon—?”
“Brandon Harris.”
“You trust this Brandon Harris dude?” Skepticism and concern warred in his eyes. “In spite of the trauma he must have experienced recently?”
“I do.” She nodded, the shock, the scope of it all, stinging through her veins again. “I encouraged him to speak with the base authorities, and they totally blew him off just as he’d predicted. They think he’s whacked out and delusional even though he’s actually a military cop himself.”
His eyebrows rose at that. “Really?”
“It didn’t seem to make them any more likely to listen to him. If anything, I think Brandon feared losing face in front of them.”
Liam grabbed her wrist and plucked the salt shaker from her hands. He set it beside the pepper while still holding on to her. “What makes you think the security police are wrong? Brandon could be seriously unbalanced. It can happen all too easily after the kind of things soldiers face.”
Clearly, Liam had shifted into protector mode, but at least he was questioning rather than simply dismissing her outright. Hope pawed around inside her, then curled up, solid, real—and scary, as she actually embraced the idea that someone might believe her.
And the warmth of his hand holding hers felt so good after the bone-deep chill of fear that had gripped her for the past two weeks. “At first it was just an instinct thing. So I offered to go with him to speak with someone higher up the chain, out in the civilian world, like the FBI or CIA.”
“What happened then?” His thumb stroked her wrist, right over her racing pulse.
“A representative from the local branch of both offices took notes and said their people would look into it. We thought maybe things would get moving. They hadn’t called Brandon unbalanced. They seemed to take him seriously. We waited to hear more… and nothing.”
“Maybe they’re investigating still.”
“I would like to think so. Except then I got a threatening phone call that came from a ‘caller unknown’ number telling me to back off and keep my mouth shut or there would be consequences.”
His thumb stopped moving, his eyes narrowing.
Panic bubbled low again as she remembered the disguised voice, the death threats. She gripped Liam’s hand. “I reported it to everyone we’d spoken to. Base security said there was nothing they could do, since I’m a civilian. Local police said they didn’t have enough to investigate, even if they did have enough manpower, which they don’t, thanks to chasing drug lords and human traffickers twenty-four/seven. I went to the CIA again. They were polite, brief, and obviously completely unconcerned. I figured they wouldn’t believe me if I told them I thought I heard clicking sounds on the phone line, like it was being bugged.” She winced. “Are you ready to have me committed yet?”
“I’m still listening, aren’t I?” He squeezed her hand.
She sucked in a bracing breath, the scent of ammonia cleaner hanging in the air. “Two days ago, someone tried to poison my dog.”
“You think the CIA is after your dog?” he asked in a voice too calm, as if he thought she’d gone over the edge.
So much for help and comfort.
“No, I don’t think the CIA went after Disco, but someone did. Someone who didn’t like the questions Brandon and I stirred up.” She tugged her hand free. “You do think I’ve gone bonkers.”
He spread his hands wide. “Come on, Rachel. You have to admit, all of this sounds improbable.”
“I know.” God, did she ever know. And she hadn’t realized until now how very solitary her life had become, completely focused on work, until she’d realized how few people she could turn to for help. She leaned in urgently, grabbing his hand this time. “Still, Liam, I heard what I heard on the phone. Then my dog was suddenly ill in a way that could only be poison. Even the vet said so. The timing couldn’t be coincidental.”