The petunias were dead. That was the first thing Brooke Josephson noticed when she parked at the curb. Two months ago when she’d planted the flowers, her intention was to brighten up this dull brick building and make it into a more welcoming place for Franny. Instead, the yard had become a petunia graveyard with the tortured faces of faded purple, yellow and pink blooms staring helplessly. Withered leaves reached out in silent entreaty. All they’d needed was a splash of water. August in Denver could be hot and dry, but this wasn’t the blazing Sahara.
Brooke leaped from her SUV and hurried along the sidewalk. The dead petunias were a bad omen—not enough to push her into a panic attack, but close. She had the symptoms: labored breathing, tremors, accelerated pulse and more. She paused. Slow down. Shake it off. At a more controlled pace, she proceeded toward the front door of her friend’s one-bedroom at the end of a one-story, L-shaped apartment complex.
She never should have expected Franny to take care of the plants. Her friend’s life was a wild, erratic whirl, and she’d never change. Why should she? If she was happy with chaos, so be it. Brooke loved her crazy friend like the little sister she’d never had. They even resembled each other. Of course we look alike. He chose us for our black hair and blue eyes.
It had been twelve years, but she remembered every detail. Her past was inescapable.
As she stepped onto the concrete stoop, she checked her precision quartz wristwatch. Twenty-seven minutes ago, she’d gotten Franny’s call and had responded ASAP. She’d logged off her computer, dashed to her car, checked her GPS and adjusted her route to avoid the traffic slowdown for repairs on Alameda.
And here she stood, worried and scared. But ready to save the day if need be.
She punched the doorbell and called out, “Franny, it’s me. Open up.”
Most likely, this was a lot of fuss about nothing. If so, she’d bite her tongue and wouldn’t scold. Extra caution was better than ignoring potential signs of danger, even though Brooke hated to waste time with unnecessary disruptions. Sometimes she could go a full week without leaving her house. Some people—including FBI Agent George Gimbel and her therapist—thought her behavior was borderline agoraphobic, but they didn’t understand the importance of organization. There was no such thing as being too efficient.
From inside the apartment, she heard her friend chattering in a high-pitched jumble of words. She was answered by a man’s rumbling voice. That wasn’t right! Franny didn’t date. She had no male relatives.
Brooke whipped her phone from the pocket of her khaki shorts and hit the emergency call button. Better safe than sorry. She unzipped her fanny pack and wrapped her fingers around the palm-size canister of pepper spray. “Franny, are you okay?”
She heard someone moving across the hardwood floor inside the apartment with a heavy tread; it must be the man. He was coming toward her. The pepper spray trembled in her hand. I can handle this. She had to. Nobody else would protect her and the people she loved. With the screen door open, she balanced on the balls of her feet—ready for action and glad that she’d worn sneakers instead of sandals. She braced herself. The first move would be hers.
The green-painted door was opened by a tall, dark-haired man in a suit.
Her phone squawked as the 911 operator answered, “Hello, what is your emergency?”
“You called the police,” the man said.
Though law enforcement had failed her many times, Brooke needed backup. She shouted Franny’s address at the phone and added, “We need help. Hurry.”
“That’s not necessary,” he said.
“Where’s my friend? What have you done to Franny?”
“Take it easy.” He slid his hand inside his jacket. “Everything is fine.”
Really? Then why are you reaching for a gun? She sprayed a blast of pepper spray. He dodged and threw up his arm for protection, but she knew that she’d scored a partial hit. While he winced and squinted, she darted into the apartment and positioned herself for another, more devastating blow.
“Brooke, stop!” Franny rushed from the back of the apartment. “What are you doing?”
“Taking care of this creep,” she said.
She fired a karate kick at his knee and missed. Her next attempt aimed at his groin.
Her foot shot toward him. Before it connected, he grabbed her ankle and held on. It was all she could do not to lose her balance.
He held a wallet with his credentials toward her. “FBI.”
“Let go of my leg!”
“Are you going to kick at me again?”
“Not
