Say You're Sorry Read online

  “No hair just on his head?” Rafe asked. “Did he have eyebrows?”

  She thought a moment, forcing herself to picture his features, smashed against the nylon. “No. I don’t think he did.”

  “How much did he weigh?” Gideon asked, and that he’d asked her in all seriousness was a balm to her raw emotions. He had confidence in her observations. Again, it shouldn’t have been so settling, but it was, and Daisy was grateful for it.

  “About two hundred pounds. He was solid. I don’t know if he’d been trained to fight, but he was very comfortable with his movements.” Like when he’d tried to choke her with his forearm.

  That was the memory that lingered.

  Gideon tapped the table to get her attention, but it was actually the scent of his aftershave that reached through her haze. Because I zoned out again. She blinked to clear her vision and found him entirely too close. His gaze roamed her face looking for something, which he must have found because he leaned back in his chair.

  “And then?” he asked.

  “He put his forearm over my throat.” She lowered Brutus to her lap, then tugged at the collar of her turtleneck sweater and tilted her head back to expose her throat to the camera. She knew her throat was red and bruised. The bruises would be purple tomorrow. “I’m glad I have a lot of turtlenecks. I’ll be wearing them to work for a while.”

  She righted her collar, then missed a breath at the sight of Gideon’s face. His eyes had gone steely hard and a muscle was ticking in his cheek. But he merely nodded.

  “He put a gun to my head and that’s when he said I’d be sorry for what I did, that I’d beg for his forgiveness.” She wasn’t able to fight her shudder. “That they all did.”

  “What do you think he meant, Daisy?” Erin asked quietly. “What do you think he wanted you to be sorry for?”

  Daisy shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Grabbing his hat? Exposing his face?”

  “All right,” Erin said, then smiled encouragingly. “You’re doing great. And then?”

  “I . . . I went into autopilot mode, I guess. I bent the pinkie of his gun hand—” She paused. “He was a leftie. Held his gun in his left hand, anyway.”

  Again Erin smiled. “Good, Daisy. And what happened when you bent his pinkie?”

  “I bent it back and used a joint lock. Here.” Daisy pointed to the fleshy area between her thumb and forefinger. “If I hadn’t had such long nails, I could have gotten a better hold. I could have had him on his knees.”

  Gideon looked unconvinced. Even though he said nothing, Daisy was pissed off.

  “Again,” she offered sweetly, “I’m happy to demonstrate.”

  She’d made her point and he had the courtesy to look embarrassed. “Again,” he returned, “that’s not necessary.”

  But it would feel awfully satisfying, she thought, still irritated. “I ran, but he caught me.” She drew another breath, deeper than she actually needed, just to remind herself that she could. “He shoved me against a wall and used his forearm against my throat again. That’s when I grabbed the chain around his neck. I hadn’t even seen it. I was grappling for his coat, something to yank him closer. So that I could knee him in the testicles. Which I then did. Hard.”

  Neither Rafe nor Gideon winced, to their credit. But they did look awfully uncomfortable. It made her feel a little better.

  “I ran again and this time Trish was waiting for me. She hadn’t wanted to leave me alone with the man I thought was Jacob. She got a half a block away, then turned around and came back to find me. She said she heard Brutus barking and saw me run out of the alley.” Daisy closed her eyes, her heart racing too hard. “If she hadn’t been there, he might have caught me again. I’m not sure I’d have had the energy to fight him anymore.”

  No one said anything, but when she opened her eyes, she found all three of them watching her with both concern and respect. That made her feel much better. “Trish started screaming for help, I guess. Before I knew it, a few people had gathered around. I guess the man took off running. Trish called 911 and . . .” She looked at Rafe. “Then you. That’s all.” She let her gaze drop to Brutus in her lap, remembering his barking.

  She looked up sharply. “He liked dogs, I think.”

  Rafe had been about to press the power button on the video remote, but set it back down on the table. “How do you know?”

  “When he was holding me against the brick wall, with his arm . . . you know.”

  “Choking you,” Gideon supplied tensely.

  Daisy swallowed, even though it still hurt to do so. “Yes. He said I was too much trouble and he was going to shoot. But Brutus kept barking. He . . .” She searched her mind. “He asked where that ‘fucking dog’ was, and when he realized Brutus was in my purse, he rolled his eyes. Then he pointed the gun at Brutus. But he didn’t shoot right away. For a second he kind of froze. I went for his collar and jostled him enough that his aim was off and he shot the bricks instead of Brutus.” She frowned. “He had a silencer.”

  “Good to know,” Rafe said. “And then?”

  “Then I kneed him. And grabbed the locket.” Ah. Right. The locket. She narrowed her eyes at Gideon, who studied her, visibly tense. “Why is the locket so important?”

  Gideon opened his mouth to answer, but before any words came out, Brutus looked around and barked.

  THREE

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 11:05 P.M.

  He jogged up the two steps to his front porch, his body warm and his muscles finally loose. He’d run extra fast, trying to tire himself out. Mutt had not been a fan. He’d had to pull him along the last two blocks. Opening the door, he unhooked the leash and the dog walked over to his bed in the corner, huffing as he threw himself down on it.

  “Lazy,” he said to the dog.

  Mutt didn’t respond.

  He liked that. He could say whatever he wanted to the dog and always got the final word. Mutt never tried to usurp him. The dog knew his place.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, the fourth time it had done so in the past thirty minutes. Gritting his teeth, he checked the caller ID.

  Sydney. All four times.

  “I hate you,” he hissed, not completely sure if he meant Sydney for being a complete and total asshole or himself for always answering the phone. Schooling his expression, he calmed his voice. He’d answer her call. He always did.

  “Sydney,” he said levelly.

  “Sonny. You were ignoring me.”

  He could hear the pout she thought was cute. But it wasn’t. He hated the pout, too.

  “I was running. I just got back.” And I hoped you’d give up and go to sleep.

  But she never gave up. She considered it a strength.

  He did not agree.

  “What do you want?” he asked, more tersely than he’d intended.

  “I’m calling to check on you,” she said. “I hear you got unsettling news today.”

  He ground his teeth. “That the old man is selling the company out from under me?”

  “You shouldn’t talk about your father that way, Sonny,” she said, her voice heavy with reproach.

  Don’t call me Sonny! he wanted to scream, but did not. Because he didn’t scream at his stepmother, either.

  Don’t call him my father! he wanted to shout. Because his “father” had never been anything more than a sperm donor. He’d never been there, working all the time, leaving the raising of his son to babysitters. And then to Sydney.

  The old man hadn’t cared about anyone but himself. Because any real father would have realized that the sex-kitten trophy wife he’d married was really a monster who was destroying his son. Bit by bit. Year after year.

  But he didn’t say any of those things, either. What he did say was what she’d trained him to say. Trained him like a little dog. “I�
�m sorry, Sydney.”

  “That’s my sweet boy,” she cooed. “Are you worried about your job?”

  Hell, yes. He leaned against his front door. “Shouldn’t I be?” Dammit. Do not engage with her. He wanted to yank the words back as soon as he’d said them, but it was too late.

  “Of course not.”

  He ground his teeth. “The old man’s trained dog said the new owners are cleaning house and we’re all going. He looked straight at me when he said those words. So yes, pardon me if I’m a little worried.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Silly boy. I’ve got an in with the new owner.”

  Which meant she was sleeping with the new owner, too. Sydney could have sex with anyone she pleased, while she expected him to have sex with only her.

  And, despite his most determined attempts at any kind of sex with anyone else who wasn’t Sydney, that was exactly the way it was. He was so fucking broken that he couldn’t get it up for anyone else. And she knew it. The bitch. But he didn’t say that.

  “That’s good,” he said lamely. “I’m glad.”

  “You know that I’ve got your back, Sonny. Stick with me and you’ll be fine.”

  Stick with me. In other words, obey her every command. Every single one. And he would, much to his own shame, even though it tore him up to do so.

  “I know,” he said dully. “You’ll take care of me.” Which he’d never wanted her to do. Not even once.

  “Of course I will, Sonny, dear. I should have been taking care of you tonight.”

  He winced because he’d forgotten. Deliberately. “I’m sorry, Sydney. I just . . . I needed time to process what happened today.” He’d needed to grab a guest for his basement.

  “And exactly where were you processing? A bar?”

  Yes, dammit. He was twenty-eight years old. Not a child. He could go to any bar he chose. But he could never say such a thing to her. “No. Of course not. Look, I really need to go to sleep. I have an early morning.”

  “I see.”

  He clenched his free hand into a fist. That icy tone of hers never boded well. “G-g-good night, Sydney.”

  “Good night, Sonny. Sweet dreams.”

  He swallowed hard as he ended the call. Sweet dreams. How many times had she whispered those words into his ear as he was falling asleep, feeling so damn confused? He didn’t know. He’d stopped counting long ago.

  Stomach churning, he stumbled to his bedroom and sank to his knees in front of his stereo. It had been his mother’s. His real mother’s. The mother who’d loved him and rocked him to sleep and who’d never said Sweet dreams in that oily whisper.

  The stereo was one of the few things of his mother’s he’d been allowed to hold on to. The turntable, the speakers, and a stack of old LPs. Her favorite was on the spindle, ready to be played. It always soothed him, especially when he had an empty basement and for whatever reason needed to wait to fill it. Like tonight.

  Carefully he lifted the arm, setting the needle at the beginning, then twisted until he was sitting with his back to his bed, his legs crossed. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Sydney didn’t like it when he smoked. So of course he did it. Just not where she could see.

  He frowned at the pack in his hand, now empty. He’d had half a pack this morning. Yeah, he’d smoked a few while waiting outside the community center, but he hadn’t thought he’d smoked nine. He usually only allowed himself one per day. He wondered where he’d left the butts. Great. More of my DNA out there.

  But he wasn’t here to worry. He was here to relax. Closing his eyes, he listened to the opening drums of “Copacabana” and remembered his mother dancing with him, her smile wide and just for him as Manilow sang about a showgirl named Lola. He never realized that the song was really about a murder until much later, long after his mother was gone. Not until Sydney had pointed it out, deriding his mother for allowing him to listen to it.

  Right before she’d slipped from his bed and whispered, Sweet dreams.

  He’d known Sydney’s ways by then. She would have destroyed the albums while he slept, so he’d hidden them where she’d never find them, not daring to listen to them again until he’d bought this place of his own.

  Mine. My home. A place where Sydney had never been welcomed.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 11:10 P.M.

  Why is the locket so important?

  Gideon had almost answered Daisy’s question. Almost. Luckily that little dog had broken the moment. Broken the spell. Which sounded ridiculously dramatic when Gideon was normally anything but.

  He forced himself to relax, shifting his gaze away from her face to the ball of fur in her arms. The dog was tiny, possibly ten pounds, if that. And named Brutus. Under other circumstances that would have made him smile. When few things did.

  Brutus had the coloring of a collie and the ears of a bat, huge and pointy and covered with fringy hair that stuck straight out. He couldn’t decide if the dog was ugly or cute.

  Didn’t really matter. What did matter was that the dog had intervened, stopping him from blurting out a truth that was not appropriate to share.

  Isn’t it, though? Hasn’t she earned it?

  No, he told himself firmly. Yes, she’d fought bravely. Shockingly capably, even. Yes, she’d shared everything with them openly, more even than she had strictly needed to. But that did not entitle her to know more. Not about this. Not about me.

  “I have a few more questions about the man who attacked you,” he said instead.

  The flash of disappointment in her blue eyes was unmistakable. As was the glint of determination that followed. She wouldn’t be letting the subject of the locket go without a fight. “Okay.” She was back to stroking the little dog. “Go ahead.”

  “Did he have any physical characteristics that stand out in your mind? Any scars that were visible through the nylon, perhaps?”

  She shook her head. “No. None that I could see.”

  “What about on his body? Any markings? Tattoos?”

  Her brow arched. “Tattoos? Not that I saw. I didn’t see any of his skin. He wore a padded jacket. Like a ski jacket. It must have been open at the throat because I was able to reach the chain around his neck.” She stared at the hand that petted the dog and frowned, running her thumb over the pads of her fingers. “I didn’t feel any chest hair when I touched him. When I scratched him.”

  Gideon hoped she’d hurt him. Badly. He hoped the skin they’d scraped from under her nails led to a DNA match. He hoped that the man’s balls still ached all these hours later.

  “Did your father teach you to fight like that?” he asked, startling himself because it wasn’t the question he’d intended to ask.

  She looked up at him, blinked once, then nodded. “He’ll be annoyed that I didn’t take the bastard to his knees. When he finds out.” She looked at Rafe. “I don’t suppose your mother can keep that secret from him. Can she?” she added hopefully.

  Rafe ruefully shook his head. “I think she called him on her way to the ER.”

  “So he’ll be here tomorrow,” she said with a sigh. “Fabulous.”

  Erin Rhee had gone still. The woman was normally quiet, although she could move incredibly fast when she needed to, according to Rafe. But most of the time she had this unflappable calm that was kind of eerie. At this moment, though, she was ominously still.

  “What will he do when he gets here?” she asked Daisy, and her subtext was loud and clear even though he’d had to strain to hear her voice.

  Daisy must have heard it, too, because she turned to Erin with a smile. “Nothing bad. He never, ever physically hurt us. Ever. He’ll just . . . fuss over me. And then he’ll insist I move to Maryland to live near him. And when I refuse, he’ll hire Jacob to follow me again.”

  Erin nodded once. “All right. I just needed to make sure
.”

  “And I appreciate it,” Daisy said, reaching over to pat the detective’s arm. “I really do. But you don’t need to worry about my father. Or me.”

  Erin’s smile was wry. “Considering that you’re here, we do have to worry about you, wouldn’t you say?”

  Daisy frowned. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” She turned to Gideon, that curious glint back in her eye, and he knew she was about to ask him about the locket again.

  So he deflected. “We’ll need Jacob’s last name and phone number so that we can verify where he was tonight, since he’s followed you in the past.”

  “His last name is Fogarty and his number’s in my phone. Last time I saw him, he was headed back to his parents’ ranch up past Weaverville. That was months ago, though.”

  Gideon nodded. “What about work? Any issues there?”

  He’d expected her to say no. He hadn’t expected her to drop her gaze back to the dog. He hadn’t expected her to draw a breath before looking up at Rafe, a guilty expression on her face.

  “I didn’t think it was important,” she whispered.

  Rafe’s confused gaze flicked from Gideon to Erin, then back to Daisy. “You didn’t think what was important?” he asked carefully.

  Daisy was stroking the dog so fiercely it was a wonder the poor thing had any hair left. “I’ve gotten a few calls,” she admitted. “And e-mails. Tad said to ignore them. That he gets stuff like that all the time. I was handling it.”

  “Who is Tad?” Gideon asked.

  “And what kind of stuff?” Erin added.

  “Tad is my cohost,” Daisy said. “At the radio station. KZAU. I work the morning show—you know, The Big Bang with TNT. That’s Tad.”

  Oh. Now Gideon remembered where he’d heard her voice. He listened to The Big Bang with TNT on his way to work every morning. Mostly because of their new DJ. Which would be Daisy. Except she didn’t go by that name on the air. “You’re Poppy Frederick.”

  “That would be me,” she said. “My father’s name is Frederick. His pet name for my mom was Poppy.”