was a photo of her.
The room swayed. She gripped the table for balance, a dull roar battering her ears. Someone had photographed her leaving the art gallery—and splashed it across the front page. But how had they figured out who she was? She hadn’t spoken to a soul. She hadn’t even greeted the clerk. She’d simply strolled through the exhibit, discreetly checking the status of the photos, then left.
Praying she was somehow mistaken, she unfolded the newspaper, but there wasn’t any doubt. The headline screamed “Mystery solved!”
Reeling, she sank into a chair. How could this have happened? She’d been so blasted careful. She’d lived off the grid for years—always on the move, constantly changing her identity with her friends’ help. Even later, when her career had taken off, her agent had stepped in, doing all the promotional work, accepting awards on her behalf, never revealing what she looked like or where she lived. Now a momentary lapse—a quick visit to the gallery to estimate her earnings—had destroyed everything. And all because she’d needed to upgrade the plumbing in Haley’s shelter before she left on her New York trip.
Staggered by the scope of the disaster, she pressed her fingers to her forehead and tried to think. A reporter had connected her to her work. Exactly how he’d done that, she didn’t have a clue. But the media would come out in droves. Her stepfather would hunt her down. So would Tommy’s killer, assuming he was still around.
Panic bubbled inside her. She was in danger. Terrible danger. So were Haley and Nadine.
No, Nadine would be all right. She’d called a few weeks back to let Brynn know she was heading to Peru, journeying to the remote mountain villages to do her charity medical work. No one would find her there.
But Haley... She was in D.C., running her shelter for pregnant teens—an open target for their enemies.
If she wasn’t already dead.
Horrified, Brynn leaped to her feet, knocking over her chair as she lunged across the kitchen and grabbed the phone. Punching in Haley’s number, she prayed that she’d pick up.
The doorbell buzzed.
Her heart slammed to a halt. She snapped her gaze to the door. The microwave dinged, but she didn’t move, didn’t breathe, her attention riveted on the front door.
She’d never met her neighbors. No one knew she lived here except for her agent and two close friends. And the media couldn’t have found her this fast. She’d bought the historic row house under a fictitious name.
The doorbell sounded again.
She silently disconnected the phone. All her senses hyperalert, she tiptoed across the kitchen to the door, careful not to make any noise. She stopped and held her breath, afraid that even the tiniest hitch would give her away. Then she put her eye to the peephole and peeked out.
A man scowled back. She took in his black, slashing brows, the harsh angles of his chiseled face, the dark beard scruff shadowing his jaw. He was tall, in his late thirties with a strong neck roped with tendons, shoulders as thick as planks. His midnight hair was short, his mouth drawn flat. Authority radiated from him in waves.
A siren went off in her head. A cop. After a lifetime spent on the streets, she could detect one from a mile away. And even wearing a leather jacket and jeans, everything about this man screamed police.
Her thoughts whirling wildly, she backed away from the door. He must have seen her come home. He’d probably staked out her house and lain in wait. It was too late to pretend she wasn’t here.
Struggling not to succumb to panic, she fled back into the kitchen, jerked her coat off the chair, and pulled it on. Then she threw her backpack over her shoulder—just as the doorbell sounded again.
“Be right there,” she called out, hoping to buy some time.
Knowing she only had seconds to escape him, she sprinted into her small home office, grabbed her laptop from the desk and shoved it into her bag. Then she knelt at the fake outlet beside the bookcase and pried the cover off. She pulled out her stash of emergency cash and added it to her bag, then took out her semiautomatic handgun and slammed a magazine home. She stuck the weapon into an outside pocket of the backpack and rose.
She spared a glance at the basement but instantly ruled it out. A cop wouldn’t come alone. He probably had a partner watching her backyard—including the tool shed, which hid the cellar door. But she’d prepared for this day, planning for this very emergency. She’d even bought an end-unit row house with this disaster in mind.
Moving faster now, she raced up her stairs to the guest bathroom, which faced the open side. Then she quietly pushed open the window and peered out into the night. The crisp autumn air chilled her face. The rumble of traffic from the D.C. beltway hummed its usual background noise. A car sped down the street, its headlights sweeping over the ancient oak tree growing beside the house and illuminating the edge of her fenced backyard.
No sign of a partner. Maybe the cop really had come alone.
Unwilling to take that gamble, she scrambled onto the windowsill and grabbed hold of the nearest branch, the cold bark rough on her palms. But then she paused, her throat tightening with a stab of regret. She was so damned tired of this. She’d spent more than half her life on the run, always looking over her shoulder, always terrified she’d be found. This row house was her first-ever attempt to set down roots, to lead something even remotely resembling a stable life. To have a garden, a home. To put an end to the utter loneliness that plagued her in the dead of night.
But she knew the futility of dreams. Predators ruled this brutal world, a lesson she’d learned at an early age. And unless she wanted to end up a victim, she had to go on the run again.
Jerking herself back to reality, she adjusted her grip on the tree branch and swung onto the sprawling limb. She crept to the trunk, inched over the huge, gnarled branch that stretched across the neighbor’s fence, then dropped onto their patio, landing with a muffled thud. Her heart racing, she darted into the bushes and hid.
For several seconds, she didn’t move. She held her breath, listening for signs that she’d been seen. But no one looked out the neighbor’s window; no one raised an alarm. Praying her luck would hold—and the cop would keep ringing her doorbell instead of circling around to the back—she snuck through the shadows to the gate and pressed her ear to the wood.
Silence.
Now came the risky part.
She had to exit through the alley. There wasn’t another way out. And she couldn’t wait; once that cop realized she’d fled the house, he would search the entire block—including the neighbor’s yard. She just hoped that if he did have backup, his partner would be watching her back door instead of the neighbor’s gate. Her pulse quickening, she cracked it open and peeked out.
She swept her gaze down the dark alley, over hulking, tomblike cars, past trash cans looming like phantoms in the quiet night. The cold wind gusted, ruffling the bushes lining the fence, but she seemed to be alone.
Now or never.
She sucked in a breath, swung the gate open wider and stepped through.
Just as the shadows leaped.
Chapter 2
Parker
