Cassidy and the Princess

“He’ll flash part of faces—eyes, foreheads, chins, et cetera. If anything looks familiar, he’ll start constructing a face.”

“I didn’t see enough for that.”

Cassidy didn’t say anything for a moment, then wondered out loud. “But obviously he doesn’t know that.”

“Which is why…he returned tonight,” she finished.

“Yes.”

“You believe he might try again.” It was a statement, not a question. Her eyes were even bluer, if that were possible. Deeper. And inaccessible.

“It’s possible,” he said.

“And if I leave the city?”

“Not as likely, but possible.”

“What can I do?”

Her eyes were impossibly large. Fear was there. But so was reason. Again, he wondered about his first impression. Why had she seemed so compliant to those around her when now there didn’t seem a hesitant bone in her body. Two different women. Would it be different when her mother and partner returned? He was oddly pleased that she hadn’t asked him—or apparently anyone on the hospital staff—to call them.

He knew what she could do. Did he have the right to propose it? What if something happened to her?

“What is it?” she asked.

She also could read his mind. No one else had ever been able to do that. Not his former wife. Not Manny. It was uncanny.

“Detective?” she prompted again. She’d awakened to someone trying to kill her, had dived off the bed and kept her head—and she still looked like a princess. That image, though, was misleading. If she was like a princess, she was one laced with iron.

But she would have to be tough to get to where she was. He knew how much training it must have taken. How much discipline.

“He might have left something in this room,” he said. His hand was still around the hypodermic.

“He had gloves,” she said.

“Maybe not when he filled the hypodermic.” But that, he knew, was a pretty futile hope. This man had been very, very careful. It was too much to ask that he would make a mistake now. Still, Cassidy wanted it at the state crime lab. There might be something there.

She obviously saw the doubt in his face. And great circles shadowed those marvelous eyes.

He looked at his watch. “You should get some sleep,” he said. “I’ve asked for some officers to guard your room. I’ll stay out there until they arrive.”

“Do detectives usually do that?” she asked.

He resisted his first instinct to say, Only for pretty ladies. That would be crossing his personal line. “It’s just for a few moments,” he said more curtly than he’d intended.

She looked startled at his tone. A light seemed to die in her eyes. He girded himself against a reaction. He was there to solve a crime, to apprehend a serial killer. The worst thing he could do was allow himself any personal feelings. That was the best way to get someone killed.

And there was no place in his life for personal feelings. He’d had them once, and they were a mistake. He’d almost destroyed two people.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she persisted. “What can you do? What can I do? I won’t go through life being terrified.” Then, after several seconds, she added, “I want him caught. I want him punished. I don’t want him to do to anyone else what he tried to do to me.”

She was feeling anger mixed with loss. Loss of security. Loss of safety. He knew that from experience. Post-traumatic stress syndrome wasn’t limited to those in the military. He surprised himself by wanting to reach down and touch her hand, to reassure her.

“I’ll ask the nurse to see if you can’t have something to help you sleep,” he said, starting for the door.

“I don’t think I can sleep now,” she said. “Please…don’t go.”

He suspected it had taken some courage for her to make that request. He didn’t think she asked for much from others. Others, however, probably asked a great deal from her.

“Yes,” he said simply. He went to the door, opened it. No uniformed officers yet. With the red tape involved, it would probably be morning before they arrived. He turned out the light and went to a chair, settling down into it, his long legs dangling in front of him.

“Thank you,” she said.

Marise heard the soft snoring across the room. It was comforting. She had feigned sleep, knowing that he would probably stay awake until he thought her asleep.

He looked tired, his cheeks shadowed with dark stubble. But she felt safe with him in the room. She wondered whether a wife was missing him. A family? But she was profoundly grateful to whomever had relinquished him for the evening. She didn’t want her mother’s hysterics or Paul’s overprotectiveness. She didn’t want to deal with any of that at the moment.

She would have a battle to fight tomorrow. She had heard everything the detective said, and sensed what he had not. She didn’t know if she could offer any real help in apprehending the man, whether she would recall enough to provide any clues. But she had meant it when she said she would not live her life in fear. She would stay here as long as there was a chance she could help.

And the Sectional in less than three weeks? Her dream? No, not hers. Her mother’s. Paul’s. Did she have the right to destroy it for them? If she didn’t make the competition, they wouldn’t have the points to continue to the World Championship.

The lives of unknown women? Paul’s career? Her mother’s lifelong goal?

How to balance them all. She no longer wanted to be responsible for all of them. For once in her life, she wanted to be responsible only for herself.

She closed her eyes, started to drift…

“I’m sorry I’m late, Daddy. I don’t feel well.”

“Excuses. Always excuses. Why can’t you be more like your brother? Now, he’s going to be a star.”

Her brother turned and gave her a reassuring smile. He was eleven and had already won a regional championship. He was their parents’ real hope, she knew that. She was their second. But she tried. Hours of lessons. Of practicing. She was never good enough. And now came her first competition, and she’d thrown up in nervousness. That’s why she was late.

The car accelerated. She saw the amber light turn red. Late. They were late. Because of her. Because of her fear. Suddenly, she heard the squeal of brakes, felt the jolt of the car and then the crashing sound of metal against metal…

“Easy.” The voice was deep but the low drawl was comforting.

She opened her eyes. Light was filtering into the room. A warm hand was on her shoulder.

It moved away almost immediately. She felt the loss of it. More than she should have.

“You were having a nightmare,” the detective said. He looked worse than he had a few hours ago. His hair was sticking out in all directions, the stubble was darker, his eyes were bloodshot.

“The attack?”

She started to say no, then gave a nod. She didn’t want to tell him she’d killed her father. And her brother. Her mind knew it had been an accident; her heart said she was responsible.

Then a knock at the door, and the room filled with her mother, her partner, a nurse with a tray.