UESDAY

Whenever Tracy Shapiro lugged her groceries home, she found herself wondering what she’d been thinking to get a two-year lease on an apartment that was a “mere” four blocks from a grocery store.

The idea had seemed wonderful. Red-dot savings and smart shopper specials, just a short walk away.

And four blocks was nothing when she was dressed in workout gear and her running shoes.

But in a skirt and heels, coming straight from work, her laptop bag over her shoulder, four blocks was torture.

Of course, it was her choice, so to speak, to take the bus to and from the Troubleshooters Incorporated office, where she worked as the company’s trusty receptionist. Assuming that choosing not to take the bus and instead spending her entire paycheck on gas, having nothing left with which to buy food, and starving to death was a viable option.

And it was her fault entirely that she’d been unable to pass up this week’s smart shopper special on a particularly healthy brand of soup, in microwavable containers that she could take with her to work. The walk would’ve been a pleasant one if she’d stuck to her plan of picking up only a bag of salad and some halibut to grill on George.

Foreman, that is. Not her other George—a thought that made her smile grimly.

If she’d had a hand free, she would’ve fished her cell out of her handbag and called her friend Lindsey, to leave a message on her cell about how she’d just realized her two favorite appliances were both named George.

She’d leave a message, because Lindsey was probably having dinner with her husband, Mark—while basking in his love and adoration.

Or maybe Lindsey would actually pick up the phone, starved for female conversation because her very best friend, Sophia, had slipped into dark-side-of-the-moon mode—that zone of zero communication that often happened in the first lustful, free-fall weeks of a new romantic relationship.

Sophia was too busy to talk to anyone because she was getting busy with Dave Malkoff.

Tracy hadn’t seen that coming. Not from Sophia’s end, anyway. From Dave’s, absolutely. But Tracy had always believed that Dave had a better chance of being struck by a random falling anvil or getting bitten by a radioactive spider than of ever winning the pleasure of beautiful Sophia Ghaffari’s company.

Dave had a relatively high nerd factor, sure, but he was a very nice person, and he wasn’t unpleasant to spend time with. Tracy had cut his hair for him a time or ten. She’d taken him clothes shopping, too. And yes, they’d had a post-tailor-visit dinner—and several glasses of wine—at the Cheesecake Factory, and Tracy had let him know that if he’d made the suggestion, she would’ve gone home with him.

But he hadn’t, so she didn’t, and the moment had passed.

Which was just as good, because she didn’t seriously like him, not that way. She was just looking for a distraction, which, yeah, sounded sluttier than it really was.

In her defense, at the time she’d been on the rebound from That-Creep-Michael, who’d gone from I love you, I love you to Later, babe, I’m moving to Maine, practically overnight.

And that fiasco was after the world’s most embarrassing one-night stand ever, with Navy SEAL Irving Zanella, who’d immediately left for six months of punishment duty because he’d gone UA—the Navy’s version of AWOL—to save Tracy from a psycho-killer who’d wanted to use her corpse for an art project.

Which was something she absolutely could not think about while walking alone down a dimly lit city street.

Tracy picked up her pace, her shoulders screaming, the handles of the plastic bags cutting into her hands as she hurried the last few blocks. And then she was turning the corner onto her street, in sight of her building where—oh, good!—Tess and Jimmy were home, light streaming from their open living room window. They would surely hear her if she screamed loudly, and if there was one thing she was good at, it was being loud and...

Shoot.

She slowed her pace, looking up at that brightly lit window, at the ceiling fan she could see spinning, at Tess’s once jungle-worthy collection of house plants, now brown from neglect.

Tess and Jimmy weren’t home.

Tess and Jimmy would never be home again, because Jimmy Nash was dead.

Really.

For weeks, Tracy had held her breath, waiting for someone in the office—Jimmy’s good friend Lawrence Decker, or maybe even the boss, Tom Paoletti—to give her a wink and a nod, letting her in on The Big Secret. Which was, of course, that Jimmy was only pretending to be dead.

For a while, she’d found clues and hints in nearly everything.

The coffee mug in the office, for example.

For as long as Tracy had worked at Troubleshooters Incorporated, Jimmy and Deck had had an ongoing competition for the coffee mug with the smiley face. It had nothing to do with the silly artwork, and everything to do with its super size. It held more coffee—ergo, they would steal it from each other’s desks.

It had been sitting on Jimmy’s desk, half full with cold coffee, the morning Tracy had come in to the office after word had gone out that he’d died.

The sight of it had made her cry, but she’d washed it out and carefully set it back on his desk. It seemed somehow wrong to put it in the cabinet with the other mugs. And there it had sat, in an office that no one used, that everyone walked a little bit faster to get past, because Jimmy was gone.

But on Decker’s first day back, some weeks after the memorial service, he’d headed for the coffee station, which was out in the waiting area near Tracy’s reception desk. And as he poured himself a cup, she’d realized that he’d swiped that smiley face mug off Jimmy’s old desk.

It seemed weird that he would have done that—as if seeing that mug sitting there should have made him cry, too. Inwardly, of course, because he was an alpha male.

But he hadn’t even looked upset—he hadn’t look anything—and Tracy had found herself holding her breath again, waiting for Decker to glance at her, toast her with that mug, and give her a we both know Nash isn’t really dead nod.

But he hadn’t.

And okay, it wasn’t just stupid things like coffee mug usage that fed Tracy’s fantasy.

She’d asked both Lindsey and Troubleshooters XO Alyssa Locke if didn’t they think it was strange that Decker had delivered Tim Ebersole, leader of the neo-Nazi group called the Freedom Network, to the authorities in close to one healthy piece?

Neither of the two women had understood her question, so she’d clarified. Decker could just as easily have delivered Ebersole’s lifeless body to the FBI. He absolutely could have killed the murderous SOB—claiming self-defense and ridding the world of Ebersole’s evil—and no one would have questioned him.

Tim Ebersole was directly, absolutely responsible for Jimmy Nash’s death. No one doubted that.

And yet Decker had let the man live.

Lindsey had agreed that it was a little weird, but Alyssa had told Tracy, “That’s what makes Decker Decker,” which made a certain amount of sense.

Lawrence Decker was one of a kind.

He was also an enigma. Just when Tracy thought she’d figured him out, identifying him as a man of certainty and consistency, always ordering the exact same type of pizza or coffee, he’d go and do something completely unexpected.

She, however, was as predictable as a stone.

Even when the cold hard truth was staring her in the face, she “what if-ed” her way into believing improbable and ridiculous possibilities.

What if Jimmy were just pretending to be dead...?

And yes, it was probably the fact that, before Decker had caught him and brought him to justice, creepy and evil Tim Ebersole had faked his death, that had made Tracy come up with that ridiculous idea.

It created a far nicer scenario than the one in which Jimmy was forever gone.

But the truth was, as much as she wished otherwise, that this was real life, not some Hollywood thriller where Jimmy would emerge from hiding when the time was right.

No, Jimmy Nash was dead—his ashes contained in a pathetic little urn that now sat on the mantel of the gas fireplace in the apartment he’d once shared with Tess.

Tracy knew, because she’d found it there. She’d recognized it—it had sat on the altar of the church during his funeral.

The memorial service was lovely.

Why were some people so unbelievably stupid?

Someone—a client—had said that, just today, to Decker, in the lobby, right in front of Tracy’s desk.

The memorial service wasn’t lovely. A good friend had died. Violently. And Tracy was sorry, but there were no comforting words or musical selections that could make anything even remotely connected to that tragedy into something that could ever be described as lovely.

She sighed as she humped her groceries up the stairs past Jimmy and Tess’s, to her own apartment, remarkably fatigued after what had been an unusually quiet day at Troubleshooters Incorporated.

She hadn’t created an incident, although she’d been tempted to. Instead, she’d sat at her desk and bit back the words she wanted to say—Personally? I thought the memorial service sucked—as she’d forced a smile at the imbecile who’d uttered that crap.

Decker had shown the king of the buttholes to the door and headed to his office, hand on the back of his neck as if he’d had a killer of a headache.

“Can I get you some coffee?” Tracy had asked him, and he’d actually looked surprised. Or maybe that had been fear she’d seen in his usually steady eyes, so she added, “Tom just made a fresh pot.” Subtext: Someone else me made it—not me.

She’d long since learned how to make a proper pot of coffee, but those first few months she’d worked as Troubleshooter’s receptionist, she’d gotten it really wrong, too many times.

And the myth that her coffee was unpalatable lived on.

“No thanks,” he’d said. “I’m all set.”

“I’m sorry about...” She’d pointed to the door. “Lovely. God.”

Deck had smiled ruefully, and disappeared back into his office, leaving her to the scheduling, which was becoming quite the challenge.

Sam and Alyssa had just gotten the boss’s permission for a solid month of lost time—what was he thinking? And Dave was going to Boston with Sophia, whose father was in the hospital. Their return date was unknown. Tess was still on medical leave, and Decker, too, was only working part-time and if anyone else called in with some excuse not to show up, they might as well shut the office down for the entire rest of September.

And maybe they should. They could all use a break.

Tracy set her grocery bags down in the hall as she unlocked her apartment door. She went inside, kicking it shut behind her as she hustled the groceries into the kitchen, where she put the salad and the fish in the fridge, because dinner could wait. She hurried into her bedroom, dumping her laptop on her bed so she could change into a T-shirt and jeans.

It had to be Lawrence Decker down there in Tess and Jimmy’s apartment. He was probably—finally—helping Tess by clearing Jimmy’s clothing out of the place.

His doing so would put the final nail in the coffin—bad analogy, wow—of Tracy’s fading hope that Jimmy was still alive. For a moment, before she zipped up her jeans, she paused, and considered pretending that she hadn’t seen the light, so that she wouldn’t have to help, wouldn’t have to know.

But throwing out Jimmy’s clothes was not going to be an easy task for Deck, who’d been friends with the dead man for more than ten years.

The very least Tracy could do was help get the job done, twice as quickly.

Slipping her sneakers onto her bare feet, she grabbed the laundry basket that was in the corner of her bedroom, and went to do just that.

Jimmy was having a nightmare.

It was a frequent occurrence—and had been, even before he’d been shot and nearly died.

Tess had learned through the years they’d been together that it wasn’t always necessary to wake him. Sometimes it was enough just to put her arms around him and hold him tight.

But here, a half-day’s drive from San Diego, in this remote desert safe house that Jules and Decker had set up, she was still sleeping on a cot that she’d placed in the corner so as not to disturb him.

He awoke with a shout. “No! No!”

Tess scrambled to his side. “Jimmy. Jim, it’s all right. We’re safe.”

“Oh, Christ,” he gasped as he clung to her. “Oh, Tess...”

“I’m here,” she said.

“Where?” he asked. “What...?”

“The safe house,” she told him. “Remember?” She fumbled for the unfamiliar lamp on the unfamiliar bedside table, finally found the switch and clicked it on.

“Shit!” Jimmy turned away, closing his eyes against the light. “Don’t!”

She switched it back off, but not before she saw that his face was wet with tears—as if she would somehow think him less of a man because he’d wept in his sleep? Still, over the past long weeks of his recovery, he’d been more vulnerable than he’d ever been before—at least in his adult life. Confined to a bed, hooked up to monitors and an IV, unable to move, forced to accept help for his most basic needs...

The ride from the hospital had not been an easy one, and he’d been sleeping pretty much continuously since arriving here early Monday.

His wounds, both from being shot and from the surgery that had saved his life, were still painful. And the infection that had riddled him for weeks had not only made him weak, but had prevented him from moving around, which Tess knew made his back and legs ache all the time.

Not that he’d complained.

Not in the hospital, and not in the cargo van in which he’d ridden here, on a stretcher. FBI agent Jules Cassidy himself had been driving, with Alyssa riding shotgun and Tess in the back.

They’d pulled right into the spacious five-bay garage at the base of this amazing hilltop castle, and closed the door tightly behind them.

Sam Starrett was already there, waiting for them, playing the tough-guy former SEAL even though everyone at Troubleshooters knew that he was an emotional pushover, and that the idea of bunnies falling in love in the spring made him choke up. He’d hugged Tess a little too tightly in greeting before clearing his throat about fourteen times and telling Jimmy that he looked like shit warmed over, which, for a guy who’d been dead for a few months, was pretty damn good.

They’d wheeled Jimmy into an elevator—this place had an elevator!—and gone to a gorgeous two-room suite with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the harshly beautiful desolation of the desert. The windows were one-way—no one on the outside could see in—but Tess had noticed Jimmy’s trepidation as he looked at them, so she’d shut the drapes. With the push of a button on the wall by the bed, they’d closed with the softest motorized purr, and Jimmy soon relaxed into sleep.

Over the past day and a half, he’d roused only for meals.

But now he was awake and struggling to control his still-uneven breathing as Tess carefully stretched out beside him. She rested her arm across his stomach as she took his hand and interlaced their fingers, her leg across his thighs.

The full body contact seemed to soothe him, and it wasn’t long before he moved—to wipe his eyes with the heel of his other hand.

“Shit,” he said again, but softer this time. “It’s the same fucking nightmare, every fucking night.”

That was more information than he’d ever given her, but of course they hadn’t been able to talk freely in the hospital, with the nurses constantly coming in and out. Here, however...

Heart pounding, Tess quietly asked him, “Can you tell me...?”

Jimmy was silent for a long time—which was not a surprise. Talking about himself—his feelings and fears—was not one of his stronger skills, and she’d all but given up on his ever answering when suddenly he spoke.

“Did we get the DNA results back from that shirt?”

Tess sighed at his change of subject. “Not yet. Maybe in the morning.”

“But we sent it out to the lab?” he asked.

The shirt in question was the one he’d been wearing when some unknown person had tried to kill him. It was, apparently, only one in a number of recent incidents in which Jimmy had nearly ended up dead—and Tess couldn’t think about that too much or her head would explode.

But the shirt didn’t just have only Jimmy’s blood on it—it also had the blood of his attacker.

That shirt was—and Jimmy hadn’t told her this, but she’d figured it out by doing the calendar math—one of the reasons their apartment had been searched and trashed last July. His attacker had wanted his DNA sample back.

“We sent it on Monday morning,” she told him, her frustration leaking out in the terseness of her reply. “Early yesterday.”

“It’s Tuesday?” He was surprised and disgusted with himself. “What the hell have I been doing?”

“Sleeping,” she informed him. “It’s what bodies do when they need to heal.”

“We need to back down on my pain meds,” he told her, “because those dreams...” He shook his head—a rustle against the pillow in the darkness.

“The dreams are all yours. Last meds you took were...” She had to think about it. “Before we got into the van.”

He sighed heavily. “Great.”

“I wish,” Tess said so softly she was almost inaudible, “you could tell me....”

He was silent again, and she closed her eyes, knowing that if he weren’t still so weak, this was where he’d kiss her. Make love to her. Try to tell her, through touch and eye contact, all the things he couldn’t bring himself say.

“It’s okay,” she said, “if you don’t—”

But Jimmy spoke, cutting her off. “I’m on assignment,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper in the dark. “Another black op covert from the motherfuckers at the Agency.”

She was surprised—and a little confused. “In your dream,” she clarified, the words falling out of her mouth even as she realized she should just zip it and let him talk.

But he seemed okay with her question. “Yeah. But the assignment in the dream has the same MO as the others. The real ones. A phone call to tell me where and when. Background information in a file in a bus station locker. Whoever it is on the other end of the phone, he knows my travel plans, my schedule at Troubleshooters—sometimes before I do.”

Tess hardly dared to breathe, praying that he’d keep talking.

He did. “This time I’m in New Mexico—some little town called Kettleston—and I can’t believe I’ve gotten a call, but it’s not a deletion, thank God.” His voice shook. “God, Tess.”

“I’m here,” she said, through a throat that was tight from the sudden tears that sprang up—tears she didn’t dare let escape. “It’s all right.”

“No,” he said, “it’s not.”

“It’s over,” she reminded him.

“Sometimes I think it’ll never be over.” His voice was rough with emotion.

“But it is,” she insisted.

“After all this, you still have faith we’re going to live happily ever after,” he said, with a sound that was half laughter, half despair. “I don’t know why.”

“You’re in Kettleston,” she prompted him, tempted to shake him because she was sick and tired of his lack of faith—in her, in them. “What do they want you to do?”

Jimmy sighed. “Almost nothing. A simple B&E for a hard-drive download from a computer that isn’t connected to the Internet.”

Hence the hard access via breaking and entering. Even a secure wireless setup could be hacked by someone with fairly rudimentary skills, but if a computer didn’t have an Internet connection...

“The target’s not in Kettleston,” Jimmy continued, “it’s in Albuquerque—a three-hour trip. I’ve got a rental car, so I make the drive.”

Troubleshooters Incorporated had a client based out of Kettleston, New Mexico. Harrison & Sons. It was one of their many paranoia accounts—businesses run by CEOs who feared terrorist attacks despite being HQ’d in the land of cattle or corn.

Sometime over the past year—Tess couldn’t remember exactly when—Harrison & Sons had hired Troubleshooters to redesign their security system, and Jimmy had been in charge of the project. It was an easy job at a high rate of pay—the drawback being the travel and the days spent away from home, housed in a crappy hotel.

“The intel in the file I’ve been given,” Jimmy continued quietly, recounting his “dream,” if that’s what it really was, “is limited. Brief. I’m entering the home of Ronald Fenster. He’s a bank manager, thirty-nine years old, divorced, no kids, heavily in debt, suspected drug use, currently in Phoenix, Arizona, at a real estate investment workshop.”

“In other words, he’s not home,” Tess said, and felt Jimmy nod.

“No one’s home,” he confirmed. “It’s a simple job in an empty house. A cakewalk. I’ll be in and out inside of thirty minutes, depending on how long it takes to copy his files to my flashdrive. According to the intel, the computer I’m targeting is in the southeast bedroom on the second floor.

“The McMansion is dark,” he continued. “I drive the neighborhood, but it’s after midnight and the whole development is rolled up tight. So I leave the car about a mile away and walk in. Disable the security system and enter through the back door.

“I’m halfway up the stairs when I know something’s wrong. Really wrong. I don’t know how I know—maybe I smell blood, maybe I hear something. I draw my weapon as I keep going—if I stop they’ll know that I know they’re there. So instead of going into the southeast bedroom, I head for the master, where I goddamn nearly trip over Ronald Fenster, who’s tied to a chair. He’s been...”

Jimmy stopped, and Tess just waited, holding her breath, praying that he’d do it—that he’d trust her enough to tell her.

“He’s been beaten,” Jimmy whispered. “Tortured. The ends of his fingers are... Christ, he’s a mess. His throat’s been cut and I slip in the blood, which slows me down. I can hear them now, they’re coming for me, and I discharge my weapon at the bedroom door, and I think maybe I hit one of them as as I kick out the window screen. I jump and by some miracle I don’t break my ankles, and I’m running as they shoot at me. And I’m hit, but the bullet’s spent, and I know I’m not badly hurt. I can get away as long as I don’t leave a trail of blood. Except then the dream shifts, and I’m back in the bedroom, only this time it’s not Fenster in the chair.”

He took a deep breath, and it sounded raspy and loud in the darkness, but then he whispered, “This time, it’s you.”

Oh, God. “I’m here,” Tess said again, unable to keep her voice from shaking. “I’m right here.” She didn’t tell him that maybe—just maybe—her showing up dead in his dreams was his subconscious fear that his deceit could still kill their relationship. After all, he’d lied to her for years.

It seemed he might be out of the woods in terms of his physical injury—which meant it was getting close to the time to tell him that the emotional damage she’d sustained from his dishonesty had nearly been fatal.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, and she waited to see if he really did know. “How much of the dream is a dream and... Obviously the last part, with you, is just... But the rest of it is... It’s kind of a conglomerate of... What I’m trying to say is that it happened, but not that way. The assignment in Albuquerque was just a computer download. But the intel in the file they gave me was faulty. Fenster was home. He was very much alive. He heard me break in, and he had a gun, and when I went out the window, he shot at me. He didn’t hit me, though. The getting shot that I dreamed about was from another black op, in Kansas, about a month later—but I was out of range and the bullet was spent, so...”

A spent bullet was one that had run out of force and energy. It didn’t do as much damage. But it still could do plenty of harm.

“Kansas?” Tess asked, working hard to keep her upset out of her voice. He’d been shot last year—not in a dream, in reality—while in Kansas. “Smallwood?”

She felt him nod in the darkness. “Yeah.”

Jimmy had been part of a “red cell” team at another client’s corporate headquarters in Smallwood, Kansas, last winter. He’d come home from that assignment and immediately gone out on another. And then another. And another.

It hadn’t made sense because he hated spending so much time on the road, but now Tess realized he’d been waiting for his gunshot wound to heal before sharing a bed with her.

She had to grit her teeth in order to hold her tongue. Chastising Jimmy—or slapping him—would only shut him up, fast. And this was not the right time to roll out her list of demands. Mostly because she still hadn’t recovered enough from nearly losing him to be reasonable. She recognized that promise you’ll never go anywhere without me again wasn’t going to fly. Although from now on, you must tell me when you’ve been shot was a definite add to her list.

“At least that’s what I thought at the time—that the intel was bad,” Jimmy added, and it took her a second to make sense of his words. Unlike Tess, he’d already dismissed his injury. “I suspected I’d been set up, but it wasn’t until later—until Smallwood—that I knew for sure. I was supposed to die that night in Albuquerque. Fenster was supposed to shoot me as an intruder. That’s what the dream’s about. It’s my subconscious telling me that I should have known back then that it wasn’t a mistake, that they weren’t just getting sloppy. That they wanted me dead.”

“Who did?” Tess asked. “Who’s they?”

He laughed—a burst of frustration that made him wince and curse. “Tess, believe me, if I knew who they were, they’d no longer be a threat to anyone. With luck, when the DNA report from the shirt comes back...”

He was quiet again for a while, just breathing.

But then he said, “After Smallwood, I went back to the Agency. I walked into Dougie Brendon’s office and I made him take me in to the head of the black ops division, where I told them both that I was done. They denied sending me out on missions, at least not in the past two years, but they would’ve denied it, you know? Considering some of the shit they made me do.”

Tess did know. She’d worked for the Agency’s support unit for several years herself. Black ops were called black ops for a reason. The assignments were never acknowledged, and tended to be well outside of the limits of the law. There was never a paper trail, never a record, never a prayer—only instant distance and disassociation from the Agency—for the black op agent who was unlucky enough to be apprehended by the “enemy.”

“Same night I went to see Brendon,” Jimmy continued quietly, “I got a phone call. The son of a bitch who called told me that it’s too late. That I can’t back out now, that if I go in to the Agency again, if I talk to anyone... I’ll end up back in prison.

“I tell him to go fuck himself, and I hang up the phone. And then I went back to Albuquerque. See, I knew that, whoever they were, they were monitoring my travel. Anything the government knew about me, they somehow knew it, too. So I figured I’d send them a little message.”

Tess nodded. She knew exactly where his story was going. Straight back to Ronald Fenster.

“They called me the next day,” Jimmy told her, “and I bluffed. I said that I’d gotten one of their compatriots to talk to me and that I was well on my way to tracking them down so I could rip out their throats and end this bullshit. And then I waited for them to show up at our old friend Ronald Fenster’s house.

“Only somehow, they got to him first,” he whispered. “Somehow, they knew. I sat there for three days, Tess, and nothing moved outside or inside of that house. Finally someone shows up, but it’s a realtor, putting a FOR SALE sign out front. She leaves, and as soon as it’s dark, I go inside. And the house is empty. No furniture, new carpeting, fresh paint.

“And I finally go back to my hotel room—I’m already freaked out—and there’s a DO NOT DISTURB sign on my door. So I’m careful when I enter the room and....”

“Fenster?” Tess asked quietly, bracing herself.

“Yeah,” Jimmy told her. “They put him in the bathtub. He was tied to a chair, and...” He had to clear his throat. “Tortured. To make it look like they’d tried to find out what he’d told me—which was nothing, because I hadn’t even talked to the man. They knew I hadn’t talked to him—they’d probably contained him the day after he failed to kill me. They knew I’d figure it out and come back for him. And they wanted to send me a message. So they cut his throat, probably ten minutes before I got back to the hotel. His body was still warm, Tess. For all I know, I fucking walked past them in the lobby.”

Oh, God. “He was in the bathtub,” Tess repeated, clinging to the facts. She didn’t want to think about how close the killers had come to Jimmy.

“Thoughtful of them,” Jimmy said. “I only had to get rid of a body. I didn’t have to tear out the carpeting and repaint the walls.”

Tess sat up. Something here didn’t make sense. She could understand why Jimmy’s mystery men wouldn’t have tried to kill him as he’d waited outside of Fenster’s house. Jimmy had surely been on high alert at the time, and they no doubt knew him as an operator well enough to recognize that going after him then would be a deadly mistake. But...

“If they wanted you dead,” she asked, trying not to let her voice shake, “why not just wait for you at the hotel and kill you there? They were in your room.”

“Or why not take me down with a sniper rifle, in the CVS parking lot? Or at the gas station, or outside our apartment or...” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Best I can figure is they didn’t want me dead by assassin. At least at that time. Later, I think they just wanted me dead, but back then, they seemed to want me dead at the scene of a crime—”

“And Ronald Fenster, with his throat slit in the bathtub?” Tess couldn’t help it—her voice was getting louder. How could he not have told her about this when it had happened? She wasn’t just angry at the men who wanted him dead—she was angry at Jimmy, too. “Didn’t he make your hotel room the scene of a crime?”

“Well, yeah.” Jimmy gave her that. “But they would’ve had to wait for me in the room, and someone might’ve heard the gunshots.”

Oh, God.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Tess couldn’t keep the question inside any longer. “Why didn’t you tell me—”

“Because they pinned a note to Fenster’s shirt that said: Don’t go to the authorities, don’t talk to anyone. Go home and wait for instructions, or...” He choked the words out. “Tess is next.”

“So... what? You decide to come home and... and... break up with me?” Suddenly Jimmy’s erratic behavior over the past year made sense—in a backwards, twisted, utterly imbecilic way.

“I didn’t know what else to do. I thought you’d be safe if I—”

“You should have come to me, or, God, at least told Decker!”

“I thought—”

“That I’d just let you go?” Tess asked him. “Oh, well? Thought he was the love of my life, but I guess it didn’t work out?”

He was silent again, for such a long stretch of time that she stood up, putting some distance between them, afraid that if she didn’t, she’d smack him.

But he didn’t answer her and he didn’t answer and she got tired of waiting. “Don’t you shut down on me now,” she said, all of her anger and fear and frustration coming to a boil. Her voice got even louder—she couldn’t help it. “Don’t you dare!”

“I was scared,” he shouted back at her. “All right? I was fucking terrified. I’ve never gone up against anyone like these motherfuckers. I have never searched so hard and so long and come up so empty. That doesn’t happen to me, Tess. I can do this job with my eyes closed. I’m better than everyone—except for these guys. They want me dead, and they’ll go through you to do it!”

There was a knock on the door. A voice from the other side. “Everything okay in there?”

Great. It was Jules Cassidy, come to see what all the shouting was about.

The fastest way to get rid of him would be to give him a visual, so Tess quickly crossed to the door. Opened it. The light was on in the hall, and she squinted in the brightness.

The FBI agent was actually wearing Mighty Mouse boxer shorts, a Juicy Fruit T-shirt, and a rueful smile, his hair charmingly rumpled and his feet bare, as if he’d rolled out of bed.

Stopping on his way to get his sidearm, which he held loosely but with total authority.

“Jimmy’s feeling better, but I don’t think he’s quite ready yet to be shot for being a jerk,” she told Jules. “But thank you. I’ll stick to yelling at him for now.”

He laughed his surprise, even as he looked past her to do a quick visual sweep of the room. Tess, too, glanced back to where Jimmy was in bed, his arm up, covering his eyes, his nose tucked into the crook of his elbow, his misery apparent.

“We’re clear,” Jules said, and Tess realized that he was wearing his miniaturized headset—an earpiece that was about the size of a large hearing aid, with a microphone that was aimed vaguely toward his mouth.

She and Jimmy had been given similar headsets, so they would always be in the communications loop.

“I’m sorry we woke everyone,” she apologized.

“Nah,” Jules said, good-natured as always. “It’s barely nine o’clock. I turned in early because I’m still on eastern time. I figured it’d be better for me to stay on that schedule. That way I can take the morning watch and not have it, you know, kill me.”

“Still,” Tess said.

“The timing was good,” Jules reassured her. “We’d scheduled a drill for nine thirty, so... We’re going to be running worst-case scenarios pretty much constantly over the next few days. Tomorrow, if Jimmy’s up for it, we’ll do several where we get the two of you, plus Robin and Ash, into the security room. See how long it takes us.”

The security room doubled as a panic room. Once its door was locked, it would take a tank to blast through the reinforced walls.

“Late morning’s probably best for that,” Tess said. “Let Jimmy sleep in as long as he can.”

Jules nodded, his smile kind. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Hey, as long as he’s awake, take his blood pressure and temp, okay?”

“I will.”

“Tell him I’m glad he’s feeling better enough to get the verbal ass-kicking he deserves. And be sure to throw in a you’re a freaking idiot or two for me, while you’re at it.” He nodded at the door. “Don’t forget to lock it.”

Sophia was going to be sick.

The man in the hospital bed was a stranger—a frail, desiccated old man who looked as if he’d lived far longer than the slightly-less-than-sixty years she knew her father to be.

Of course, considering his years of drug abuse, plus nearly two decades of hard time in a foreign prison, it was amazing he was still breathing.

It was only if she squinted and tilted her head that she could see a shimmering ghost of the vibrant, laughing man with the long, sun-bleached, dirty-blond hair that she’d known all those years ago.

The rush of memories was dizzying—playing Frisbee with him in what looked like a park but was, in fact, royal gardens, her father turning the potential trauma of getting chased away by soldiers on horseback into just another game. It was he who insisted she dress in boys’ clothes, giving her precious freedom as they traveled through countries where women and girls were treated as second-class citizens.

She remembered him reading to her, always reading, his voice slow and lazy, but still melodic even when he was stoned. She remembered him singing to her, too—Lord, he’d loved his guitar.

She’d carried it with her for months after he’d vanished. She’d nearly died fighting to keep it from being stolen, and, badly beaten, she’d wept—not over her scrapes and bruises, but over the guitar’s loss, over having failed him.

And over her realization that he was never coming back.

“Hey,” Dave said, his voice in her ear, in tune with her as always. “Okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you. Hold on to me and just breathe, all right, Soph?”

She nodded, closing her eyes against the nausea that swirled around her, as he pulled her down the hall, all but carrying her, his arm strong and warm around her waist.

He was speaking to someone in his team-leader voice—commanding, authoritative—and within seconds, he’d found her some blessed privacy in a bathroom, and had closed and locked the door behind them both.

Sophia went right to the sink and ran cool water on her hands and wrists, splashing it up onto her face, her makeup be damned. Dave hovered, pulling paper towels from the rack on the wall and holding them out for her.

“How can I help you?” he asked as she dried her face, his voice as filled with his concern for her as his eyes. “Tell me what you need.”

Sophia had to laugh—it was either that or cry. “You mean, besides a trip to Hawaii and a new car? A Prius, I think. Or maybe one of those cute little Smart Cars.”

Dave smiled, but it wasn’t enough to hide his worry as he pushed a stray lock of her sodden hair behind her ear, his fingers gentle against her cheek. “Seriously, Soph. Just say the word and we’re out of here. Seeing your father shouldn’t make you physically ill.”

“I’m okay,” she said. “It was just... weird. I’d hated him for so long that... I’d forgotten how much I loved him.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled her close and tucked her in against him, enveloping her in his arms, his chin against the top of her head. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice a rumble in his chest. “I can only imagine how hard this must be. It’s completely okay if we just go to the hotel—”

“No.” She shook her head. It had taken her a day to decide to come to Boston, another day of travel—heading east, they’d lost three hours of daylight. She was jet-lagged and nauseated and needed a shower, a hot meal, and some seriously tender lovemaking, followed by a full night of sleep. But only after she did this. “I want to see him. Talk to him.” She pulled back to look up at Dave, wiping her eyes with the crumpled paper towel in her hand. He didn’t look convinced, so she said it again. “I want to.”

“He’ll still be here tomorrow,” he pointed out.

But she shook her head. “No. We’re here now. And I don’t want to tempt fate. Will you do me a favor and—”

“Absolutely,” he cut her off. “Whatever you need.”

She had to smile at that. “One of these days, you’re going to say that, and you’ll find yourself repaving my driveway.”

“With a smile on my face, and a song in my heart,” Dave told her. He was dead serious, too. “What do you need me to do right now?” He figured it out before she could answer. “Distract Maureen.”

Sophia nodded. “I don’t want to do this in front of her,” she said. “I’m sure I’m going to do it wrong; I mean, I haven’t read Miss Manners recently, so I don’t know the correct etiquette for a reunion with a long-lost father.”

Dave smiled as she’d hoped he would. “Consider it done,” he promised.

And then, because he was so solidly Dave, she dared to ask for more. “Do you think you can keep her out of the room and still... come in with me?”

“You want me in there?” he asked, as if he didn’t quite believe her.

“Very much,” she whispered.

He nodded, holding her gaze. “Then I’m there,” he said, as if it were a given, written in stone.

“She’s extremely...” Sophia searched for the right word.

“Domineering?” Dave volunteered. “Pushy? Bossy...?”

“I was going to say bitchy,” she told him. “Entitled and a little mean.”

“Frightened,” Dave countered, “because her little brother, whom she loves, really is dying this time.”

He was right. The nurse had told Sophia that her father was going to be moved into their facility for hospice care in the morning. “That, too,” she admitted.

He kissed her—a sweet brush of his lips against hers. “Nurses, bless their souls, have expert level ratings when it comes to the world’s Aunt Maureens. Give me about twenty seconds to delegate, and I’ve got your back.”

“Thank you,” Sophia told him, and he kissed her again.

“Anytime.”

He released her, and she turned to check her hair in the mirror over the sink. Her eyes were red and swollen and most of her makeup had been washed away.

“You look beautiful,” Dave told her—another absolute. “Let’s do this.”

“I’m ready,” she said, although she wasn’t quite sure she meant it.

But when Dave held out his hand, and she took it?

She was.

Someone had definitely been in Tess and Nash’s apartment.

Decker went through the place carefully, but found no sign of robbery, no sign even that the place had been searched. Which didn’t mean it hadn’t been. It just meant that whoever had done the job had chosen a covert method—as opposed to a toss-and-run.

He probably should have used his secure satellite phone to call for backup, except there wasn’t anyone to call. Jules, Sam, and Alyssa were all precisely where he wanted them to be—guarding the safe house, where they’d moved Nash and Tess yesterday morning. The last thing Decker needed was for any of them to leave their posts.

Besides, what would he say? Nothing’s been moved. Nothing big, that is. But I’m pretty sure I sense a molecular disturbance. Someone—besides me—has been in this apartment, sometime in the last week, moving the air around.

Back in the hospital, Decker had spoken to Nash only briefly about the men who’d tried to blackmail and then murder him. The conversation had been short not only because Nash was easily exhausted, but because he honestly didn’t know much about them. He believed they were somehow connected to the Agency, an organization for which Deck, too, had once worked. But Nash didn’t know that for sure. Whoever they might be, they were, he’d stressed to Decker, the most formidable of opponents.

So after Deck had walked through the apartment twice, he’d gone out to his truck to get the bug sweeper that he kept behind the front seat. It wasn’t until he went over the place thoroughly—and found no electronic surveillance devices—that he got the duffel bag down from the shelf in the master bedroom closet. It was exactly where Tess had told him it would be, above a tidy row of her clothing—mostly dresses and feminine versions of business suits.

He refused to let himself get too distracted, although there was one dress—formal, floor-length and slinky—that made him stop and look. It was gold and it glittered, with a set of string-like straps that he couldn’t quite figure out, but that he guessed, when positioned properly, would leave most of Tess’s back exposed. Most of her front, too—the neckline of the dress was cut almost down to the waist.

And yeah, perv that he was, he couldn’t not touch it, and the soft fabric slipped seductively through his hands before he left the closet and set to work opening the drawers in the big dresser beneath the front window, doing what he’d come here to do—pack up a few things for his friend.

Not a lot, and nothing that would lead anyone who came in to search the place to believe that Nash was still alive. A stack of his favorite, comfortably faded T-shirts in rich colors, and an old sweatshirt—things that Tess might’ve wanted to wear to bed.

Deck then went through his friend’s underwear drawer, searching for the Holy Grail of boxer briefs—a pair that was red-and-blue-striped.

Several weeks ago, Decker had gone to Target and bought Nash new socks and underwear. No way was he going to come here and remove clothing that Tess herself would never wear—not after taking such great pains to make sure their enemy believed Nash to be dead. But the substitute briefs Deck had purchased were apparently “ ball-crushingly uncomfortable” and “like wearing sandpaper.”

Despite his delicate hindquarters, Nash couldn’t remember the brand or style of briefs that were his favorites—only their red and blue color. Hence Decker’s current scavenger hunt.

And there they were, red and blue, in the middle of an impressively huge stack of underwear. As Deck pulled them out, he had to admit that they were exceedingly soft to the touch. And yet they were cotton—truly a miracle of modern science. He made a note of the brand and the size, refolded them, and put them back on top of the pile.

He’d head for the mall in the morning, on his way out to the safe house. Nash was also going to need workout gear. Shorts. Sweatpants.

Jeans.

The irony there was that Nash had more pairs of jeans on the shelf in the closet than a man would need in an entire lifetime. And Deck was going to be buying him yet another pair.

And they probably wouldn’t be soft enough, either.

Next item on his list was... He found the pile of novels right where Tess had said they were—on the table next to her side of the bed—and put them into the duffel. She’d also wanted her bathing suit—he’d have to remember to pick up a new one for Nash, too. Her favorite slippers, her running shoes.

He’d found everything and was zipping the bag when he heard it.

A sound from the living room that signaled more than a mere disruption of air molecules.

Deck grabbed his sidearm from his shoulder holster as he both dove for cover and spun, weapon raised, to face his attacker.

Who screamed, dropped the laundry basket she’d been carrying, and fell backward onto the tile floor, her hands in the air. “Don’t shoot, it’s me, don’t shoot!”

Jesus, it was Tracy Shapiro, the Troubleshooters receptionist.

Decker immediately stood down. Figuratively. In reality, he slipped the safety back onto his weapon and flopped back on the plush carpeting, closing his eyes as he waited for the buzz-rush from the adrenaline at least to stop surging. With the jolt he’d gotten, it wasn’t going to start to fade for a good long time.

“What,” he managed to ask, “the hell...?”

“I’m sorry,” Tracy gasped. “I rang the buzzer, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

He turned his head to look at her. There was no way he’d missed hearing a buzzer. Was there? Damnit, if he had... He rolled up into a sitting position as he holstered his weapon beneath his short-sleeved overshirt.

“Maybe it’s broken,” she continued to prattle. “I mean, I pushed the button, and I assumed it buzzed but that I just couldn’t hear it from out in the hallway so—”

Decker cut her off. “How did you get in?”

She fished in the front pocket of a pair of jeans that were right out of 1972. They fit her like a second skin, cut low on her hips but flaring out at the bottoms. “I have a key,” she announced, pulling one free and holding it up as Exhibit A. “Tess gave it to me when they—when she—moved in.”

As she re-pocketed it, her T-shirt rode up, exposing a smooth expanse of tanned, toned skin and, yes, a belly-button ring in a bright shade of blue. It figured Tracy would have one of them. As if those jeans weren’t enough to turn the hetero male portion of the population into one giant hard-on.

Back when Decker was ten, he’d had a babysitter named Mary Kate Sullivan who wore hip-huggers nearly identical to these. Over three decades later, and he still hadn’t recovered.

“I live upstairs...?” Tracy now reminded him.

“I know.” Deck nodded as he pushed himself to his feet. She’d helped Tess and Nash find this apartment. Tracy and Tess had been friendly. Not good friends, not particularly close, but certainly neighborly.

“Are you here to get Jimmy’s things?” she asked.

He felt himself go still. Why would she think he was here for Nash’s things?

“Because I can help,” she continued, gathering up the clothes that had fallen out of the laundry basket when she’d dropped it, quickly refolding some of the T-shirts. “There’s a Goodwill box at the grocery store down the street, although you might want to take his shoes to a consignment store. There’s one that specializes in designer brands. Shoot, I forget the address, but it’s over near the zoo.”

And Decker realized that when Tracy had said get Jimmy’s things, she’d meant get as in pack them up and move them out of the apartment—which is what people did when someone died.

“No,” Deck told her. “Thanks, but I’m just here to pick up some stuff for Tess.”

Tracy believed him, her eyes somber. “How is she?”

“Hanging in,” he lied as he held out his hand.

Again, she bought it as she let him pull her up. “How are you?”

Most people didn’t dare to ask him that. But the concern in her eyes was genuine.

And warm.

And for several long seconds, Decker found himself thinking about a phone conversation he and Tracy had had nearly two months ago. She’d told him she was available, if he ever needed anything, and being male, he’d thought she’d implied something else entirely. Something that included the exchange of bodily fluids. And while he’d stayed silent, figuring out what to say in response, she’d realized that her words could have been taken as a sexual invitation, and she’d furiously backpedaled, letting him know that that wasn’t what she’d meant at all, that she’d meant she was here if he should ever need to talk.

He’d told her not to worry, that he hadn’t gone there and thought that, but they both knew he was lying.

On the other hand, he’d believed her. She honestly hadn’t meant her words as a disguised come hither and I’ll do you.

Not consciously. Subconsciously, though, was an entirely different story. Decker was fully aware that Tracy Shapiro noticed him on a purely animal, biological, female-to-alpha-male level.

And animal attraction being what it was, they’d both been careful, from the start, to keep their distance.

Which was why Tracy now pulled her hand free—damn, was he still holding it?—and took a step back at the exact same moment that Decker did.

And wasn’t that awkward?

He forced a smile that no doubt came out more like a grimace, and answered the question she’d asked. “I’m hanging in, too.”

“Well, I’m happy to help however I can. With the packing,” she quickly clarified. Which only served to let him know that the thought of a different kind of help—one that put her atop him and naked—had flashed through her mind as well.

He pushed the thought away, slamming the lid on a box that he’d kept carefully shut for so many years that he’d lost count.

Tracy picked up the laundry basket and carried it into the bedroom, setting it on Tess and Nash’s bed. “Just say the word,” she added.

Decker leaned in the doorway, watching her put the clean clothes into the dresser drawers, careful to keep his gaze off her exquisitely shaped ass. “I don’t want to move any of Nash’s things out before Tess is ready,” he lied easily.

“Of course.” Tracy seemed to know where everything went, which wasn’t that big of a surprise. She had something of a reputation for being inquisitive.

He couldn’t resist saying, “I had no idea you did laundry on the side.”

She shot him a humorous oh no you dih-n’t look, and in that moment, before she answered, Decker realized that that was what was different. Tracy, who had a key, had been in this apartment since his last visit. And she’d taken the dirty laundry that had been overflowing from the hamper in the corner of the bedroom. She’d washed and folded it and was now putting it back.

“Tess and I have a deal,” she told Decker. “It’s supposed to be a mutual thing, only I almost never travel, so... Anyway, if we find that we’re unexpectedly out of town, which happens—happened—to her and Jimmy pretty often, the other one of us goes into the fridge and takes the perishables. We also make sure the garbage isn’t turning into toxic waste in the kitchen. I realized, about a week ago, that I hadn’t done that, so I came in, you know, wearing my hazmat suit? Not that I’d needed it.”

“I took care of the garbage,” Deck told her.

“I figured,” Tracy said. “But then I saw the hamper and I thought that’s gonna suck, you know, if Tess comes home to find a pile of Jimmy’s dirty clothes and, um...”

She’d opened one of the drawers and was standing there, staring into it, distracted.

“That was thoughtful of you,” Decker told her. “Thank you.”

“I also checked the washer and dryer,” she said as she turned to look at him. “There was a load of socks and underwear in the dryer. I folded that and put it away.”

Tracy was extremely easy to look at, with long auburn hair and a classically beautiful face with perfect, even features and big blue eyes. Decker had seen her personnel file when Tom had first hired her, and even though she dressed younger, he knew her to be in her early thirties.

She was slightly shorter than he’d thought, with yes-there-is-a-God curves to a body that she kept trim but not overly so.

It was easy to forget, when looking at her, that there was a highly functioning brain in that pretty head. There was a question now on her face. She was trying to keep it hidden from him, but he could see it.

“Is, uh, Tess staying with you?” she asked.

“No,” Decker said. It was nice to not have to lie while she was looking at him like that. “She’s just taking some time to... You know.”

“Oh,” Tracy said, as if what he’d just said made sense, “because I’d love to see her. I thought you were, um, together. Not that that’s any of my business. But you know how rumors fly. Dave’s pretty much moved in with Sophia—although that’s not a rumor—and you and Tess are... whatever you are.”

Decker forced himself to not react. What exactly was she digging for? And she was definitely digging. Had they come full circle back to the sexual attraction thing? He made himself shrug. “It’s... complicated.”

She nodded, and the sudden compassion in her eyes was not feigned. “I bet.”

It was definitely time to go. Deck picked up the duffel and headed for the door. “I want to check that door buzzer. Make sure it’s working.”

Tracy followed, carrying her now-empty laundry basket. “How’s this weekend?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’d like to visit Tess and I thought—”

Jesus, that would never work—a visit from Tracy? “I’ll let her know,” Decker said, “but she’s probably not...” He shook his head as he opened the door to the corridor and used words that made his no more definite: “She’s still not up for visitors.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t tell her. Don’t give her a choice,” Tracy said. “If I just dropped by... It might be good for her.”

As Decker kept the door propped open with his boot, he pressed the button for the buzzer. Nothing. Which was a relief, because it meant he hadn’t been distracted beyond imagining, nor was he losing his mind. He tried to look apologetic as he turned back to Tracy, who was still inside the apartment. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s still pretty fragile.”

“All right,” she said, “then I’ll send her a card. What’s the address?”

“Just give it to me,” Decker said. “I’ll pass it along.” He motioned for her to exit through the open door.

But she didn’t budge. “Funny how I knew you were going to say that.”

He’d used both body language and word cues to end their conversation, but it hadn’t worked, so he finally went point blank. “I’ve got to go. Will you lock up? Get the lights and the fan?”

“Sure, but...” Tracy turned back into the living room, raising her voice so he could still hear her. “Don’t forget your... whatever this is.” She came back to the door holding the bug sweeper that he’d left—damn—on the table next to the sofa.

“Thanks. Yeah. Right. I, uh, got a spark from one of the outlets in the kitchen last time I was here.” He was lying his balls off, but she was nodding.

“Oh, my God. That must’ve been scary.”

“Yeah,” he said as he opened the duffel’s zipper just enough to slip the device inside. “I broke a glass and used the vacuum to clean it up, and... I wanted to check the grounding on the outlet and... Turns out it’s fine. It must be the vacuum, so be careful if you borrow it.”

“I will,” she said, still planted solidly in the apartment.

“Take care.”

“You too.” But before he could leave, she stepped forward and caught his arm with one well-manicured hand. “Ooh, Deck, wait. Since you’re going to see Tess, is it all right if I write a note for her right now?”

He made an apologetic face as he gently extracted himself from her grip. “I really need to get moving.”

“It’ll only take a second. Just let me grab a paper and pen.” She was already heading back into the kitchen.

“I’ll be back in the office on Thursday,” he called after her. Damnit. “Tracy, I’ve really got to go. You can send Tess an e-mail. Her e-mail’s still the same.”

“But a note makes it so much more personal,” she said, coming back with a pad that Tess had kept near the phone. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

Decker sighed as she tore the note she’d written off the pad and held it out to him. “I’m sure Tess will appreciate...” He read the words that she’d written in her round, girlish handwriting.

Did you use that thing out in the hall, too?

He looked up at her in surprise, and she looked up from writing another note to shake her head at him, in obvious disgust and disappointment. She finished and tore that second sheet off the pad.

Last month Tom put me in charge of cataloging and keeping track of field equipment. I know exactly what a bug sweeper is, thank you very much.

She reached out and used her pen to tap the first note, because he hadn’t answered her question.

He shook his head, no. He hadn’t swept the hallway.

“Are you sure you have everything?” she asked. “Oh, wait. Don’t leave yet. Didn’t Tess want that DVD... What was it, again?”

Decker just kept shaking his head. She obviously wanted him to come back into the apartment, no doubt to ask him why he’d swept the place for bugs. But that was a discussion he absolutely did not want to have. Not now, not ever. “I’ll check with her and get it next time.”

“The Philadelphia Story,” Tracy said, quickly scribbling a third note on that pad. “It’s her favorite movie. Well, that and Casablanca. Oh, and Moulin Rouge, of course, although it’s probably best if she stays away from movies where one of the lovers dies. At least for a little while longer.”

She tore that third sheet from her pad and thrust it at him.

Who is Tess hiding from??? she’d written. And why are you bringing her some of Jimmy’s T-shirts and underwear?

Decker looked up at her, and he saw hope mixed with the disbelief on her pretty face.

“I’m not,” he said, answering her second question half-honestly. But he knew, try as he might to hide it, that she could see the truth in his eyes—that she was right, and that Nash was still alive.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered as her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my God...”

Ah, hell. Really?

Out of an entire team of highly skilled, super-elite operatives, it was Tracy, their allegedly ditzy receptionist, who’d figured it out?

As Decker watched, she tamped down her emotional response, blinked back her tears, and pushed the door open even wider. “Come inside,” she said, in a voice that didn’t so much as waver. It was a command, not an invitation. “And help me look for that DVD.”

Decker folded all three notes and, hefting the duffel bag and shaking his head, went back into Tess and Nash’s apartment, where Tracy closed the door, tightly, behind them both.