he had to do was keep his eyes forward. No looking back. There was no undoing the past, no matter how wrong. His military career was over. Period. He had an opportunity for something new here. He had to keep that goal in mind if he was to have a future. At the rate he’d been going that prospect had grown pretty dim of late. But that was behind him now.
No looking back.
1:00 p.m.
WILLOW HARRIS sat in her rental car for over half an hour. Most of that time was spent attempting to work up the nerve to make the first move. It wasn’t that she was afraid for her safety. The neighborhood wasn’t that great, but it wasn’t any worse than the one in East St. Louis where her former P.I.’s office was located.
Waiting…working up her courage, she did a lot of that lately. In the beginning sheer adrenaline had driven her, overriding any second thoughts or hesitancy. She’d pushed and pushed and searched and searched without the first consideration for her safety or anything else.
But it was different now.
Another anxiety stalked her like a ruthless killer in the dark.
Fear.
The fear of dashed hope. Each time she moved on to a new investigator her anticipation of finally getting her son back renewed…only to be sucked completely out of her when failure crashed down upon her shoulders all over again.
She’d spent all weekend attempting to locate someone who might be able to help her. Her gaze focused on the street in front of her car. The story had been basically the same with each agency she’d called.
I’m very sorry, Ms. Harris, but that’s a case we don’t feel comfortable taking on.
Just when she’d been ready to give up, the last guy she’d called—a low-rent one-man operation she’d almost skipped over in her online Yellow Pages search—had told her about a rumor he’d heard. A new shop was opening up in Chicago. There was a buzz going around that this one would be different from all the others.
So here she was, in Chicago sitting outside a place that might very well be her last hope.
The Equalizers.
Her low-rent P.I. had waxed on about how this place planned to take covert investigations to the next level. The Equalizers would accept the less desirable or riskier jobs that no one else wanted to touch.
Since the firm had only just opened, Willow couldn’t be sure if the plan to take on any and all cases was out of necessity or not, but she was here.
She was desperate.
Her savings and investments were dwindling fast. This place might very well prove her final hope in more ways than one. There wouldn’t be enough money to hire anyone new if this one failed.
An ache twisted through her, making her want to curl up into a ball of defeat. No. She had to be strong. The only way she would ever get her son back was if she didn’t give up, if she tried harder.
Determination rushed through her on the tail of a burst of adrenaline when Davenport’s words echoed in her brain. Maybe she was looking for a miracle. Who said there was anything wrong with that? Miracles manifested themselves in many ways. She’d been taught that concept her whole life. That was one part of her upbringing she needed to hang onto.
Willow got out of the car and strode across the street to the entrance of the brownstone designated as number 129. The painted wooden sign hanging next to the door announced the name of the business in bold strokes.
The Equalizers.
Well, she would just see if the firm could live up to its fledgling reputation.
Acting before she could think of another reason to waver, she opened the door and went inside. The sudden warmth reminded her that she’d gotten cold sitting in her car with the engine turned off for all that time. A winter chill had blasted the midwest last night, causing major delays in several airports. Thank goodness Midland hadn’t been one of them. Once she’d made up her mind to come, she would have done so even if she’d had to walk.
A receptionist sat behind an L-shaped desk. Her back was turned to the door while she typed away at her computer. Several chairs and accompanying tables bordered the room. Magazines were fanned across the top of one of the tables. No plants or goldfish tanks. No heavy stench of cigarette smoke as she’d encountered in many of the agencies she’d visited. Just empty and quiet, like Davenport’s office had been, except for the receptionist’s busy fingers on the keyboard.
The decorating scheme left something to be desired, but the place was neat and clean. She could appreciate that after the last couple of places she’d visited in the past forty-eight hours.
Since the receptionist didn’t make the usual overture though she’d surely heard the door close, Willow stepped closer to her desk and spoke up. “My name is Willow Harris. I’m here to see the man in charge.” She purposely left off the phrase if he’s available. She’d come too far to accept any kind of excuse. The idea that he could be out of town banded around her chest and squeezed. Booking the first available flight and rushing here might have been a mistake, but she’d had no choice.
Her situation wouldn’t wait. She’d waited too long already.
Please let him be here.
Rather than offer a customary greeting, the receptionist frowned as she gave Willow a thorough once-over with assessing brown eyes. She appeared less than pleased at being interrupted from whatever she’d been doing on the computer. Maybe she wasn’t the receptionist at all. She could be one of the investigators who had decided to use this computer for one reason or the other.
“Is he in?” Willow prompted after another awkward moment elapsed. And here she had thought she’d already seen the most bizarre and unprofessional this business had to offer.
“How do you know the person in charge isn’t a woman?” The woman tucked a handful of sandy-brown hair behind one ear and gave Willow a pointed look.
Too taken aback to be embarrassed, Willow struggled a moment to come up with an appropriate response. “Well…who is in charge?” Maybe this woman didn’t work here at all.
“Mr. Jim Colby,” the woman behind the desk said with a smile that wasn’t really a smile, more a fleeting tick. “Do you have an appointment?”
Willow looked around the small reception area. There was no one else there. Unless Mr. Colby already had a client in his office or was expecting one momentarily, she didn’t see the point in the question. But then she remembered the discreet way Davenport had operated.
“No,” she admitted. “I don’t have an appointment. I flew in from St. Louis this morning in hopes that Mr. Colby could make some time for me.”
“Calling first would have been smarter.”
Willow reminded herself that she needed to get past this woman and to the man in charge. Giving her any advice on how a proper receptionist conducted herself might not be conducive to making that happen.
The truth was the woman was right. But Willow managed to keep her voice calm. “I know. I apologize for just showing up like this, but
