Valley of Shadows

“The newest member of the witness protection program.”

Miranda blinked, not sure she’d heard right. “Are you with the FBI?”

He hesitated and Miranda had the feeling he was trying to decide how much of the truth to tell her. When he finally answered, his tone was much more gentle than it had been before. “No, but I plan to be just as effective in keeping you safe.”

“I don’t need you to keep me safe. I need you to let me go.”

“Then it would have been better if you’d walked away and left me to deal with Jefferson on my own.”

“He was trying to kill you.”

“And now he’s going to try to kill us both.” His tone was grim, his jaw tight, and Miranda had no doubt he believed what he was saying.

She just wasn’t sure she did. “Why?”

“Because I’m a threat and because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and were foolish enough to let him know it.”

“What else was I suppose to do? Let him kill you?”

“Let whatever was to happen, happen.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Then maybe you’ll understand why I can’t let you go.” His tone was softer than Miranda would have expected from such a hard-looking man and she studied his profile, wishing she could read more in his face.

“Who are you?” The question popped out, though Miranda wasn’t sure what answer she hoped for—a name, an occupation, some clue as to who she was dealing with.

“Hawke Morran.” He answered the question without actually answering it. The name doing nothing to explain who Hawke was or why Liam had been trying to kill him.

“Who are you to Liam?”

“Liam? You know Jefferson?” The gentleness was gone, replaced by a harshness that made Miranda cringe.

“Everyone in Essex knows him.”

“I’m not interested in everyone. I’m interested in you. You say you know him. Does he know you? Your name? Where you live?”

Did he? Miranda was sure he knew her name, and there was no doubt he knew where she worked, he visited the bakery several times a week. It would be easy enough to get her address. “Probably.”

Hawke muttered something in a language Miranda didn’t recognize, the words unintelligible, the frustration behind them obvious.

Her own frustration rose, joining the fear that pounded frantically through her blood. She’d done what she thought was right. Now, she’d pay for it. That seemed to be a pattern in her life. “I own a business in Essex. Lots of people know me. Liam just happens to be one of them.”

“He also just happens to be a murderer.”

Miranda didn’t need the reminder. She’d seen Liam in action; watched him pull a gun on a bound and blindfolded man, had seen the cold determination in his eyes as he’d caught sight of her. She had known then that she was seconds from death. “We need to go to the police and tell them what happened before Liam hurts someone else.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Exactly what I said. I’ve got a phony criminal record. The police won’t believe anything I have to say. You’re with me. It stands to reason they won’t believe you, either.” He glanced her way, his gaze searing into hers before he turned his attention back to the road.

“Why—”

“We’ll discuss it all later.” His tone was curt and dismissive, the kind that brooked no argument.

And Miranda didn’t want to argue. She wanted to let things play out the way they would. Just as she had so many times before. With her sister. Her mother. Her father. Boyfriends. It always seemed so much easier to go with the flow than to fight against the tide. This time, though, the tide was dragging her out into dangerous waters and she had a feeling that if she didn’t fight it she’d be pulled under. “Later isn’t good enough. I want answers now.”

He shrugged, but didn’t speak as he steered the SUV onto an off-ramp.

The neighborhood he drove through was battered, the houses 1970s cookie cutters, every street lined with pickup trucks and scrap-metal cars. Miranda knew the area—a tough, crime-ridden neighborhood on the edge of D.C. When Hawke pulled into a driveway, she put her hand on the door, ready to yank it open and flee, but he grabbed her arm, his hand a steel band trapping her in place.

His breath fanned her cheek as he leaned close. “We’re getting out my side, walking around to the back of the house, getting a new ride and you’re not going to do anything foolish. Time isn’t on our side and I don’t want to waste any of it chasing after you. All right?”

The memory of the gun he’d tucked into his waistband spurred Miranda to do as he said, her heart pounding a sickening beat as Hawke tugged her across the front seat and out the door.

The moon shone bright and yellow in the navy sky and the crisp air chilled Miranda’s clammy skin as Hawke hurried her around the side of a house.

An old garage stood at the back of the property and he punched numbers into a security pad on the door, then tugged Miranda to a dark sedan inside.

“Get in.” His words were gruff, his hand gentle as he pressed it against her shoulder, urging her to do as he’d commanded.

The car door slammed with a finality that stilled the breath in Miranda’s lungs. She shouldn’t be allowing this. Crime prevention experts said it all the time—never get in a car with your attacker. Never let him take you away from the scene.

And here she was, doing exactly that.

But Hawke wasn’t an attacker. He was a man who’d almost been killed. A man she’d saved. Now he claimed to be saving her. She wasn’t sure if she believed him. All she knew was that eventually there’d be a chance to escape. She could only pray that when it came, she’d know for sure whether or not she should take it.

THREE

Hawke’s head throbbed with every movement, every sound reverberating through his brain. He ignored the pain, determined to put as much distance between his new ride and the SUV as possible. It wasn’t just his life on the line this time. He had his passenger to worry about, as well.

Who was she? What had brought her to the funeral home so late at night? Not the hope of scoring drugs. Hawke was almost sure of that, though he’d been sure of things before and been proven wrong.

He risked a quick glance in her direction, gritting his teeth at the renewed throbbing in his head. The woman’s arms were crossed at her waist, her eyes trained straight ahead. She looked scared, not high on drugs. “What’s your name?”

His words must have startled her. She jerked, her arm brushing against his side, her breath leaving on a quick, raspy gasp. “Miranda. Sheldon.”

“Miranda.” The name rolled off his tongue as if he’d said it a thousand times before. “What were you doing at a funeral home so late at night?”

“I was taking a walk.” There was more to it than that. Hawke was sure of it, though he couldn’t blame her for denying him answers.

“And while you were walking you saved my life.”

“Would you rather I had walked away and let you die?”

“Other people would have.”