to leave. When your brother left WP, we couldn’t risk him inadvertently leading someone else—Destina—to James, your mother, or you.”
“How many times did we relocate, Ransom? Five? Fifteen?” A flash of guilt about Phoenix went through her, but she knew, of course. They were all losses, engraved on her heart like her father’s murder. “I left in Phoenix because what was the point, after all? Maybe my brother was right to leave, too. He just realized it first.” She didn’t know where Kyle—at least, that had been his WP name the last time she saw him—was living now, and the knowledge pained Cameron, but she felt too angry to stop. “If you people were doing what the taxpayers of this country hired you to do, my father wouldn’t be dead!”
The edges of his mouth had turned white. “I admit that we—”
“What kind of ‘protection’ did you really provide?”
This time he said nothing. His whole face had turned pale.
“News flash, Ransom. We lived in fear for my father’s life every day, of his being found and killed. And for what? Because he testified in a federal trial to get you a conviction.”
“Not my conviction,” he said. “The government’s.”
“You are the government.” She rose from the chair, still shaking. “It wasn’t you who spent all those years hiding behind closed blinds, afraid of every slam of a car door or backfire in the street! Afraid of telling something—anything—to a neighbor or a friend that would indicate another life.”
Ransom stood up, too. “I know that wasn’t easy. But putting that bastard behind bars, making a serious dent in Venuto Destina’s multicrime organization, had to seem worth it.”
“Spoken like a man who’s never lived behind closed doors.”
Ransom ran a not-quite-steady hand through his sun-streaked hair.
“Look,” he said again. “I could have sent another agent here. Instead, I came to see you because I thought familiarity—”
“Breeds contempt?”
He held up both hands. “I guess so.”
Cameron walked toward the door. “Thank you for coming, Deputy Marshal Ransom. If there’s nothing else—”
“I’m not finished. Sit down,” he said again.
“Why?” Cameron waved a hand in dismissal. “I have lived all over this country, in a dozen or more ratty little houses. Under a dozen or more different names, which, I might add, is why I now prefer the name I was born with. It’s my father’s name too—”
“The name he took back when he died,” Ransom said.
“And that’s why I gave the marshals my real name as their contact—your contact—when I left the program.” She dragged in a breath. “I learned very young, when I lost that name, to be careful what I did and said and who I said it to, and at this point when I no longer have to watch my tongue or hide who I really am I am extremely tempted to tell you to go to hell.” She took a breath. “However, my mother managed to instill in me a few manners. So instead of throwing you out right now, I’ll listen. For two minutes.” She paused. “Then I’ll toss you out into the hall.”
Cameron knew she was close to losing the last of her control. She didn’t want Ransom to know how shaken she’d felt tonight. Didn’t want to hear what else he’d come to say…
“Destina.” The name again shot fear along her nerve ends, as it had on the darkened street earlier. “I think you’re in danger,” Ransom said, holding her gaze. “I think you’re next.”
Cameron thought she’d heard him wrong. She hoped she had. “I’m in danger? But the only reason I lived in Witness Protection was because of my father. He’s dead now.” Saying the words still hurt. “Destina’s already had his threatened revenge.”
“Has he?” Ransom cleared his throat. “It would help if you could tell me about the money that’s still missing. Since Destina’s release, someone has been sniffing around. I’m sure James knew where it is.”
“The money?” To Cameron, it was just a shadowy mention, in hushed tones, between her parents long ago when she was a child. What did the still-missing funds in the case have to do with her? Or even her father now? The government didn’t pay its witnesses well. James, her mother, Kyle and Cameron had lived in near poverty. Surely Ransom didn’t think… “Why would my father know anything about that?” Unless he thought James was a crook, too. Which he seemed to. “Why would I?”
“Because the one thing that kept you all sane in WP was family. Maybe that didn’t mean as much to Kyle, or whatever he calls himself now, or maybe he got restless and left the program to stay sane himself. But you stayed. A lot longer.”
“I had to. I was still a kid—and then my mother was ill.”
“But after she died…?” he pressed.
“My father was all alone. He needed me while he adjusted to her loss.”
“See what I mean?” Ransom looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Family,” he repeated. “If James knew about that money, then you know about it, too.”
Cameron glared. “By what circuitous route of logic did you figure that out?”
“You love your father. He loved you. He’d tell you everything. No secrets.”
“He didn’t tell me about any money,” she said, her jaw tense, “because he…didn’t…know…about…it…himself.” She spaced the words so he’d understand.
Ransom looked around, as if he’d just now noticed her apartment. “I’d say you’ve already spent some of it.” He gestured at the room. “Look at this place. Fancy address, fancy building. Marble lobby. A doorman. You’re on a relatively high floor—with a good view, I bet—and in New York. Even I know this rent must be well into four figures. You’re what?” he said. “A cook?”
She stiffened. “A celebrity chef.”
“You feed other people. How much does that pay?”
“Not enough right now.” With the admission, she seemed to have walked into his trap again. “That doesn’t mean I steal. Don’t pat yourself on the back too hard, Marshal. You might fall on your face.”
“Deputy Marshal.” Giving her a look, Ransom strolled through the living room.
Her sparse living room.
Cameron watched him take in the old chair she’d bought at a flea market in SoHo, the bare windows. She wasn’t sure she’d ever buy draperies, because she couldn’t bear to shut out the light, the world outside. But she had plans, eventually, to furnish the place. To sink roots at last, for herself.
“It’s an investment,” she said, seeing his appraisal of the barren surroundings. “I need the good address. It gives me an air of respectability, of prosperity. I doubt the kind of clients I solicit—celebrities—would sign on with someone who worked out of a slum, which is more like what I can actually afford.” She hesitated, knowing she was
