still eating food from jars?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Marianne used to cook, and I think Katie was eating some regular table food, but I’m not quite that domestic,” she admitted, guilt tugging at her chest. “I guess I’m going to have to buy a cookbook or something.”
“I can cook,” he said. “I don’t mind.”
“I don’t expect you to be a housekeeper and chef, as well as a nanny.”
“I like to cook. I like to eat. You’ll be buying the groceries, so it’s not like you’ll be taking advantage.” He crouched as Katie toddled up to him, smiling at the little girl. “We’ll see if we can find the fixings to make a chicken potpie tonight. How does that sound, Katiebug?”
“Pie,” she said in a tone of approval.
Damn it, Lacey thought. Great body, adorable dimples—and he cooked?
Even Mary Poppins couldn’t touch that.
“Should I save you a plate? Or will you be eating out?”
“I was planning on grabbing something while I was out, but you’re making this potpie sound tempting.”
He slanted a smiling look at her. “Don’t get too excited. We’re talking about canned vegetables and crumbled-cracker topping here.”
She really needed to get out of here before he tempted her to change her plans and stay. “Save me a plate. If I don’t eat it tonight, I’ll eat it tomorrow.”
She grabbed her purse from one of the hooks in the small mudroom off the kitchen. “Don’t start calling the police and hospitals until after ten,” she said, keeping her tone light, even though she knew her safety wasn’t really a laughing matter.
But she couldn’t afford to live in fear. She had to find a killer before he struck again. She had to do it for Marianne and Toby. For her orphaned niece.
For herself.
Outside, night had fallen completely, and the first grains of sleet peppered her windshield as she started Marianne’s Chevrolet Impala. With Katie still small enough to fit easily into a car seat buckled to the sedan’s backseat, Marianne and Toby hadn’t yet seen the need to upgrade to an SUV or minivan. But it wouldn’t be long before Lacey would have to start thinking about getting a more family friendly vehicle.
Stopping at the end of the long driveway, Lacey rubbed her temples, where the first signs of a headache were beginning to throb. How was she supposed to be Katie’s mother? Katie had had a good mother. A great mother. A mother Lacey didn’t have a hope of emulating. Marianne had been a natural. Chock-full of maternal instincts and glowing with the joy of motherhood.
And now she was gone, and all Katie had left were memories that would fade with time and an aunt who had no idea how to be a mother.
“Stop,” she said aloud, gripping the steering wheel tightly in her clenched fists. “You’ll learn what you need to know. You’ll do your best.”
And you’ll start with finding the son of a bitch who killed Marianne and Toby.
A call had come early that morning from Ken Calvert, a source in the State Department, an analyst in the department’s South and Central Asia division. She’d dealt with Calvert several times following up on the stateside elements of her investigative report on the rejuvenation of al Adar. Calvert claimed to have new information about a possible domestic al Adar connection, but he didn’t feel comfortable telling her about it over the phone. He wanted to meet her at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial at seven.
Maybe she was crazy to go out there alone. But she needed to know if it was possible that al Adar had put out a hit on her here in the United States. At least the Vietnam Veterans Memorial was a public place. It might not draw hordes of tourists on a snowy night in January, but Lacey had never been to the sleek reflective memorial wall when there weren’t plenty of visitors around. She should be safe enough.
She went east on River Road, heading for the highway that would take her into the capital. It was an hour’s drive from Cherry Grove to DC. She hoped Ken Calvert really had come across something useful for her. She didn’t look forward to driving home in the snow.
For the first third of the drive, traffic was moderate and, at times, light. But the closer she got to DC, the heavier it got. Headlights gleamed in her rearview mirror like long strands of Christmas lights stretching out along the highway behind her.
Any one of those vehicles could be carrying the man who had attacked her in Frederick, she thought. Or whoever had set the bomb in her car.
The thought that she might be sharing the road with a killer made her stomach tighten. She forced herself to take deep breaths past the sudden constriction in her chest.
Stay focused, she told herself. Keep your eyes on the goal.
It was a relief when she reached the outskirts of Dulles, Virginia, and the relentless darkness of the highway gave way to well-lit civilization. The endless stream of lights behind her became vehicles she could recognize—eighteen-wheeler trucks, expensive sports cars, sturdy SUVs and the occasional pickup truck.
Including a familiar-looking blue pickup just a few cars behind her.
Her heart skipping a beat, she checked her rearview mirror again to be certain.
It was the same truck she’d seen following her on the highway into Frederick yesterday.
She didn’t like using her cell phone when she was driving. But she found herself reaching for the phone anyway. She shoved it into the dashboard holder and pulled up the farmhouse number on her contacts list. The phone rang twice before Jim Mercer answered, his deep voice instantly reassuring. “Hello?”
“Jim, it’s Lacey Miles.” She glanced at her mirror and saw the blue pickup keeping pace with her, staying a couple of vehicles back. Swallowing her fear, she forced the words past her lips. “I think I’m being followed.”
The fear in Lacey’s voice caught Jim by surprise. She normally seemed so composed and competent that her shivery words made his chest tighten with alarm. “Tell me what’s happening. What makes you think you’re being followed?”
“The other day, before I got to the employment agency, I thought I saw a blue pickup truck following me. I left the highway early, and it passed on by, so I didn’t think about it again. But the same truck is behind me right now.”
“Are you sure it’s the same truck?”
There was a brief pause. “I think it is.” Her voice took on a sheepish tone. “I guess I’m not sure. It’s dark out. Maybe I’m wrong about the color. I’m sorry. I’m probably overreacting.”
“Where are you?”
“I just passed the exit to Dulles.”
Dulles? She was nearly to DC. “I don’t suppose you could cancel whatever you had going on tonight and come back here?”
There was a
