Guarded from Sabotage (Blade and Arrow Security Bravo Team #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

SARAH

The sense of foreboding comes out of nowhere.

There’s no reason for it; not on a day like this.

It’s one of those gorgeous days that makes me glad I moved from upstate New York to San Antonio. Seventy degrees and sunny; I can wear short-sleeved shirts and skirts instead of the wool sweaters and winter coats that used to accompany the start of winter.

This morning, I texted a selfie of myself to my best friend, Hanna, of me grinning on my little back porch, the sun shining and the sky a brilliant blue, with all my potted plants lush and green behind me. A minute later, she sent back a photo of the view from her window—brown grass, barren trees, and a few patches of dingy snow—and a message.

OK, you have us beat there! But just wait until we get more snow. Then you’ll wish you still lived in NY.

In the beginning, I was homesick for the snowy winters. It didn’t feel right to see grass in February instead of a thick blanket of white. I missed bundling up in my mom’s handmade hat and mittens, tromping through the cold, breathing in air so crisp and clean I could feel it.

For a while, I’d wondered if I made the right decision moving here.

Following my now-ex-fiance, Tanner, to San Antonio so he could complete his residency meant leaving everything I knew behind. My best friend. The cute apartment in Pine Hills that I’d lived in for years, close to parks and restaurants and just a ten-minute trip to my work. The weekends I’d spend up in Lake George with Hanna, watching movies and drinking wine and making charcuterie platters big enough to serve an army.

But I was in love, and I thought Tanner was my future.

A year and a half later, neither of those things is true anymore.

It was hard—beyond hard, really—when everything fell apart six months ago. Even though things hadn’t been good with Tanner for a while, I was still clinging to the hope I could somehow make things work.

Then the real truth came out, and there was no coming back from it.

Six months ago, I considered throwing in the towel and moving back to New York again. But I’ve never been a quitter, and I wasn’t about to start because of a man who didn’t deserve me. So I buckled down and found myself a new apartment, a new job so I wouldn’t have to see my ex at work all the time, and committed to making the best of my new life.

It wasn’t easy, but I think I’ve done a pretty good job of it.

I scoured thrift shops and estate sales to find the perfect decor for my little apartment, and now it looks bright and eclectic instead of sad and rundown like it did when I moved in. And I found new spots to get lattes and muffins and the best authentic Mexican—another plus for Texas—where I wouldn’t chance running into Tanner or any of his friends.

I found a new job at a community services center, helping children at risk, and it’s much more rewarding than my old job at the hospital.

And I’ve even made new friends, though none of them will replace Hanna. But it’s still nice to have someone to run out to lunch with or meet up after work for happy hour.

Does that mean everything in my life is perfect? Hardly. But whose is?

I have a home, a good job, loving parents, and friends. I even go jogging sometimes when the weather is nice, or run on my second hand treadmill when it’s not. And I’ve been stopping by the local shelter lately, debating if it’s finally time to get a pet of my own.

“Hey, Sarah?” A light rapping sounds at my half-open door. Raya peeks her head into my office. “Are you still up for grabbing lunch?”

“Yes. Definitely.” I lock my computer and push away from my desk. “I’m starving. Where do you want to go?”

Another thing to add to the pro column of living in Texas—my coworker and new friend, Raya. We’re still in that getting-to-know-you stage, where we have lunch and the occasional drink after work, but we don’t talk about deeply personal things like I do with Hanna. And honestly, that’s okay with me. I have a best friend. I don’t need another one.

“I was thinking we could go to that new sandwich place?” Raya flicks her long, black ponytail over her shoulder, and I’m envious of her hair all over again. My hair is a shade of brown I generously describe as bronze and it likes to frizz at the slightest hint of humidity. It’ll never be sleek and dark and gleaming like hers without hours of styling.

Since my morning routine consists of a rushed shower and five minutes of grooming, it’s unlikely that’s ever going to happen. Tanner used to encourage me to spend more time on my appearance, saying things like, have you ever thought about highlights and you know, if you set your alarm earlier, you’d have more time to do your hair and makeup . He even offered to take me shopping at Sephora.

I never told Hanna any of that, because deep down, I think I knew what her reaction would be. But I told myself, Tanner’s a good guy, he loves me, and he’s even a doctor. He dedicates his life to healing people. If he makes a few bothersome comments, it’s no big deal.

Or maybe it was a red flag I willfully ignored.

Anyway. That’s in the past. There’s no point in hanging onto things that aren’t a part of my life anymore.

“The sandwich place sounds great,” I reply as I grab my purse off the back of my chair. “I was checking out their menu, and they have a chicken and avocado club that looks delicious.”

“Ohh, I love avocado.” Raya pauses and scans me from head to toe. “Sarah. You look so pretty today. I adore that outfit. The skirt is so cute, and the shirt brings out the green in your eyes.”

“Thanks.” My lips curve up of their own volition. “I went shopping with my mom when I visited for Christmas.”

As we leave my office, Raya asks, “Where do your parents live again? New York?”

“Not anymore. They used to live in Lake George, where I grew up. But once they retired, they wanted to go somewhere warmer. So they’re down in South Carolina now.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Are they near the ocean?”

“Yeah, they’re just outside Charleston. Their house is a ten-minute walk from the beach. So it’s nice. They love the water, so they’re happy.”

While I’m glad my parents are finally enjoying their well-deserved retirement, a nostalgic part of me still wishes they lived in Lake George, running the restaurant I spent most of my teen years working in.

“I love the ocean,” Raya enthuses as we step out of the air-conditioned building and into the warm air. The sun kisses my bare arms, and I can practically feel the vitamin D seeping into my body. A gentle breeze lifts my hair and rustles the hem of my skirt.

It almost chases away that ominous feeling I had from before. Almost.

I’m sure it’s nothing. Just random paranoia stemming from a bad dream I don’t remember or that text from Tanner yesterday asking if I still had his Rush T-shirt, then getting snippy when I said I didn’t.

What I wanted to say, but held my tongue, was maybe he should ask one of the women he cheated on me with. Instead, I told him no again, and blocked his number.

Honestly, it felt great, and I’m not sure why I didn’t do it sooner.

“I can’t decide,” complains Raya, turning towards me as we wait in line. It’s a relatively short wait, with only two people in front of us, which is a pleasant surprise at this time of day. “The chicken and avocado club sounds really good, but I am trying to eat healthier. Maybe I should get the vegetable pita instead.”

A second later, she grimaces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I wasn’t trying to say you shouldn’t get the club?—”

“I know.” Smiling at her, I add, “I didn’t think anything of it.”

Slightly flustered, her cheeks pinking up, Raya says, “You could order anything, Sarah. You’re so slender, and you run all the time?—”

“Not all the time.” I mentioned I go jogging occasionally and she somehow translated that into me being some kind of marathon runner.

“I just have all these curves,” she groans. “And it seems like all I have to do is look at a dessert and it adds two pounds.”

“You’re beautiful,” I assure her. “Trust me.”

“Then why haven’t I had a date in months?” She shakes her head. “My mom says I need to get out more. Try online dating or something. Or—” Her face brightens. “I saw an ad for speed dating coming up next weekend. We could go. That might be fun. What do you think?”

Inwardly, I cringe. Speed dating? Making rushed small talk with random strangers? That doesn’t sound very appealing. It’s not that I’m averse to dating again, but I’m not sure that’s the way I want to go about it.

“I’m not sure…” I hedge.

“It’s been six months, though. Time to get back out there. Just to meet people and have fun, if nothing else.”

Just as I’m trying to figure out an excuse that won’t make me sound like I’m still pining after my cheating ex or completely anti-social, I’m saved by the counterperson asking for my order.

After I place my order for the chicken club—I’m really not worried, after growing up around food I have a healthy relationship with it—I tell Raya, “I’m not sure about speed dating. But if you want to do it?—”

“Miss?” The young guy at the counter looks at me with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry. But I can’t take this card.”

“What? Why?” I glance at the counter, searching for some sign I missed; maybe something that says they only take Discover or American Express instead of the Visa I handed him.

“It’s declined,” he tells me unhappily. “I’m sorry.”

What the heck? I have autopay set up on all my bills. There’s no way I missed a payment. And I never got a notice, either.

Then I realize everyone is looking at me, and my stomach squinches into a knot. My face goes hot. I’ll have to figure this out later, when I have time to call the credit card company. In the meantime, I reach into my wallet and pull out my emergency Mastercard and hand that over instead. “Try this. It should definitely work.”

Except it doesn’t.

As my cheeks get hotter, Raya whips out her card and says, “I’ve got it, Sarah. These companies. They’re always messing things up. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

It has to be. One of the things I learned from my parents was to always, always pay my bills on time. Bills first , my dad would remind me, you always pay your bills first. Then you budget for the fun stuff.

Still, my appetite disappears and all I can do is nibble at my sandwich while Raya watches me with concern. She keeps telling me it’s fine, it happens to everyone, and I can call when we get back to the office and get it all worked out.

Except I have a client meeting as soon as I get back, and I don’t have time to pick up the phone for another hour. I successfully shove back the niggling worry during the meeting, but the second my office door shuts, I look up the number for the credit card company and rummage through my purse to grab my phone.

There’s a new voicemail and I almost ignore it until later, but then I wonder if it’s the credit card company calling to explain the mixup. To apologize for somehow not crediting my last payment or something innocent like that.

But it’s not.

And the sense of foreboding returns with a vengeance.

It’s a scripted message from a debt collector, using vaguely threatening words like dispute and judgment and legal action, ending with a promise to call back in the evening so we can discuss the issue further.

The small amount of sandwich I ate turns into a lump of iron in my belly, and a sick feeling sweeps over me.

Debt collection?

The only loans I have are for my car and grad school, and I’m absolutely sure they’re both current. I just checked my car loan statement two days ago, and it was fine. And when I looked at my student loans the other day, the balance due was zero.

I don’t have personal loans. This doesn’t make sense.

And on the heels of the mixup at the restaurant? Can this really be a coincidence?

For a second, I think about calling my dad, even though I’m thirty-three years old and perfectly capable of dealing with this on my own. I have a Masters, for Pete’s sake. I took financial algebra and statistics in college. There’s no reason for me to call my parents for help.

What do I tell my clients when they’re dealing with a problem? Granted, they’re kids, and their issues are much different, but the strategies are the same. Don’t panic. Take things one step at a time. Control the things you can and ask for help with the rest.

I’m an adult, and I can figure this out.

Glancing at the time, I realize I have an hour until my next appointment. That’s plenty of time to make a couple of calls. Maybe even get it all worked out, and this will just be a temporary inconvenience I’ll forget about in a few days.

Just as I’m looking up the number for the credit card company, the phone on my desk rings. It’s Ellis, one of our receptionists, and she sounds flustered as she says, “Sarah. There are some people here to see you. They’re coming up right now.”

“What?” This is highly unusual. I see my clients by appointment only, and I never have people just popping in to see me. “Who is it?”

“The police,” she replies quietly. “They showed their badges and said they needed to speak with you right away.”

The police?

My heart stutters.

Cold fear trickles down my back.

Is it one of my clients? Did something happen to them?

Not little Olivia, whose dad was just let out on bail after a violent incident with her mother.

Or Miguel, who I’ve been working to get into a different school so he can get away from the incessant bullying.

Oh, please. Not any of my clients. But they’re not just clients; they’re so much more than that. They’re kids I’ve grown to care for, and the ever-present worry of something happening to them is the toughest part of the job.

A loud knock jerks my head towards the door, where two somber-faced men in uniform are standing. One has his hand resting on his gun, and my heart skitters again.

“Sarah Pearce?” the taller one asks.

“Yes,” I reply through a narrowing throat. “I’m Sarah.”

The shorter of the two steps into my office. He crosses halfway to my desk before saying, “Miss Pearce. We need you to come with us.”

“What?” I feel like a parrot at this point. “Why? Is it one of my clients? Did something happen? Are they in the hospital?”

“This has nothing to do with them.” Tall cop narrows his eyes as he looks at me. “We need to speak with you.”

“About what? I don’t understand.”

The two men exchange a quick glance, and then the shorter one says, “There’s been a crime, Miss Pearce. We’d prefer you come to the station willingly, but if you choose not to, we’ll have to put you under arrest.”

Behind the police officers, a small crowd is gathered in the hallway—the social worker who has the office next to me, two admin workers, and a custodian—all watching like it’s a show on TV and not my life.

“I don’t understand.” Now my voice is wobbling, and tears burn behind my eyes. “Under arrest for what? Does this have to do with the collection agency? I don’t owe anything. I?—”

“This has nothing to do with collection agencies,” the taller man replies, then huffs like I’m purposefully being obtuse. “You’re a person of interest in a grand theft case. You’re not under arrest yet, but once we get to the station, you’re welcome to contact your attorney.”

If I weren’t sitting, I’d collapse to the floor. “Theft?” My voice pitches up. “You think I stole something? What? I didn’t. I don’t understand.”

The taller cop comes right up to my desk and puts his hands on the wooden surface, so he’s looming over me. “ Someone took a car out for a test drive, using your identification, your license, and stole it. A fifty-thousand dollar car. That’s a serious charge. So. Are you coming willingly, or do we need to arrest you?”

The walls feel like they’re closing in on me.

What am I supposed to do?

Sniffing back tears, I finally whisper, “I’ll come with you.”