a sob. “And neither does his son.”
Those chilling words spoken two weeks ago contrasted sharply with the beautiful June morning, Jackson thought now as he looked out the window. His gaze didn’t stay on the butterfly. He was watching the other apartment just across the quaint little bridge between the chalet-style brown-and-beige buildings. And he was waiting for the woman who lived there to turn on a light, indicating she was up for the day.
Finally, he’d get to see her and make sure she was all right with his own eyes.
This had been a long journey, trying to find Eloise Hill before Vincent Martino did. She called herself Ellie Smith now, but she would always be Eloise—his Ellie—to Jackson. He’d often called her Ellie many years ago. And apparently, she would always be a threat to the powerful Martino crime family, since Vincent Martino was determined to see her dead. Jackson had the body count to prove it, and he was determined to end Vincent’s obsession with revenge. He had to warn Eloise. He had to protect her.
And he also had to tell her that her daughter, Kristin Perry, knew about Eloise and wanted to see her.
The static in his earpiece broke the taut summer silence of the early morning. “Big Mac, come in.”
Frowning at the nickname his team member Roark Canfield used, Jackson answered. “Talk to me.”
“Subject is late for work, sir.”
“So I noticed. It’s not her day off, is it?”
“Negative. She always leaves at sunrise. She walks a short distance to work just after sunup, no matter the exact time, and she has a big dog with her, sir. Really big German shepherd—dangerous animal.”
“I get it about the dog, Roark,” Jackson said. “GQ, what’s the status at your location?”
“She’s not here, sir,” Marcus Powell answered from his spot at the restaurant around the corner. “Staff arrived right on time and everyone’s busy preparing for the day.” A pause, then, “But the one named Verdie has tried calling her several times. No answer. Verdie seems a bit worried from the conversation going back and forth behind the counter.”
Jackson rubbed a hand down his neck, the tension going from coiled to twisted. “We’re sure of this schedule? Thea, what’s your take?”
A feminine voice purred across the line. “Her restaurant is a popular spot, and subject is never late for work. Or at least she hasn’t been in the time we’ve been watching her.”
“Affirmative,” GQ added. “Staff of three comes in around five every morning to prepare for breakfast rush, but proprietor and two part-timers come in later, just in time for the crowd. Subject stays after lunch to prepare next day’s menu from what we’ve seen so far. She should be on her way by now, sir.” Silence, then GQ said, “Uh, Jackson, we have another problem, too. One of the coworkers is also late. Young, blonde, pretty. Her name tag says Meredith. She’s usually at the door before anyone else.”
Jackson looked at his watch. It was six-fifteen on a Tuesday morning. The sun had been up a good twenty minutes and was now brightening the morning sky with each ticking second. And his gut was burning as hot as those incoming rays. Had the bad gone to worse already?
“I’m on it,” he said, his mind ticking off all the logical explanations while his stomach sizzled with the worst-case scenario. “Cover me.”
“You got it,” Roark said.
Jackson checked his holster, secured his weapon, did a quick surveillance of the nearby city park and the walking trail between buildings, then opened the front door a crack. With Roark stationed in the park and Thea in a car down the way, he didn’t need to worry about being secure. But he sure wasn’t prepared to see Eloise just yet.
He hadn’t planned on announcing himself this abruptly, but Eloise might already be in trouble.
Glancing around, he stalked along the perimeter of the trees, his heart pounding a heavy beat that matched the thud of his hiking boots against gravel. He hit the footbridge over the stream with a run, the echo of his steps chasing him with an eerie cadence across the arched structure.
He was about to come face-to-face with the woman he’d loved for over twenty years. And he prayed he’d find her alive.
She couldn’t stop shaking. First the roses and now this. Eloise stared at the clock on the wall of her kitchen, a forgotten cup of coffee steaming in her hand. She had to steady herself to keep from spilling the coffee. Her German shepherd, Duff, rubbed his nose against her robe, trying to get her attention. Duff could sense her trauma and her fear.
Touching a hand to the faithful dog, Eloise gently pushed him away then glanced at the trash can where she’d tossed the white roses. White with pink-edged petals.
Duff sniffed and whined, giving her some measure of comfort. She should have taken him with her last night when she’d deliberately gone out the door to help her friend, but she’d been afraid Duff’s barks would bring too much attention to the situation. She’d promised Meredith no cops, but Eloise wished she hadn’t kept that promise. She’d arrived only to find her friend dead.
This can’t be happening again, she thought, her stomach roiling as a wave of nausea assaulted her. Memories from two decades ago, brutal and raw, hit her with the force of a fist in her solar plexus. She could still see the blood everywhere, could still see Danny’s face as he’d begged for his life there in the seedy warehouse in South Chicago. Could still see the quick burst of smoke from the guns and hear the staccato spew of the silencers—once, twice—as Danny and another man were killed in cold blood while she watched from the shadows.
Killed in cold blood. Twenty-two years of trying to forget and it all still seemed as if it had happened last night. Twenty-two years of hiding, of staying invisible, of living like a shadow, always looking over her shoulder. And always wondering what had happened to the child she’d been forced to leave behind. She’d found solace in her faith, in her church and in her work.
She’d almost found a sense of peace.
And now, she’d witnessed another murder.
Remembering the elaborate spray of white roses at Danny’s funeral, Eloise rubbed a finger over the scar near her lips. Back then, the Martino family had sent the roses. Salvatore Martino loved roses; he grew them in the massive garden inside the Martino compound. And he sometimes sent them to the funerals of his victims.
She’d received a box of her own yesterday just before closing at the café. A dozen long-stemmed, lush roses—a creamy white with just the blush of pink around the tips of the petals.
And no card.
She’d been so paranoid she’d rushed out of the café, hurrying down the street with Duff right on her heels and the box of roses still crushed in her arms.
Who sent them? Who knew she was here?
Putting the horrible questions out of her mind, Eloise sank down in a chair, her thoughts reeling with what she’d seen and heard last night after she’d arrived at Meredith’s. Screams, a scuffle, then a distinctive thump and footsteps running, running. A man’s voice crying out, “No, no.” Then Meredith. Dead. Sweet, innocent Meredith. Her friend and her employee. Dead. Lying in a deserted parking lot, blood pooling underneath her head, her eyes open and vacant as she stared
