Love Inspired Suspense June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Exit Strategy\Payback\Covert Justice (11 page)

He was right, and Lark's pulse jumped at the knowledge.

She grabbed the letter, studied it more carefully. The L
was
different. Curved but without the loop. “He didn't write this.”

“If he didn't, someone else did,” the sheriff said grimly.

“I guess Lark's idea about her husband being murdered wasn't so far-fetched after all,” Boone said.

Sheriff Johnson frowned, lifting the envelope, studying it intently. “I'm going to take this in for evidence, Lark. I want to see if the blood matches your husband's. If it does, this was written the day he died. If it doesn't, Elijah fabricated it later. I wouldn't put it past him.”

“Either way,” Cyrus responded before Lark could. “The letter is evidence that the shooting wasn't accidental.”

“That's the way I'm seeing it,” Sheriff Johnson admitted. “We're trying to push the search warrant through quickly. I want to get on the compound before my brother has a chance to clean things up.”

“Clean what things?” Lark stood, her body stiff, her muscles tense. She felt a thousand years old. She'd suspected that Joshua had been murdered, but seeing that letter, the blood, the curly loop of his writing, it made it so much more real, the accusation so much more awful.

“Those storage sheds for one. I'd like to know what he has delivered and what he's shipping out.”

“You know about that?” Cyrus asked, lifting the coat from Lark's shoulders, urging her to slip her arms into the sleeves.

“I've been keeping tabs on my brother for years. If I had probable cause that they were committing crimes on the compound, I'd have been in there searching two years ago. I don't know what my brother is up to, but it's bound to be trouble. And not just for people living in this county. Elijah thinks big. It's one of his greatest strengths and his biggest weaknesses.”

“You going to send that letter in to the county? Or are you planning to process it here?” Boone asked.

“I'm sending it to the state. The county doesn't have a forensic evidence team, and I don't want anything missed.”

It sounded good. Great even.

Lark should have been elated. She just felt...tired.

Cyrus zipped the coat. It fell to her knees, completely covered her hands. She shoved the sleeves up, tried to think of something to say. All three men were watching her expectantly, but all she could think about was Joshua's last moments. Had he been afraid? Resigned? Had he seen the gunman? Or had he been surprised?

She turned blindly, ran out of the office, pounded down the steps. This time, she didn't stop at the landing, didn't sit and wait for Cyrus to catch up.

She made it to the lobby, saw Stella and Chance sitting in chairs near the door. She didn't say a word to either of them as she raced outside, gulped crisp morning air.

The sun had risen above the tree line, but clouds edged in on the horizon, a soft breeze carrying a hint of rain with it.

Joshua had loved the rain.

He'd loved the sun.

He'd loved the outdoors.

He'd been one of those people who always found something positive to say, who'd enjoyed life because he'd thought it was meant to be enjoyed. A gift. That's what he would have said.

She knew Cyrus had followed her outside. Figured that Stella and Boone and Chance were there, too. She didn't look over her shoulder, just kept her gaze on the horizon, kept her breathing even and deep.

Life happened. Good and bad and everything in between. She could mourn forever or she could move on. She'd chosen the second option, because it's what Joshua would have wanted. But it was so much harder than she ever could have imagined it would be.

“Running outside isn't the best idea you've ever had, Lark,” Cyrus said, his breath ruffling her hair as he urged her around, looked into her face. “How about you don't do it again?”

“How about we just go?” she responded.

“Stella is pulling the car around. Sheriff Johnson is going to call as soon as he gets the search warrant. In the meantime, he thinks it's better if we take you to the safe house.”

Safe house?

That was the first she'd heard of it.

“I don't need to be in a safe house, Cyrus. I need to be home.”

“We're going to stop there first. I'd like to see the rest of Joshua's things. Maybe there's something hidden in them.”

“A secret message?” It would have been just like Joshua to leave one. He'd loved cryptology, had spent most of his childhood making up secret codes that his friends would try to break. “That sounds like something Joshua would do.”

“Yeah?” he sounded distracted, his eyes tracking the movement of every car that entered the lot. Behind him, Chance and Boone stood silently, scanning the area, both of them solemn and focused.

“He liked cryptology. It was his thing when he was a teen.”

“We'll look for a coded message, then,” Cyrus responded, his gaze shifting back to her. She felt the weight of his stare, the intensity. He had the darkest eyes she'd ever seen. Nearly black, the pupils and irises blending into each other. “Just so you know, you're going to have to start following the rules. It's going to be way too difficult to keep you alive if you don't.”

“Do you really think Elijah would risk trying to kill me? The sheriff is already suspicious. If something happened to me, he'd be even more so.”

“He can be as suspicious as he wants. Without evidence of a crime, there isn't a whole lot he can do. I think your husband's death proves that more than just about anything else could. You said yourself that one of Joshua's friends disappeared. How difficult would it be for them to make the same thing happen to you?”

Not very, she would have answered if Stella hadn't pulled up in a black SUV. She hopped out, opened the back door, nearly shoved Lark inside. “Head for the center. Cyrus and Chance—”

“And Boone,” Chance interrupted, walking to the front passenger seat and climbing in, the box Elijah had brought in his hands.

Stella scowled, but didn't argue. “Suit yourself,
boss
.”

There was an emphasis on the last word that Lark didn't miss.

Not her business, but she
was
curious.

Cyrus climbed in beside her, closed the door, grabbed his seat belt, his fingers brushing her hip. Warmth shot through her, and she blushed, her cheeks so hot, she wanted to press her palms to them.

She looked away, realized that Boone was climbing in the SUV, folding his long legs, a half smile on his face. He'd noticed. She was sure of it.

He didn't say a word, just buckled his seat belt and tapped Stella on the shoulder. “Let's go. I'm hungry.”

Stella muttered something under her breath but pulled out of the parking lot, the trees whizzing by as she picked up speed and merged onto the highway.

ELEVEN

T
hey made it to Baltimore in record time, the traffic light, the trip uneventful. It had been three months since Lark had been in her neighborhood, but it felt like she'd never left. The quaint brownstone still had a red door. The exterior staircase leading to her second-floor apartment was still a little rusted. She had one neighbor above. One below. One to the left of the apartment who she'd only met a couple of times. To the right, an alley separated her building from another. Twenty years ago, the rows of brownstones had been neglected and mostly abandoned. Now the entire block had been returned to its former glory.

Stella found street parking in front of the building, and Chance jumped out of the SUV, jogging up the stairs ahead of everyone, jiggling the doorknob. “Locked,” he called.

“The key is in the box.” Lark unbuckled her belt, leaned over the seat, digging through the box until she had the keys, her wallet, her cell phone. It felt odd to be holding them again. Like she'd been sleepwalking and suddenly woken unsure of where she was or how she'd gotten there.

“He was making sure no one unlocked the door before we got here,” Cyrus said as he got out, offered his hand and pulled Lark to her feet. He towered over her. Nearly a foot taller, but he didn't make her feel small or weak. As a matter of fact, she felt stronger when he was around, more capable. It was the way she'd felt with Joshua, and remembering that made her stomach churn.

“You don't think Elijah sent someone here, do you?” she asked, eying the metal stairs, the landing, the little welcome mat in front of the door.

“It's not about what I think,” Cyrus replied. “What matters is being prepared for whatever might happen.”

She didn't like the sound of that.

She didn't particularly like thinking about all the things that could happen or might happen. She'd always been a planner, had always enjoyed creating order out of chaos. Her childhood had taught her the value of working hard. Her mother had set an example of everything Lark hadn't wanted to be.

Not that she hadn't loved Katie. She had. She just hadn't been able to depend on her. She hadn't been able to count on coming home to a clean house, a home-cooked meal, a parent who asked if she had homework. She hadn't been able to count on the electricity being on or food being in the refrigerator. By the time she was nine, she was helping elderly neighbors with yard work to earn money for school clothes. Right around the time she turned twelve, she'd started using whatever money she had to pay whatever bills that she could.

As a kid, she'd spent too many hours worrying about things that no kid should ever worry about. As an adult, she'd tried hard to break the cycle of worry, tried to let go of her need to control. God knew. He provided. And Lark was careful about her money, her bills, her choices. She had a little nest egg in savings, plenty of money in her checking account. She didn't need or want big or fancy. All she wanted was security.

She'd had it for a while.

Then it had been taken from her.

For months after Joshua's death, she'd felt the heavy weight of anxiety. It had lain on her chest, cut off her breath, made thinking about anything but her worries nearly impossible. Living in a car, trying to find a job, mourning Joshua's loss. Those things had turned her into a basket case of nervous energy and angst.

She wasn't going there again. She wasn't going to dwell on the possibilities, wasn't going to carry anxiety and stress. Whatever was going to happen, God was in control. He knew the plan for Lark's life, and she trusted that it was a good one.

That was enough to get her moving up the steps.

Her feet clanged on the metal, her hand gliding over the handrail. It was cool and a little rough beneath her hands.

Cyrus crowded in behind her. Chance waited ahead, his gaze focused on the alley below.

Did he expect someone to be there?

One of Elijah's men, maybe?

It wasn't like the apartment's location was a secret. She'd stayed in contact with Eric and Maria during the time she'd been away from the compound. She'd sent them her address and phone number, emailed them a few times. They'd only responded once. The invitation to visit Amos Way had come as a surprise.

In light of everything that had happened, it made sense.

Elijah had probably planted a seed in Eric's head, made him think that having Lark back would help with the grieving process.

She reached the landing, skirted past Chance, had the keys in the lock, when Cyrus touched her shoulder.

“Let me,” he said, his thumb brushing her neck, that one touch sending heat shooting through her.

She dropped her hand from the knob, tried to move out of the way, but Cyrus was behind her, Boone to one side, Chance to the other. There was nowhere to go, and she stood stiffly as Cyrus reached around, turned the key in the lock.

If he sensed her tension, he didn't mention it. Just cupped both her shoulders, moved her toward Boone.

“I'll take a look.”

“I'll—”
Come
, she was going to say, but he'd already stepped into the small foyer, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the living room and kitchen beyond.

He paused, motioned something with his left hand.

The next thing Lark knew, she was being hurried back down the steps, rushed into the SUV. Chance stood beside her window, his coat opened to reveal a gun holster strapped to his chest, his crisp white shirt and dress slacks making him look like a secret service agent or a bodyguard.

She tapped on the glass.

He ignored her.

She scooted across the seat, realized that Boone was already there, blocking her view of the street. She wasn't sure where Stella had gone.

Into the apartment with Cyrus?

Had he seen something? Heard something?

She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, turned it on. Still fully charged. Essex had texted a few dozen times, and she read through each message, could almost feel him growing more frantic. She'd texted him quickly, let him know that she was alive and at home.

Almost at home.

She frowned, tapped on the glass again.

Like his boss, Boone refused to turn around.

She scrambled into the front seat, eyed her still-open front door. No sign of Cyrus or Stella. She reached for the door handle, stopped when Chance appeared.

He yanked the door open, bent so that they were eye to eye. He had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, the hardest expression. Not a nice guy. A driven one. “That,” he ground out, “is not a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Someone has been in your apartment. Cyrus and Stella are doing a walk-through. Once they're finished, we'll bring you up. Now, get into the backseat. It'll be a little more difficult for a bullet to reach you there.”

“What about you and Boone?”

“No one is gunning for us, Lark. You're the one Elijah wants dead.”

True. And that was enough to get her moving. She climbed into the back, slouched in the seat as if doing so could keep a bullet from hitting her. She'd seen what one could do. Sheriff Johnson had impounded her Mustang and planned to send it to the state police for forensic testing, but the entire back window had been shattered, the front window cracked.

Minutes ticked by. They felt like hours.

The sun beat down on the SUV upping the temperature in the vehicle. She felt like she was baking alive, but didn't bother knocking on the glass again. She just stripped out of Boone's coat, set it on the seat back and waited.

Finally, Chance opened the door, gestured for her to exit the car. He was all business as he took her arm, hurried her up the steps. No words either. No explanation of what had been found.

She stepped into the foyer, stopped short. She'd left the place orderly and neat. Now it was chaos—couch cushions tossed on the floor, flour spilled out onto the counters, cupboards open, broken plates spread across the kitchen.

“What in the world!” she breathed, taking a step deeper into the house.

Cyrus stood in the living room, snapping pictures with his cell phone. He looked up as she approached, a smile easing the hard lines of his face. “Your cheeks are pink.”

“The SUV was getting hot.”

“Sorry it took so long. We wanted to make sure it was safe. The good news is...” He snapped a picture of her favorite Goodwill lamp. It lay on its side, the depression era glass shattered. “The apartment is empty.”

“The bad news is, it's been destroyed,” she responded.

He stopped taking pictures, focused his attention on Lark. “You're right. It has been. That's a tough thing, Lark, to see all this lying around broken. But you're strong enough to deal with it.”

“How do you know how strong I am?” she responded, picking up a book and setting it on the now-empty shelf.

“I've seen you in action, remember?” he said, snapping a couple more pictures. “If there's anything missing, you'll have to make an itemized list for the police.”

“The television is still here. My desktop.” She touched the computer monitor that still sat on the antique desk the owner had left in the apartment. It had been there for decades, and he'd wanted it to stay. She'd been careful with it, covering the top with a sheet of Plexiglas to protect the wood.

The intruder hadn't been interested in the desk or the computer. He'd emptied all the drawers, though, scattering papers and checkbooks across the room.

“He left your checkbooks, too,” Cyrus pointed out. “Your bank records.”

“I guess the desk wasn't the best place to keep that stuff.” She lifted a small box that she'd stored in the bottom drawer of the desk. She kept cash there for emergencies. It was empty, the lid torn from the hinges. “I had a hundred dollars in here. It's—”

“Here,” Stella called from the kitchen. “Sitting on top of a pile of flour and sugar that's been dumped.”

So...not a robbery. That much was clear.

In Lark's mind, that only left one option. Elijah had visited her apartment or sent someone else to do it.

“I wonder if they found what they were looking for?” she murmured as she walked down the hall.

“Joshua's things?” Cyrus asked.

“I can't imagine they were looking for anything else. I don't have a lot of valuables, but the money was there, my bank statement, my checks. They could have robbed me blind, if they'd wanted to.”

She walked into her bedroom, stopping just past the threshold. She'd always loved the room, the three large windows that bathed it with sunlight, the high tray ceiling, the built-in wardrobe in the corner. She'd hung her wedding photo on the wall, put up the little wooden plaque that Joshua had made her for their first anniversary.

Both lay on the floor, the plaque half covered by one of her shirts. The mattress had been tossed from the bed, linens lying in a heap beside it. Her pillow had been slashed, the stuffing pulled out.

“They were thorough,” she said, stepping over an empty dresser drawer.

“Where were you keeping Joshua's things?” Cyrus asked, crouching near their wedding photo, carefully lifting the picture from the broken glass and busted frame.

“In the closet,” she said, turning away because she didn't want to see Joshua's smiling face, didn't want to think about how happy and positive he'd been when they'd met.

She'd loved that about him. The way he always looked for the positive, the grace he extended to the people around him, to the world in general. She'd never heard him speak a bad word about anyone. Not until Ethan's disappearance. Even then, he'd said little.

She walked into the closet, flicking on the light. The building owner had converted a small bedroom into a walk-in. Lark hadn't had much to store in it. Her work clothes. A few workout outfits. She'd bought a vintage desk, shoved it against one wall, put a laptop on it. Sometimes, when the apartment seemed too big for one person, when its silence pressed in and made her long to go back in time, recapture the joy of having someone to share life with, she'd grade papers in there, her earbuds in, doing everything she could to forget that she'd ever had anything different.

The chair she used had been tipped over. She set it upright, climbed onto it. There were cupboards at the top of the closet. Too high for her to reach, so she'd never used them. She had looked in them when she'd moved in, checking to make sure they were empty, that the previous renter hadn't left anything behind. She'd found the back panel of one of the cupboards lying on its side. Behind it, the wall was open, revealing pipes that the owner must have wanted easy access to. There wasn't a lot of space, but it was enough for her to hide the things that meant the most to her.

She yanked open the cupboard, standing on her toes and peering into the darkness. The panel was still in place, and she nearly tipped the chair in her hurry to remove it.

“Careful.” Cyrus grabbed her waist, held her steady as she leaned in. She could feel the imprint of his fingers through her T-shirt, and her pulse raced.

Fear. Adrenaline. Those were the excuses she wanted to make, but she'd always tried to be honest with herself and everyone else. She knew physical attraction when she felt it, had ignored it plenty of times in the past. After all, a good relationship was built on a lot more.

The problem was, Cyrus was likeable. All his toughness, all his gruffness, all his determination and focus, she admired them. She liked that he didn't pity her, that he pushed her to be her best self, to keep being strong rather letting other people be strong for her. He didn't need to be her protector, and he knew it, but he wanted to be there for her. That meant more than a handsome face, a sweet word, a stunning smile. To Lark, it was everything.

“See anything?” he asked, and she forced herself to focus, to concentrate on getting the box, making sure that everything was exactly where she'd left it.