Darcy stood frozen as she saw her coworkers mowed down. She heard their shouts of fear, their moans, their cries of pain. She stood helpless as Leo, the chef and her good friend, grabbed a huge knife and dashed towards the attackers, only to be cut down by a barrage of bullets. Darcy stuffed her fist in her mouth to keep from screaming.

Just as the killers turned to admire their handiwork, Darcy’s brain began working again, and it shouted, “Run! Hide!” The last thing she remembered seeing was the face of the man who seemed to be the leader of the band of thugs just as he turned around. She’d retreated into the restroom and hid in a stall, hauling her feet up on the seat, pulling off her stilettos and holding them in her hand. God, she prayed he hadn’t seen her at the same moment she’d seen him.

She was in shock. She couldn’t stop seeing the images of Papa lying there tangled up with Rico. She saw dishwasher Danny’s face spasm in horror as bullets slammed into him and couldn’t rid herself of the sight of Leo, arm raised, riddled with bullets and falling in his tracks. And most of all, the look on the killer’s face, so cold, so unfeeling.

Darcy heard the men talking, congratulating each other on their successful mission. Their voices became one big blur as she huddled on top of the toilet. They were bold enough to help themselves to the food the men had been putting up.

She thought they’d never go. Her legs cramped, and tears ran silently down her face. She was shivering all over. She fought down nausea, terrified of giving away her hiding place if she made any noise at all.

At last, she heard them leaving, then silence reigned, but Darcy forced herself to stay in place at least 10 minutes after they were gone. Then she slipped her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed 911. Still too frightened to speak loudly, she whispered the emergency and stayed on the line with the operator until she heard the voices of the police hollering, announcing their presence in the kitchen. She was still crouched on the toilet seat when the stall door slammed open, and she bit back a scream as her gaze clashed with the silver-blue eyes of the man who’d been at the bar earlier.

“Police, ma’am. Are you the woman who called in the murders?”

Darcy still couldn’t find her voice, so she simply nodded her head frantically.

“Well, you’re safe now. Why don’t you come down from there?” He held out his hand, and Darcy hesitated, then took it. He helped her step down from the toilet, and her knees buckled when her feet touched the floor. She felt herself start to fall, but before she hit the ground, he grabbed her and pulled her to him.

“Whoa, there. It’s okay. It’s okay now.” His voice was deep, smooth, and comforting. He held her trembling body in his arms, and she buried her head in his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Oh, God, he was alive. A living, breathing warm human being.

She didn’t move for several moments, sheltering in his arms. At last, he pulled back and looked at her. “Are you ok?”

Okay? Was she okay? Hell, no she wasn’t. She’d just seen her boss and co-workers shot down right before her eyes. She felt a burst of anger and jerked away from him.

“I’m not hurt if that’s what you mean.”

“We need to talk to you then. Let’s go on out to the dining room.” He took hold of her elbow and began urging her towards the front of the building. She turned her head to look at her fallen co-workers and the police officers milling around, but he hustled her on through the kitchen and sat her down at the first table they came to. He made sure she couldn’t see the kitchen at all from where they were seated.

“I’m Detective Nick Baker. And you are?”

“Darcy Campbell.” She twisted her hands in her lap.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Ms. Campbell.”

She knew it was standard procedure to offer condolences, but somehow Darcy felt like this man really meant it. Her gaze shot to his and he looked sincere, his eyes warming to a deep pewter hue.

“Tell me, Ms. Campbell, are you normally here this late after closing?”

“No, no I’m not.” She went on to tell him about the wine, and her dress, and exactly what happened.

“Did you see any of their faces?”

Again, she saw his face. Thin, high cheekbones, square chin, squinty eyes.

“Just one of them.”

“Would you be willing to come downtown and look at some pictures? See if you recognize anybody?”

Was he kidding? All she wanted to do was go home, have a glass of wine, and fall apart.

“Look, I know you’re worn out, but we need to do this while your memory is still fresh.” His voice was soft, his gaze intense. Huh, like she would ever forget that face. But at last, she nodded. She had to do whatever she could to help find Papa’s killer.

“Good. I’ll get us down there as soon as possible. Barnes, come in here.” He stood and hollered, and a young officer almost immediately appeared in the room. “Stay with her until I’m ready to go.”

And then she waited. And waited. She couldn’t sit still and paced across the dining room, back and forth. The young officer stood patiently, watching Darcy pace.

It was more than an hour before Nick was ready to go. By the time they got to the station her head was pounding, her stomach nauseous, and her nerves shot. She felt weak, trembly. She wasn’t even sure she could focus on the pictures Detective Baker presented to her.

There were so many faces in the books. Young, old, black, white, ugly, handsome. She turned page after page, growing frustrated after looking at hundreds of photos. She wanted to cry, to shout, to throw the books of pictures across the room.

And then she saw it.

It was him. The man she’d seen in the kitchen at Papa’s Place. She’d recognize that cold, merciless face anywhere.

“That’s him.” She stated coldly. “That’s the bastard that killed Papa.”