Say You're Sorry Read online

  Trish’s frown deepened. “Again?”

  “Yeah,” Daisy said grimly. “He hired a guy to follow me when I was backpacking across Europe last summer. Pissed me off so bad that I came back early and Dad and I had it out. He promised never to do that to me again, but I guess he doesn’t trust me after all.”

  “He had you followed?” Trish asked, dumbfounded. “Why?”

  “He was worried I’d fall off the wagon. That’s what he said, anyway.” Daisy still had her doubts, thinking it was more about her father’s inability to break from a lifetime of paranoia. It had killed her sister. It nearly killed me. It had certainly stolen what had remained of her childhood. She wasn’t going to allow it to ruin her life, no matter how well-meaning her father’s intentions might have been.

  Trish made a face. “Pretty ironic seeing as the guy is following you from an AA meeting. Do you know who it is?”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “Yeah. It’s our old ranch hand, Jacob. We grew up together. He’s like the brother I never had, but I’m still going to kick his ass.” Which she’d done when she’d caught him lurking in the shadows of a Paris alley, much as he was doing now.

  Trish’s lips twitched. “Can I watch? My cable’s been out for two months.” She made another face. “The cable people apparently like to be paid.”

  Daisy patted her shoulder in sympathy. Trish barely made a living wage at the bar. “Go to the diner and put in our order. I’ll meet you there.”

  Trish shook her head. “I don’t care if he is your friend. I’m not leaving you alone.”

  “I’ll be fine. Jacob is like a cuddly lamb. A six-foot-two-inch, two-hundred-pound lamb. Seriously, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Go on. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

  Daisy briefly considered confronting Jacob in the alley, but annoyance had her following the path Trish had taken, then veering off to quickly duck into an alley of her own. Jacob deserved to have the shit scared out of him for following her again. He’d promised to let her live her life independently, just as her father had.

  She ground her teeth. Damn them both. She was not a child. I wasn’t allowed to be one. She was twenty-five years old, living on her own and doing just fine, all by herself. Well, not by herself, but with the support of people she’d chosen for the job.

  She heard Jacob’s footsteps seconds before he passed by. Leaping from the alley, she grabbed a handful of his bulky padded jacket and yanked him back. He spun around in surprise, the brim of his baseball cap hiding his face.

  “The Giants?” she mocked. “That’s the best disguise you could manage? You thought I wouldn’t notice you because you’re wearing a Giants cap?” Because he’d never be caught dead wearing a Giants anything. They were both Oakland fans.

  She reached up and snatched the cap from his head, realizing only a millisecond later that she hadn’t had to reach up far enough. He was too short.

  Because he wasn’t Jacob.

  She took a step back, the gasp stuck in her throat, her pulse instantly going supersonic as the man glared down at her, his dark eyes barely visible behind the nylon stocking covering his face. Distorting his features.

  She turned to run, but it was too late. His arm wrapped around her throat, yanking her to her toes, cutting off her air. Instinctively her hands went for his forearm, trying to sink her nails into his flesh, but there was too much padding in the jacket. She panicked, black dots starting to dance in her vision.

  And then cold steel was pressing against her temple and he was dragging her into the alley where she’d waited for him. “You’ll be sorry you did that,” he rasped in her ear. “You’ll be begging my forgiveness before I’m done. They all do.”

  Sharp barking cut through the fog in her brain. Brutus.

  Her panic abruptly vanished, her focus clearing as muscle memory kicked in and she heard her father’s voice in her mind, directing her movements.

  Releasing her hold on the man’s arm, she twisted her torso, gaining as much momentum as she could before striking his belly with her elbow. Hearing his surprised grunt, she sucked in a breath and grabbed the pinkie finger of his gun hand, yanking it backward. Ducking under his arm, she gripped his hand, digging her thumb into the fleshy area between his thumb and forefinger, just as her father had trained her to do. Ignoring his cry of pain, she shoved the gun away with her free hand.

  Then she ran. She’d drawn enough breath to scream when he grabbed her again, covering her mouth with his hand before pulling her against his chest, back into the alley.

  “No, no, no.” She tried to scream the words, but they were too muffled to be heard. She tried to kick back against his knees, but he was stronger than she was and she couldn’t get a grip on anything.

  Brutus continued to bark, but nobody came. Nobody heard.

  He shoved her hard, her back hitting a brick wall, knocking the breath out of her. He leaned into her space, his forearm pressed into her throat once more, cutting off her air.

  “You are too much trouble,” he hissed. He put the gun to her head, but paused, looking around in irritation. “Where the fuck is that goddamn dog?” His gaze dropped to Brutus’s bag, which she still wore across her body. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered. He hesitated for the briefest moment, then seemed to stiffen as he pointed the gun at her bag.

  Brutus. “No.” Grabbing handfuls of fabric at his throat, she yanked him forward with all of her might. His hand skittered, the gun discharging with a soft pop. Silencer, she thought, as shards of brick rained down on her head. Brutus. But her dog was still barking. Fueled by desperation, Daisy brought her knee up sharply, connecting with the man’s groin.

  She barely heard his curses over the pounding of her heart. She shoved him away and ran for the street. For safety.

  “Daisy? Oh my God, Daisy!” Trish was suddenly there, her hands on Daisy’s face. “What happened? Oh my God. Your throat. It’s red.”

  “Mugger,” Daisy panted, crumpling to her knees. “He was going to shoot Brutus.” Her dog poked her head out of her bag and began licking Daisy’s still-clenched fist.

  But the man hadn’t tried to take her bag. He tried to take me. She closed her eyes and tried not to throw up, vaguely hearing Trish on the phone with 911. Safe. They were safe. It would be all right.

  Trish sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around Daisy’s shoulders, rocking her gently. “Shh, honey. Shh. It’ll be all right. Don’t cry.”

  It was then that Daisy realized she was sobbing. And that a small crowd had gathered. And that Trish’s hand was in her coat pocket. “What are you doing?”

  Trish pulled Daisy’s phone free. “Calling Rafe. The cops are on their way, but having Rafe here will make it easier on you. Here, unlock your phone and I’ll call.” Voice halting, Trish made the call to Daisy’s landlord, who was as much a brother to her as Jacob.

  But unlike Jacob, Rafe was also a cop. He’ll know what to do.

  Trish’s arms were around her again, carefully rocking her. “Did you scratch him?”

  Still crying, Daisy tried to remember. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. Maybe?” She pulled back enough to look down at her hands, still clenched into fists. But dangling from her left fist was a silver chain and something was pinching her palm. Carefully she opened her fist and sucked in a breath.

  It was a locket. A heart-shaped locket. Silver and engraved. Her bewildered gaze lifted to Trish’s. Trish closed Daisy’s fingers over the locket, trapping it in her fist again.

  “We’ll show it to Rafe when he gets here,” Trish whispered.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 9:55 P.M.

  Frowning at the ringing of his cell phone, Gideon Reynolds paused the episode of Fixer Upper he’d DVRed. He wanted to groan as he reached for his phone on the end table. He was tired and didn’t want to go back into work. Because it would be w
ork calling. Hardly anyone else he knew actually used a phone for calling anymore.

  His frown became one of worry when he saw the caller ID. Rafe Sokolov. His best friend always texted, never called. And never this late. “What’s wrong?” Gideon asked, forgoing a greeting.

  “Maybe nothing but probably something,” Rafe replied. “You know my new tenant? Daisy Dawson?”

  Gideon sighed. “Rafe, no. Just no.” Rafe’s mother had been trying to fix him up with “cute little Daisy” for months. He’d been avoiding the Sokolovs’ Sunday dinners because he was tired of Irina Sokolov’s unrelenting matchmaking. She’d been trying to find him the perfect mate for more than ten years.

  Part of him loved her for it because it meant she cared. Most of him wished she’d just stop. “Tell your mother—”

  “This isn’t a setup,” Rafe interrupted tersely.

  Gideon sat up straighter. “What happened to Miss Dawson?”

  “She was attacked tonight, down on J Street.”

  Gideon grimaced in dread. Rafe was a homicide detective. “Is she . . . okay?”

  “Yeah. She fought him off. Her and her little rat-dog.”

  Gideon was confused. “I’m glad she’s okay, but her assault isn’t my jurisdiction. It’s not usually yours, either.” Rafe had joined SacPD when they’d graduated from college and had been a homicide detective for a few years. Gideon had taken a different law enforcement path, heading off to Quantico and the FBI. His specialization in linguistics meant that more than half of his work was done from his office.

  His recent assignment to Sacramento meant coming home—as close to “home” as he was likely to ever get. “What’s going on?” he asked. Because something obviously was.

  “She grabbed a chain from the guy’s neck right before she kneed him in the nuts.”

  Gideon’s wince was instinctive. “Ouch. Good for her. Did he get away?”

  “Yes,” Rafe said, disgust in his tone. “He had a gun. Tried to drag her away.”

  “God. She’s got to be shaken up. But—and I don’t mean to sound like a jerk, man—what does this have to do with me?”

  “The chain she grabbed came with a locket. Silver, heart shaped. Engraved.”

  Gideon stopped breathing for a moment, then sucked in a harsh breath. A shiver of foreboding prickled over his skin. “What kind of engraving?”

  “Two children kneeling under an olive tree—”

  “All under the wings of an angel,” Gideon finished in a whisper. He swallowed back the bile that burned his throat. “With a burning sword.”

  Rafe let the silence hang a beat or two. “Yes. The only other time I’ve seen that design was on your skin, Gid.”

  Gideon stared at the TV screen, the frame frozen. Just as he was.

  “Gideon?” Rafe’s voice was quiet. “You still there?”

  Gideon pushed out the breath he’d been holding. “Yeah. Was there a name on the back of the locket?”

  Rafe hesitated, his reticence palpable even through the phone. “Miriam.”

  Gideon lurched to his feet in terrified shock, his heart in his throat. No. It couldn’t be. Someone would have told me. “Where are you?”

  “At UC Davis Medical.”

  He shook his head to clear it. To focus. His Miriam was okay. She has to be. “Why are you at the hospital? I thought you said the Dawson woman was okay.”

  “She wasn’t seriously injured, but he bruised her throat trying to shut her up.” Rafe sounded . . . brittle. Clearly rattled. Gideon wouldn’t be surprised to find the entire Sokolov clan at the ER. They’d taken the woman under their collective wing since she’d moved into the apartment in Rafe’s old Victorian.

  Just as they’d done for Gideon when he’d been a lost, scared teenager. He was suddenly fiercely glad the young woman had the family of Russian immigrants at her back.

  “We’re getting her checked out to be sure she’s okay,” Rafe went on. “When the doctor’s finished, I’ll take her to the station to get her statement while it’s fresh in her mind. Then my parents are taking her to their house for the night. Mom’s going to keep an eye on her tonight because her attacker cracked her head on a brick wall. The doctor didn’t think there was any concussion, but you know how Mom worries.”

  “I know,” Gideon murmured. He’d been on the receiving end of Irina’s worry many times. It had always made him feel like one of her brood.

  Rafe cleared his throat. “I’d like you to come down to the station to look at the locket and tell me about it.”

  No. No. No.

  “I know it’s not easy for you,” Rafe said quietly. “I really need your help, though. He told Daisy that she’d beg his forgiveness. That ‘they all do.’”

  Fuck. “You think he’s a serial offender?”

  “Maybe. Will you come to the station?”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” Gideon disconnected and stared at his phone for several painful beats of his heart. Then he hit a name on his favorites list. And waited while it rang. It went to voice mail. As it usually did.

  He disconnected and redialed, which he rarely did. This time it was picked up on the second ring. “What, Gideon?”

  His breath rushed from his lungs at the sound of her voice. Oh God. Abject relief had his knees buckling. He locked them, remaining upright as he focused on steadying his racing pulse.

  “What’s wrong? Gideon? Hello?”

  Gideon’s stomach hurt, just thinking about how to frame his question.

  His sister blew out an annoyed sigh. “For God’s sake, Gideon. It’s after midnight here. I hope this is important because you woke me up. Tell me what you called for and let me go back to sleep.”

  “I’m sorry. It is important.” He rubbed his left pec through his shirt, remembering how much it had hurt to get the tattoo all those years ago. But he’d been stoic and hadn’t complained once. The girls had gotten off easy, he’d thought at the time, clenching his teeth as the artist’s needle had marked his skin. They’d just gotten the lockets. How wrong he’d been. None of them had gotten off easy. “Do you have your locket?”

  There was a shocked silence. “What?”

  “Your locket. Where is it?”

  “In my safe-deposit box,” she ground out, “where it’s always been.”

  Gideon swallowed hard. “Where’s . . . where is hers?” he asked hoarsely.

  Another taut silence. “In the box with mine. Why? What’s this about?”

  “A woman was attacked in Sacramento tonight. Her attacker wore one of the lockets around his neck. She pulled it off him during the attack. It has ‘Miriam’ engraved on the back. I thought . . . it might be yours.” Nothing. Silence. He couldn’t even hear her breathe. “Mercy?” he whispered.

  Mercy’s answer was what he’d expected. “I . . . can’t, Gideon.” Her voice broke. “I just . . . can’t.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I needed to know if you’d gotten rid of it. Either of them.”

  “No.”

  A single word. How could one single word be filled with so much pain?

  Gideon swallowed. “I mostly wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Although he knew she wasn’t all right. She would never be. Neither of them would ever be totally all right. How could they be?

  “I’m okay,” she said, but he didn’t believe her. She didn’t sound like she even believed herself. “You?”

  “Same old, same old.” He hesitated, then murmured, “Take care of yourself, Mercy.”

  “You too,” she said sadly. “Good night.”

  The phone clicked in his ear and Gideon took a moment to calm his racing heart, to settle his churning gut. To fight back the tears that threatened every time he talked to his sister. To wish that things could be different.

  He went to the shelf beside
his TV, which was still paused on Fixer Upper. On the shelf was a polished box made of cherrywood, a gift that Irina and Karl Sokolov had given him for Christmas, at least five years before. Inside the box were his cuff links, a few ticket stubs, and a handful of photos. He riffled through the photos until he found the one he needed. Pocketing it, he retrieved his Glock from his gun safe, got into his car, and headed for downtown Sac.

  It looked like he’d finally be meeting Daisy Dawson after all. At least Irina Sokolov would be pleased.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 10:30 P.M.

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He drew his front door open wider so that he could slam it hard, but his hand stilled as he resisted the urge. No need to call attention to himself. The Neighborhood Watch group kept their eyes and ears peeled for loud noises and signs of domestic disturbances. The nosy neighbors were the only things he truly hated about living in his otherwise perfect little Midtown neighborhood. All he needed was for someone to call 911 on him for something he hadn’t actually done.

  He headed to the basement and slammed that door behind him, effectively closing himself off from the rest of the world. The basement was the one thing he loved the most about his house. It was tied with the fact that he didn’t have to share space with Sydney any longer.

  He’d soundproofed his basement, bricking over all doors and windows and installing enough insulation to create a little cocoon. No scream would reach prying ears, even those pressed right up against the outside wall. Not that he’d made that simple, either. His rosebushes had enormous thorns. He’d chosen the varieties for that very reason. Luckily, they were pretty, too. Nobody would be able to get close enough to put their ear to the wall, even if they wanted to.

  Now he trusted his soundproofing and keep-away thorns to do their jobs because he needed to scream. He did, venting his frustration at the fucked-up mess this night had become. He screamed until his throat hurt and his head throbbed.

  But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Only one thing took off the edge, and one thing only. And that one thing had escaped him tonight.

  He glared at the bed in the corner, neatly made up and ready for the guest that would not be partaking of his hospitality. Damn that blond bitch. He hadn’t expected her to fight back. At least not successfully. Someone had taught her well.