Safe by the Marshal's Side

His last words to her, and she’d promised that she wouldn’t.

“Please, Lord, help me keep that promise. For him and for me,” she whispered as she dried the plates and put them away.

The apartment floor creaked, and she knew Hunter was returning. She settled back into a chair, the eggs sitting like lead in the pit of her stomach.

Hunter took the seat across from her, sliding a folder across the table. “Are you sure you want to do this tonight?”

“It’s morning, and I’m sure.”

She might be sure, but her hands were trembling. Hunter noticed that and her pallor. She was ashen, her eyes bright blue in her pale face.

Any other time, any other witness, and Hunter would have been impatient for her to do what needed to be done. He was impatient. He needed her to look at the picture. If the doll had been taken from the Delacorte house, it would be a lot easier to connect the guy who’d used it to intimidate Annie to Saunders and Fiske. One more nail in the guys’ coffins.

Once they found the person responsible.

Yeah. He was impatient, but this was Annie, and she had a softer heart than other witnesses he’d protected. So many of the people Hunter had ushered into witness protection had been criminals hiding from criminals. He hadn’t felt sorry for their troubles because they’d brought them on themselves. Annie was different. Her husband had brought trouble into her life. Her only crime had been in loving a guy who’d borrowed money from the wrong people to feed his gambling addiction.

“It can wait,” he said.

She shook her head. “No, it can’t.”

She flipped open the folder and lifted the photo.

As crime-scene photos went, it was pretty innocuous. Hunter had seen a whole lot worse than the headless doll wearing the pink dress.

Annie dropped the photo as if it was a venomous snake.

“Is it—?” Hunter started to ask.

“I need some water.” She cut him off, pushing away from the table. She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it at the sink, her hands shaking so hard water sloshed onto the floor.

She set the glass on the counter and grabbed the dish towel. There were tears in her eyes. He should have ignored them, kept his distance, let her clean up the water and get her emotions in check.

But she looked vulnerable and young, her shoulders slumped as she halfheartedly swiped at the drops of water. She’d given up her family to testify. Given up the friends and support system she’d had before her husband’s murder.

She’d been cautioned against making too many friends in Milwaukee. Until the trial, they wanted her disconnected, free from the temptation to say too much, the danger of slipping and revealing her identity.

She had no one.

Except for him.

For some reason, that mattered to Hunter more than he wanted it to. He told himself it was because he had a younger sister, and that he’d have wanted someone to take care of her emotionally if she’d been in the same situation. He thought the reason might be a lot more complicated than that. Annie was a beautiful woman with a beautiful spirit. That was a difficult combination to resist.

He knelt beside her, took the cloth from her hand. “I’ll clean it up.”

“You’re a U.S. marshal. Not a maid,” she replied, but she scooted away and sat on the floor, her back resting against the cupboards, her arms around her knees.

“I’m whatever I need to be.” He finished wiping up the water and dropped the cloth into the sink.

When she didn’t move, he sat beside her. “Right now, I think you need more than a U.S. marshal. I think you need a friend.”

“Don’t be nice to me, okay?” Her voice broke, and she dropped her head to her knees.

“Aren’t I always nice?” he responded, knowing he wasn’t. Hoping the comment would make her smile.

Or at least keep her from crying.

“Nice?” She turned her head, eyeing him dispassionately. “I suppose some people would call you that.”

“What would you call me?” he asked, more curious than he should be. She was a witness, and her opinion of him shouldn’t matter. Right at that moment, though, it did.

“Efficient.”

“Not hard-nosed or cold, huh?” He’d been called both on a number of occasions. He’d thought the descriptions apt and had taken them as compliments. They wouldn’t be compliments coming from someone like Annie.

“No.”

“That’s your problem, then, Annie. You’re too nice. Instead of getting mad at people who treat you badly—”

“You’ve never treated me badly,” she cut in, and for some reason her continued kindness annoyed him. He’d rather she be like everyone else he’d protected. Convinced that he was as cold as he pretended to be.

“I’ve never treated you kindly, either,” he pointed out. “I’ve done my job. That’s what I get paid for, but you continue to act like I’m doing you a huge favor.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” She stood, and she didn’t look vulnerable or young anymore. She looked angry. “Acting?”

“That wasn’t what I was saying.”

“Then what were you saying, Hunter? That I’m too foolish to know that you’re just here doing what you’ve been paid for? That I’m too stupid to realize that the only reason you’re talking to me right now is because you want answers about the doll and you’re afraid I’m going to have some kind of mental breakdown before I give them to you?” Her voice was soft, her tone light, but there was heat in her gaze.

“That’s not why—”

“You want to know the truth? A year ago, I might have been a fool and I might have been stupid. I trusted people because I wanted to think the best of everyone. After what I learned about Joe, I’m not that naive. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be kind.” She grabbed the folder and thrust it at him. “Yes, it’s Sophia’s doll. That’s the dress I made for it. Check the stitching. I didn’t have any pink thread so I used robin’s-egg blue.”

She spun on her heels and ran from the room.

She didn’t slam the bedroom door, but he heard the quiet snap of the lock.

He could have followed her. It would have been easy enough to unlock the door.

But he had the answer he needed. There was no need for further conversation.

He looked down at the photo of the headless doll. The dress was intricate and well made with puffy sleeves and some sort of gathers on the front. He’d call Joshua, ask him if the thread used on the dress was blue. Just to be sure.

If it was, then the doll had been taken the night of Joe Delacorte’s murder. Once they found the guy who’d tossed it into the safe-house yard, they should be able to connect him to Saunders and Fiske. Neither man would have a chance of escaping justice.

That should have excited Hunter. It was what he lived for. Seeing justice done, knowing he had done his part to make it happen.

It had always been enough before.