10

It was amazing what fifty bucks could buy you from a junkie desperate for a fix—especially when you dropped a hint there might be future jobs if he pulled off the first one.

Craig tugged his baseball cap lower, kept his chin down, and slipped out of the sleazy bar into the late-night darkness. Finding a suitable candidate hadn’t been difficult. Addicts weren’t hard to spot.

But this little adventure hadn’t been in his Monday night plans.

He picked up his pace as he strode through the seedy neighborhood, peering over his shoulder, skirting dark alleys. He’d chosen this area for its close proximity to Trish’s school, but that didn’t mean he had to like being here. At least in his bar-hopping getup, no one had paid much attention to him—and if someone had noticed him, he looked nothing like he did in real life.

Nevertheless, this strategy was a bit of a gamble. Despite the promise of more cash in the future, the guy might decide it wasn’t worth taking a chance after all and pocket the money.

Since the job could be done in less than a minute and there was minimal risk, however, Craig was as certain as he could be his mark would come through for him.

Truth be told, there was more risk on his end—though that too was negligible.

Still, the inconvenience was annoying. If Trish had handed over the reins of the foundation to Matt, none of this would have been necessary. Who could have predicted that an art teacher prone to zoning out during numbers discussions between Matt and her mother would turn out to be a financial whiz who would dig into 990s and surf the web for info on the charities?

He muttered an oath and kicked an empty beer can out of his path. Lucky he’d had the foresight during his weeks of surveillance to create the documents he needed for Providence House. Once she reviewed them, she ought to be satisfied.

But it would be much, much safer if she left the administration of the foundation in Matt’s hands. And if enough distractions—like the one he’d arranged tonight—kept her occupied, she might see the value of adding her trusted accountant as the third trustee, with full power to execute her wishes . . . and Craig’s.

Mostly Craig’s.

His lips curved up at the thought of all that cash wending its way toward the offshore account he’d established years ago. Trish might not be interested in Matt’s romantic overtures, but she liked him. It was just a matter of nudging her to the point where she accepted the logic of putting him in charge. She could continue to designate the charities, and he’d write the checks. Better yet, he’d convince her to authorize electronic transfer of funds. Falsifying the books to suggest her wishes had been carried out would be child’s play.

A car with rap music blaring through the windows decelerated as it approached him, and his momentary good humor vanished. Slowing cars were never a positive sign in a neighborhood like this.

He kept walking, but slipped his hand inside the pocket of his jacket and wrapped his fingers around the compact Beretta he’d tucked there.

The car and its occupants continued to roll past him—but he kept the gun in hand and picked up his pace.

After fifteen more minutes of fast and uneventful walking, the area began to improve. Fifteen minutes after that, he was sliding behind the wheel of the car he’d parked in a secure lot on the edge of downtown St. Louis.

Done.

Now he could make the long drive back to Matt’s place and get some shut-eye.

Except he wasn’t at all tired. His adrenaline was pinging like crazy from his walk on the wild side. In fact, he was pumped enough to pay Natalie another visit. Wouldn’t she be surprised if he showed up at her door at this hour?

No doubt she’d welcome him with a smile—at the very least.

As he accelerated west on I-44, he toyed with that temptation for a few minutes. Dismissed it. He needed to be smart, and seeing any woman on a regular basis would be stupid.

But if everything went well on Wednesday, come Saturday night he’d find himself another bar . . . and another woman.

“You about ready to call it a night?”

Trish looked over her shoulder at the school principal as she took another student drawing down from the wall of the classroom-lined hall.

“Close. I’d like to finish this first so all I have to do tomorrow is clean out the art room.”

“That’s fine. And great job on the exhibit. I had half a dozen parents tell me how much their son or daughter enjoyed your class.”

She gave the middle-aged man a melancholy smile. “That’s gratifying to hear. But I wish there’d been more intact families here tonight. I know some of the students were disappointed only one of their parents came.”

“Hey . . . I’m grateful for what we can get. I worry more about the kids who didn’t come at all because neither parent bothered to bring them.”

“I hear you.” Trish worked the tape off the edge of a drawing. “Are you waiting around for me to finish before you close up shop?”

“No. Chuck will do a final pass to turn off stray lights and lock doors. I was going to offer to walk you to your car.”

“I appreciate that, but I’m parked close to the door. I’ll ask Chuck to watch until I’m behind the wheel.”

“Are you sure? Chuck’s a fixture around here, but his arthritis is starting to impact his speed and agility.”

“I’ll be fine. We’ve never had any trouble on the property, and Chuck’s vocal chords are in excellent shape. That booming voice of his has kept more than a few unruly students in line.”

“No arguments there. I’ll be around for a while tomorrow too, tying up loose ends. See you then.”

After waving him off, Trish spent another fifteen minutes dismantling the exhibit she’d created on the walls. At last she packed up her bag, flipped off the lights in the art room, and went in search of the janitor.

She traipsed through the halls, peeked into classrooms, and called his name to no avail, pausing at last by the exit. Where could he be? The men’s room? Having a smoke outside? On a phone call?

Wherever he was, she was not taking another tour of the school. She’d been on her feet for fourteen hours straight; her next destination was home.

From the depths of her shoulder tote she extracted tape, a pad of paper, and pen. She scribbled a note to Chuck, ripped off the sheet, and stuck it to the door. He’d see it when he was ready to lock up and know she’d left.

Once outside, Trish inspected the schoolyard. The lighting was adequate, if not great, and her car was only fifty feet from the building. Other than the typical loud rap music coming from the open window of a nearby house and the revving of car engines in the distance, all was quiet on this Wednesday night. Matt’s warning to be careful in this area was sound, but she’d had no issues during the past nine months—and the lot was empty except for her car and Chuck’s.

Keys in hand, tote bag tucked against her side, she hurried toward her Civic, continuing to scan the schoolyard.

All clear.

But as she rounded the back of her car, everything changed.

Out of nowhere, a shadowy form leapt at her. Yanked her tote bag. Shoved her hard.

The attack was so sudden, so unexpected, that for a moment she was too shocked to do anything but clutch her bag and try to keep her balance.

The person jerked harder on the tote and shoved her again.

“Back off!” She yelled the command as loud as she could, inches from his face.

For an instant the guy—and it was a guy, no question about it despite the ski mask he was wearing—reared backward.

This was her window to run.

But he recovered too fast. As she began to swivel, preparing to dash back toward the building, he came at her again.

Letting her reflexes take over, she kneed him in the groin.

He grunted, doubled over, and spit out a string of words that scorched her ears.

But his fingers remained locked around her wrist, digging into the flesh like a vise.

The guy wasn’t giving up.

As he once more stood upright, she countered with a wrist sweep to break his grip . . . poked him in the face with her key, aiming for his eyes . . . and punched him in the throat with her fist.

He yowled and released her.

She bolted for the building, screaming at the top of her lungs, praying her counterattack had deterred him.

It hadn’t.

His steps pounded behind her . . . and the door was too far away.

Better to face him than let him grab her from behind.

She swung around, prepared to kick and punch again.

That’s when she saw the knife.

Oh, God, help me!

She might be able to defend herself against a physical attack, thanks to the rudimentary tips she’d learned in that self-defense class she’d taken last summer, but she was no match for a sharp blade.

“Just take my money if that’s what you’re after.” She threw her tote bag at him.

He batted it aside, eyes glittering with a wild rage.

The kind that could be drug-induced.

Her lungs locked.

Drugs would double or triple the danger.

“You hurt me, lady.” The accusation came out in a guttural growl. “Nobody does that and walks away.”

He lunged at her, knife blade glinting in the overhead lights.

She dodged him and screamed louder.

“Shut up!”

He sprang at her again, the point of the knife aimed at her heart.

Fear cycloned through her as she tried to sidestep him. If only she could buy herself a few precious seconds to get to the door, flip the inside lock, and call 911.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Because even though she managed to twist away from his grasp, the blade of the knife sliced through the flesh of her left forearm, leaving a long slash that immediately filled with blood. In seconds, rivers of crimson were running down to her hand, coating her palm, her fingers.

As shock rippled through her, the sudden wail of a police siren shattered the night air. It was close—and moving in fast.

After a minuscule hesitation, the guy turned, picked up her tote bag, and sprinted in the opposite direction of the siren, disappearing into the darkness.

Flashing police lights came into view, and the car swung into the school parking lot, the headlights blinding her.

Help had arrived.

She was safe.

As Trish raised a hand to shield her eyes from the harsh light, her shaky legs gave way and she sank to the blood-spattered pavement.

But there could have been much more blood. Would have been, if someone in one of the nearby houses hadn’t heard her screams and called for help. If the police hadn’t arrived precisely when they did. If the guy hadn’t decided to run for it instead of making one more thrust that could have connected with a vital organ or artery.

As all of those ifs cascaded in her mind, the truth slammed home.

She’d almost been killed.

And with that stomach-churning realization, she lost her dinner.

“I think that covers most of the topics on our agenda. Any questions?” Kristin folded her hands on the papers in front of her and surveyed the small group gathered at the table in the church meeting room.

Rick slid some drawings in front of her and the two of them began hashing out scenery issues. Then the costumer wanted her to weigh in on a handful of fabric samples.

Colin leaned back and peeked at his watch. How the female member of the Treehouse Gang had managed to rope him in to do lights and sound for another one of her annual kids’ shows was beyond him. Every year, he vowed it would be his last—and every year she guilt-tripped him into signing on again.

How could he say no to a few meetings and a one-week commitment during tech week, when she devoted months of planning and preparation to a project that built kids’ self-esteem? He had the easiest job on the production crew.

Meaning he’d caved, as usual.

“What about you, Colin? Any questions?”

Rick, the costumer, and the publicity person were all looking at him, as was Kristin.

“Uh . . . no. It’s the same physical setup as last summer. I’ll use the same equipment suppliers. We should be good.”

“How are you going to mike the Beast?”

“I’ll figure that out once I see the costume.” That would be the only challenge with the nonmusical version of Beauty and the Beast Kristin had chosen to direct for the church’s youth theater production this summer. The rest of the stuff he could work out during tech week.

Kristin narrowed her eyes . . . but said nothing more. After all the kids’ shows she’d directed, and all the years she’d conned him and Rick into helping with the technical stuff, she knew he’d come through.

“Okay. One more item before we break.” Kristin riffled through her papers again.

As Colin stifled a groan, his phone began to vibrate.

Yes!

He’d take any excuse he could get to escape for a few minutes.

But as he pulled the cell off his belt and glanced at the screen, he frowned.

Why would Mac McGregor be calling him at nine thirty on a Wednesday night? It wasn’t as if they socialized during off-duty hours. Now that he had a gorgeous wife waiting for him at home, Mac preferred spending his free time with her.

Go figure.

Colin managed to corral his grin as he stood and lifted the phone. “I need to take this. Someone from work.”

He pressed the talk button, put the phone to his ear, and moved toward the corner of the room. “What’s up, Mac?”

“A BOLO alert came in on the radio a few minutes ago. I thought you might be interested.”

“Why are you tuned in to work stuff at this hour?” Colin squinted at the blank wall. “Aren’t you on days this week?”

“Yeah. But Simmons had a family emergency and asked me to switch shifts with him today. The case in question is a first-degree robbery—and the victim was Trish Bailey.”

Colin sucked in a breath and groped for the edge of the bookcase beside him. “Is she all right?”

“Yes—other than a mild case of shock and a bad laceration from the perp’s knife.”

Knife.

The word reverberated in his mind, his pulse ratcheting up with every echo.

Someone had attacked Trish with a knife.

“What happened?” He plunged his hand into his pocket, fumbling for his keys.

He listened as Mac filled him in on the statement Trish had provided to the city cop.

“Did they catch the guy?”

“Not yet. But officers are combing the area.”

Bad news. If they didn’t find this scumbag fast, they weren’t likely to find him at all. That’s how the odds worked, especially in that part of town.

“Where’s Trish?”

“According to the cop at the scene, the paramedics bandaged her up and tried to convince her to let them take her to the hospital. She refused. She said she’d rather get stitched up at an urgent care center. The officer got the impression she doesn’t like hospitals.”

Understandable, based on recent family history.

“So what’s the status?”

“She went to an urgent care center.”

His grip tightened on the phone. “You mean she drove herself?”

“That’s what I was told.”

“The paramedics and the cop let her get in a car and drive after everything that happened?” Fury—and a healthy dose of alarm—nipped at his composure.

“Her injuries weren’t life-threatening, and the blood loss wasn’t severe. They couldn’t force her to ride in the ambulance.”

“One of the cops could have driven her.”

“She refused that too. They also suggested she call someone to come and get her. She said she had no family and it was too late to bother any of her friends.”

It wasn’t too late to bother him. He’d told her to call, day or night. Why hadn’t she taken him up on that offer?

A question he intended to ask her as soon as possible.

“Do you know which urgent care center she was going to?”

“Yeah.” Mac passed on the name and address. “She picked one close to her house.”

“Most of those places aren’t open past eight o’clock.”

“This one’s open until ten. The officer checked for her and alerted them she was coming. He also had one of the paramedics brief them on her condition.”

“How long ago did she leave?”

“Minutes. They kept her talking until they were comfortable she’d calmed down and was steady enough to drive.”

If she’d just left, he could probably beat her there.

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Any time. Watch that heavy foot of yours on the way.”

“I’ll do my best.” No sense defending his driving habits. Most cops—and detectives—drove too fast . . . on or off duty. Including him. And tonight wasn’t going to be an exception.

“Let me know if I can do anything.”

“Thanks. Sorry you had to work nights—but it was a lucky break for me.”

“I doubt luck had much to do with it. God works in mysterious ways.”

Since he wasn’t up to a discussion about the enigmatic ways of the Almighty, he said good-bye . . . and turned to find Kristin and Rick hovering behind him.

“Are you okay?” Kristin laid a hand on his arm, the concern in her voice almost palpable.

He surveyed the room. It had emptied except for her and Rick, both of whom were regarding him with grave expressions.

“Yeah.” The word croaked, and he cleared his throat. “Why?”

“You went white as a sheet.” Kristin removed her hand but stayed close. “I thought you were going to pass out.”

Colin jingled his keys. He needed to get out of here. Fast. But how to do it without tipping his hand about his feelings for Trish?

Rick saved him the trouble.

“This has something to do with that woman you met, doesn’t it?”

Keeping secrets from these two was as futile as trying to control his heavy foot on the gas. Besides, since he hoped Trish would be playing a big role in his life going forward, why dodge the question?

Keys clenched in his fingers, Colin took a deep breath. “Yeah. She was mugged by a knife-wielding thug who sliced open her arm. One of my detective buddies called to tell me. She’s on her way to an urgent care center. I’m hoping to get there first.”

Kristin gave him a small push toward the door. “Go. Let us know how she is.”

“I will.” He started to walk away.

“Hey!”

He angled back.

Rick folded his arms. “What’s her name?”

“Trish.”

“Pretty.” Kristin waved him toward the exit. “We’ll want to meet her, you know.”

The last part of her comment followed him outside as he pushed through the door.

Introducing her to Rick and Kristin was inevitable . . . but it wasn’t a prospect he relished. She’d be in for an inquisition—and some ribbing, if they liked her. Which they would. How could anyone not like Trish—other than the mugger she’d tangled with tonight? From what Mac had said, she’d inflicted some damage of her own that would not endear her to him.

But she hadn’t slashed the guy with a knife. Trish had taken the brunt of their scuffle.

Gritting his teeth, he slid behind the wheel, tore out of the parking lot, and ignored Mac’s advice as he floored the Mazda. At this hour, and at this rate of speed, he should be able to make it to the urgent care center in ten minutes. Twelve, tops. Too bad he didn’t have his work vehicle, though. With the Taurus’s flashing lights and siren to clear his path, he could shave off a few more minutes.

As for Trish thinking it was too late to bother any of her friends—that might be true. But he was aiming to be much more than that.

And before this night was over, she’d know that beyond the shadow of a doubt.