Chosen

CHAPTER 23

I’m still in a fugue state when the office door opens.

I don’t have to turn from my perch to know who’s come in. Her perfume precedes her. If we’re going to work together on a regular basis, David better tell Tracey to go easy on the stuff.

She’s his recruit, after all.

She walks straight through the office and joins me on the deck, pointing to a second deck chair. “Mind if I join you?”

I scoot around so I’m upwind and nod my head. “Have a seat.”

I notice then that she has a brown grocery bag in her hand. She sits down, opens the bag and pulls a couple of bottles of Corona from inside. She offers me one.

I take it.

She might work out after all.

We open our beers and drink.

Tracey wipes foam off her lips with the back of her hand. A simple, unaffected gesture. For some reason, it tips the scales from finding reasons not to like her to reserving judgment. Maybe even being willing to give her a chance.

She did come bearing beer.

We drink in silence for a few minutes before she says, “Detective Harris sends his regards.”

I choke on that. “Really? He sent his regards?”

A grin. “Well, not so much regards as a word of caution. To me. To be on my guard. He thinks you’re . . . How shall I put this?”

At the pause, I jump in. “A lunatic? Crazy?”

She laughs. Nods. “Pretty much.” She eyes me over the bottle. “He thinks you had something to do with Warren Williams being run out of the police chief’s job. Care to comment?”

“You sound like a reporter.”

“Just a curious ex-cop who thought Williams did a good job. And I don’t believe you were responsible for his troubles, by the way. As I understand it, he used you as bait to catch the hit man who shot David. You did nothing wrong.”

I look away from her. No. I did nothing wrong. Did I? A cop lost his life, David got shot, and a father and daughter were put in danger because I got into a fight with my partner. I was mad at David so I reacted like a spoiled teenager—ran away and got drunk. Set a chain of events in motion that . . .

Ancient history.

I guzzle another mouthful of beer, keep tilting the bottle until I’ve drained it.

Yeah, Williams used me. But we both knew I was in no danger. The hit man was human. I’m not. Trouble was, no one else could know. And when it was all over, Williams ended up paying the price because he couldn’t expose the truth.

Williams. Where the hell is he?

“Anna?”

Tracey is leaning toward me. “Are you all right?”

I hoist the empty bottle. “I will be if you’ve got any more of these in that bag.”

She fishes inside, pulls out two more. Hands me one, takes the other for herself. We clink the bottles together and drink.

After a long pull, I shift in the chair so I’m facing her. “Why did you come back this afternoon? You said when you left you’d be back tomorrow.”

She jabs a thumb behind her. “Left my jacket.”

I look. A black Windbreaker hangs from a coat hook near the door. “And you brought beer because?”

A shrug. “I thought maybe David might still be here and we’d . . .” She lets her voice drop.

“Ah. You’re smitten. I should warn you, he’s been seeing someone. He’s on a trip with her now. Probably won’t be back until Friday.”

She sighs and settles back in the chair. “Well, I’ve never shied away from a challenge. And in a way, I’m glad you and I had a chance to get acquainted.”

I hide the smirk by taking another pull.

Get acquainted? Oh, Tracey. You don’t have a clue.

Tracey leaves at five with an offer to take me to dinner. An offer I, of course, decline. I tell her I have a boyfriend waiting for me at home and that she doesn’t have to come in tomorrow since we have nothing on the docket and David won’t be in.

We part ways with a wave and a “see you on Friday.”

I’m relieved when she’s gone. This girl talk thing is hard. But I can report to David that I behaved myself and that our new partner and I had a chance to bond.

The other good thing was that it distracted me from pacing the floor, wondering why I haven’t yet heard from Williams.

At six, I lock up and head for the cottage. Lance calls while I’m driving home. He asks if I’m all right, if I’ve heard from Williams or Underwood, if I want him to come home tonight. I answer yes, no, no. He says he’ll call again later and that he misses me.

I miss him, too. I miss his smile and his laugh and the way our bodies fit together. I miss having him around during the day. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight. I don’t think I want to sleep alone ever again. There’s a hole my life that only he can fill. I miss him so much I ache.

“Anna?” he asks when a long moment has past. “Are you there?”

I blink and rouse myself. “Yes. I miss you, too.”

It’s after midnight.

Williams still hasn’t called.

Trepidation replaces the irritation I felt most of the day. Something is wrong. There’s no way in hell Williams would let me dangle like this. He’s waited too long to have me under his thumb.

I pick up the phone and call his cell. Again.

Same result. Again.

Five rings, then voice mail.

I toss the phone on the bed.

Should I try calling him at home?

I shuffle downstairs. His home number is programmed in my landline. He’s only called here once or twice from that number and never from a cell. I scroll for the number, press send.

The call is picked up so quickly, I don’t hear it ring.

“Warren?”

A woman’s voice. One I recognize.

The knot in my gut grows tighter. “No. Sorry, Mrs. Williams. It’s Anna Strong.”

There’s a long moment of silence. I’m sure she’s processing the same emotions I am. The last time we saw each other was at Ortiz’s funeral. She made it clear how she felt about me—that I’d betrayed my own kind, left her husband near death to save a witch. She accused me of unleashing a war against innocents, something I understand less now than I did at the time.

One of the questions I’d hoped this alliance I’d forged with Williams would answer.

I wait another moment before asking, “You haven’t heard from him?”

She makes a noise, a small choking sound, as if her breath is caught in her throat. “No. If you know something—if you know where he is . . .”

There’s desperation in her voice, fear. When I don’t respond, it veers to anger. “Damn you, Anna. What did you do, change your mind?”

Again, she doesn’t give me a chance to answer.

“He told me he talked to you. He said you’d come to an understanding. He was optimistic that you were ready to cooperate. If it was a trick, if you’ve done something to hurt him, I swear I’ll come after you.”

I doubt it would make a difference if I told her Williams and I had come to an agreement. She has no reason to trust me. Better for her to be angry than afraid. Fear is debilitating. Let her nurse the anger. Anger gives you focus. Anger gives you strength. Anger keeps the inner demons at bay.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs. Williams. I did see your husband in Palm Springs yesterday. I’m sure he’ll be home soon. Try not to worry.”

Stupid. Empty sentiment.

She makes that sound in her throat again—half gasp, half stifled hiccup. It’s only when she breaks the connection without another word that I realize what she was doing.

Crying.