CHAPTER
FIFTY

Savage River
Dr. Samantha Owens

Xander took up most of the doorway. He held a rifle in his hands. Sam wasn’t good with guns, but this looked very similar to the ones she’d seen in Donovan’s photograph. Which meant it was powerful, military-grade, and Xander held it like it was an extension of his body.

Dangerous. This man was more dangerous than anyone she’d ever met.

He watched her eyeing the weapon. He passed his hand over the trigger, then grasped the stock and set it carefully against the wall. He held his empty hands open as if to say, Okay, I’ve disarmed myself. I’m vulnerable. Now it’s your turn.

“Where do you want me to start?” Xander asked.

That was an excellent question. But first …

“Where have you been? Did you see Fletcher? Can I call him and let him know I’m okay?”

Xander shook his head. “Detective Fletcher and the remainder of his crew are fine. They’re all with a friend of mine, getting settled down for the night. When the time is right, Dr. Owens, I’ll get you back with him. But now is not the time. So, what other questions do you have?”

Shit. Fletcher was going to kill her, if Xander and Maggie didn’t do it first. Would Xander really give her answers? Then she might as well start with the biggie.

“Who killed Donovan and Croswell? And why is your DNA at Everett’s house?”

“I don’t know who killed them.”

“Come on. You expect me to believe that?”

Xander settled at the kitchen table, accepted a beer and some stew from Maggie. He took his time answering. Sam realized how very measured he was: in his manner, his words, his actions, everything. No wonder he’d stalked off earlier—rather than say something or lose his temper, he walked away.

That said something about his character.

Finally, he set down his spoon and said, “You’ll have to believe it, because it’s true. All I know for sure is it was someone Donovan trusted, and Croswell. Someone they knew, who was intimately familiar with their lives. Neither one of them would deviate from their schedule without good cause. Once a soldier, always a soldier.”

“Xander, you realize you’re describing yourself.”

He quirked a smile at her. “Unfortunately, yes. Who do the police think did it?”

“You.”

“No, they don’t. Not really. Who else?”

“Maggie.”

The woman’s eyebrows raised and she immediately looked scared. “Me? They think I’m involved? My God, Xander. What are we going to do?”

“Maggie, calm down,” Xander said, grabbing her hand. “Hal was shot across the street from your house. The minute you found out, you blew town. Of course you’re a suspect. The more important question is—do they know how you know Hal? Your real connection to him and Donovan?”

“Yeah, they do,” Sam said. “That reporter you impersonated? Told us one hell of a story. About your daughter, and who her father really is. Taranto’s dead, by the way.”

Xander whipped his head back to Sam. “What?”

“Right after I met with him. I was followed out of the restaurant, back to Fletcher and Hart, and they shot at us. Hart was hurt badly. Fletcher took a bullet to the arm. Then the killer went and tracked down Taranto, shot him and tossed his body in the Potomac.”

Xander ran his hand over his mouth. “So that’s why Fletcher was in a sling. I am very sorry to hear about Taranto. He was a good man, or at least trying to do the right thing. And I’m happier than ever that you’re up here now, where I can protect you.”

“Protect me? What about Donovan’s family? Susan Donovan is missing, too. For God’s sake, Xander, we can’t just hide away up here pretending everything’s going to be okay. It’s not. It’s not okay—nothing will ever be okay again.” Sam choked back a sob, of frustration, fear, she didn’t know what else, and slammed her chair back from the table. She went to the sink, not giving a damn if they watched her.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four.

Slowly, the water and soap calmed her beating heart, helped her get her emotions back in check. She breathed deeply with each perambulation, counting off in her head over and over and over.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four.

Simon. Matthew. Madeline. Eddie.

When her mind finally felt quiet enough to stop, she rinsed one last time and dried her hands on a red checked dishcloth.

She turned back to Xander and Maggie, who were politely looking away, staring into their beers.

She joined them at the table.

“I’m sorry. I get … upset. Washing helps.”

Like they care, Sam. Really. You need to stop telling people about your troubles. She’d managed to go nearly two years without anyone commenting on her failings, and now half of D.C. was aware she’d become a hopeless mess. Maybe she did need protecting, after all.

Xander met her eyes, frank and open. “I understand, actually. That’s why I’m up here. I get … upset, too.”

“The war?”

“Among other things. I don’t know how much you know about me, Dr. Owens.”

“Your background. Your parents. That you were a very brave soldier.” She stopped for a moment, then started again, quietly. “I know Eddie Donovan thought the world of you. He trusted you implicitly. He talked about you a lot in his journals. He respected you, in addition to enjoying your company. That’s why I’m here. Eddie trusted you. And now it seems, so must I.”

“Mommy?”

A small, scared voice startled all three of them. Jennifer had climbed out of bed and come down the hall.

“Did you have another nightmare, sweetie?” Maggie asked.

“Yes. The bad one.” The little girl’s face was pink with the effort not to cry.

“Oh, sweetie. Come here.” She gave Sam an apologetic look, and spoke sotto voce. “She’s been having bad dreams since we ran.” Then to her daughter, she said, “Tell me aboutit.”

The little girl was trying hard to hold it together. “It was the house across the street. Back home. There was a man there. He had a wand. Like Voldemort. He waved at it you, Mommy, and sparks flew out, and you fell down.”

She started to cry in earnest, and Maggie pulled her to her chest and held her, murmuring soothing words of nonsense to help calm her child. Sam fought the nausea that immediately blossomed when she saw the intimacy. She stood and went to the window, looked out in the dark night sky, saw the outline of the trees, their edges shimmering in moonlight.

A repeating nightmare.

The house across the street.

A man with a wand.

Perhaps a childlike interpretation of a gun?

Sam rushed back to the table. “She saw the shooting.”

Maggie and Xander both stared at her.

“Ask her,” Sam said. “Ask her.”

Maggie frowned, but sat Jen back on her lap. “Honey, the other night, your birthday night, you read that scary book and had a bad dream, then you called for me. What was it about?”

“That wasn’t a bad dream, Mommy. Across the street, there was a shooting star in the window, and then someone left.”

She stuck her thumb in her mouth and started humming “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

Maggie pulled her thumb from her mouth gently. “Sweetie, the someone who left. Did you recognize him?”

Jen shook her head. Maggie tried again.

“Was it a him? Or a her? Could you tell?”

Sam glanced over at Xander, whose face was intent with interest. He doesn’t know, she thought. He really doesn’t know who killed them.

The realization that Xander had been telling the truth almost made her collapse in relief. For some reason, she so wanted to believe this man. She wanted to believe him in the very worst way.

Was it Donovan? Did Xander remind her of him? Or was it the things Donovan had written in his journal that made her feel like she knew Xander? Parts of him, at least.

Or was it the way his eyes probed into her like he was trying to share the universe’s thoughts with her?

Flustered, she turned away, but heard Jen’s answer. “It was a him.”

Maggie sighed, and Xander sucked his breath in through his teeth. “You’re sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jen answered. “He had short hair and made a big shadow across the street. I thought he was coming to get me. Do you know the bad man?”

Xander glanced at Maggie, then over to Sam.

“Yes, sweetie. I think I do. And I promise, he won’t ever come near you again.”