parents, her sister, her nephews. She walked toward her loft. Rourke fell into step with her.
“You’re implying that you’ll be killed if you ask anymore questions. Why not go to the FBI? Why me?” she asked.
“Because you get things done. You’ll get this national attention. You have the power to save these people. You can find things out that the authorities can’t. You break rules and get away with it. Like I said, your reputation precedes you.” He grabbed her arm and looked over his shoulder. He leaned closer, the lines on his face deeper than she remembered from their one meeting, hair more gray, and eyes tired. “I’ve already been threatened. I’m taking a huge risk showing up here. You need to be careful.”
She pulled free of his touch. Paranoia was contagious. Skateboarders, joggers, bikers, and couples enjoying the evening all became potential threats. The park suddenly seemed too exposed.
“Give me a name,” she said.
“I already did.” He smiled then and nodded toward the key in her hand. “Gannon Construction. They’re based out of San Diego. From what I suspect, they’re transporting Mexican illegals from San Diego to Denver, but I’m not sure how. And I can’t prove any of this.”
“But you were threatened?” Still not convinced, she stepped closer to him. “How?”
“My tires were slashed today when I left the office.”
“Could be a random act of violence.”
“Do you believe in coincidence, Shane?”
“No, Rourke, I don’t.” But she did believe in being set-up. “How did you know I would be here jogging with my dog?”
“Because you’re here every night jogging with your dog.” His smile faded. “Although you were late tonight. Someone with your celebrity shouldn’t be such a creature of habit.”
“And state senators shouldn’t be stalking reporters, makes you look suspicious.”
“Who said I did the stalking? Watch your back and good luck.” He turned on his polished heel and walked toward downtown.
So much for simplicity. She picked up her puppy, tucked him beneath her arm and jogged back to her building. A quick glance around the street showed four men walking toward her. Probably going to a bar. Or maybe they were about to stab her to death.
Cursing paranoia, she fumbled with the keys in the lock and stepped into the lobby. Skipping the elevator, she took the stairs two at a time until she stood in front of her eighth floor loft.
Rattled, she unlocked the four deadbolts on her door. Celebrity. She hated that word. It reminded her too much of Michael’s glory seeker insult. She slammed the door closed, relocked the deadbolts and let Dude off his leash.
When her cell phone rang, she ignored it.
Hands shaking, she covered her face and sank to the floor. Back pressed against the refrigerator, she fought the guilt that nagged at her constantly...guilt for loving her job in a war zone, for Peter’s death, for not knowing how to be a wife to Michael, for wanting to disappear, for not being a good enough sister...guilt for surviving.
Maybe Michael was right. Maybe she was making a fool of herself for hanging onto him, for thinking she could come to Denver and lead a simple life. Perhaps everyone had been right except her.
Dude sniffed her hair, his speckled puppy paws perched against her shoulder. She rubbed at her eyes and forced back a sob. There had been too many tears. No more.
Pushing Dude aside, she stood and wandered to the windows. Across town Michael sat in a room hating her. So close, yet untouchable.
Outside her floor to ceiling windows, the lights of downtown Denver flickered and traffic moved along the freeway. She leaned her forehead against the glass and stared at her image superimposed over the view. A ghost looked back.
Alone in the dimming light, she stared at the lights outside and wondered if any of this would ever seem normal to her
“You’re implying that you’ll be killed if you ask anymore questions. Why not go to the FBI? Why me?” she asked.
“Because you get things done. You’ll get this national attention. You have the power to save these people. You can find things out that the authorities can’t. You break rules and get away with it. Like I said, your reputation precedes you.” He grabbed her arm and looked over his shoulder. He leaned closer, the lines on his face deeper than she remembered from their one meeting, hair more gray, and eyes tired. “I’ve already been threatened. I’m taking a huge risk showing up here. You need to be careful.”
She pulled free of his touch. Paranoia was contagious. Skateboarders, joggers, bikers, and couples enjoying the evening all became potential threats. The park suddenly seemed too exposed.
“Give me a name,” she said.
“I already did.” He smiled then and nodded toward the key in her hand. “Gannon Construction. They’re based out of San Diego. From what I suspect, they’re transporting Mexican illegals from San Diego to Denver, but I’m not sure how. And I can’t prove any of this.”
“But you were threatened?” Still not convinced, she stepped closer to him. “How?”
“My tires were slashed today when I left the office.”
“Could be a random act of violence.”
“Do you believe in coincidence, Shane?”
“No, Rourke, I don’t.” But she did believe in being set-up. “How did you know I would be here jogging with my dog?”
“Because you’re here every night jogging with your dog.” His smile faded. “Although you were late tonight. Someone with your celebrity shouldn’t be such a creature of habit.”
“And state senators shouldn’t be stalking reporters, makes you look suspicious.”
“Who said I did the stalking? Watch your back and good luck.” He turned on his polished heel and walked toward downtown.
So much for simplicity. She picked up her puppy, tucked him beneath her arm and jogged back to her building. A quick glance around the street showed four men walking toward her. Probably going to a bar. Or maybe they were about to stab her to death.
Cursing paranoia, she fumbled with the keys in the lock and stepped into the lobby. Skipping the elevator, she took the stairs two at a time until she stood in front of her eighth floor loft.
Rattled, she unlocked the four deadbolts on her door. Celebrity. She hated that word. It reminded her too much of Michael’s glory seeker insult. She slammed the door closed, relocked the deadbolts and let Dude off his leash.
When her cell phone rang, she ignored it.
Hands shaking, she covered her face and sank to the floor. Back pressed against the refrigerator, she fought the guilt that nagged at her constantly...guilt for loving her job in a war zone, for Peter’s death, for not knowing how to be a wife to Michael, for wanting to disappear, for not being a good enough sister...guilt for surviving.
Maybe Michael was right. Maybe she was making a fool of herself for hanging onto him, for thinking she could come to Denver and lead a simple life. Perhaps everyone had been right except her.
Dude sniffed her hair, his speckled puppy paws perched against her shoulder. She rubbed at her eyes and forced back a sob. There had been too many tears. No more.
Pushing Dude aside, she stood and wandered to the windows. Across town Michael sat in a room hating her. So close, yet untouchable.
Outside her floor to ceiling windows, the lights of downtown Denver flickered and traffic moved along the freeway. She leaned her forehead against the glass and stared at her image superimposed over the view. A ghost looked back.
Alone in the dimming light, she stared at the lights outside and wondered if any of this would ever seem normal to her
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