I’m Watching You (Richmond Novels #1)

Chapter Seven

Monday, July 7, 12:02 P.M.

Zack took off his suit jacket as he and Warwick moved toward Zack’s Impala. Several reporters and cameramen rushed toward them but neither paused before getting into the car. Zack fired up the engine and wove through the neighborhood and out onto the main road that fed into the interstate. He gunned the engine and pulled onto the ramp into traffic.

Scattered rain droplets peppered the windshield. He flipped on the windshield wipers. The rain came down harder.

A hand on the steering wheel, Zack glanced toward Warwick, who was staring out his window. Zack had tried small talk with Warwick when they’d first been partnered up, but the guy simply wasn’t interested, so he’d given up.

Craving a cigarette, Zack reached in his pocket and found gum instead. He pulled out the pack, unwrapped a stick, and popped it in his mouth. He offered one to Warwick, who declined.

Ten minutes later, Zack had gotten ahead of the rain, which was moving in from the west. He maneuvered the Impala off the interstate and down River Road. This was the high end of town where pedigree was just as important as a fat wallet. Turner hadn’t been born into the right family, but he’d married into one of the oldest in the state.

Zack pulled onto a tree-lined side street and into Harold Turner’s circular driveway. The enormous brick Colonial was bordered by manicured beds filled with boxwoods, daylilies, and a rainbow palette of annuals. The house, like the man who’d remodeled it, screamed money.

Warwick whistled as his gaze traveled over the home’s exterior. ‘Look at this place. It’s worth more than I’ll make in five lifetimes. This is a far cry from Harold’s subsidized housing days at Randolph Court.’

Zack didn’t feel envy, just a curiosity for the well-bred woman who had married a man like Turner.

The fixer-upper he’d just bought could fit in one of Turner’s garages. However, this house was cold. His house, which Lindsay had spotted shortly after they’d married, had character and was full of possibilities. Yeah, it had dents and dings – just like their marriage – but that’s what made it interesting. Or so he kept telling himself.

He stared at the ivy-covered house willing it to reveal its secrets. ‘I called Ricker about an hour ago and had her do a quick rundown on Mrs Turner. She’s a Georgetown grad and in her midthirties. She and Turner married about five years ago. They have no children, but she’s a member of a children’s hospital board and a member of several other children’s charities.’

Warwick flexed his fingers. ‘How did those two hook up?’

‘He was her father’s attorney.’

Warwick raised an eyebrow. ‘Her old man is not so squeaky clean?’

‘He was charged with investment fraud. Turner got him off.’

‘So he kept the old man out of jail and married the daughter.’

‘So it seems.’ It was amazing how much dirt could be hidden behind such regal walls.

Zack opened his door and was struck by the humidity, thick with the promise of rain within minutes. As Warwick got out, Zack pulled on his suit jacket. The worsted wool felt scratchy against his skin. The suit was classified as a ‘nine months suit,’ and he’d bought it figuring he’d get the most wear out of it. He now realized July was one of the three months it was not intended to be worn. He straightened his tie.

Warwick studied a large iron planter filled with ivy. ‘If she’s such a class act why marry a shyster like Turner?’

‘Love’s a fickle thing.’ Crushed gravel crunched under their feet as they walked up the walkway. Eight months in homicide and he’d not gotten used to the grim task of delivering news of a death.

‘Love ain’t got nothing to do with this union. It’s all about the money.’ A shadow darkened Warwick’s face.

‘Are you completely cynical?’

Warwick shrugged. ‘Just calling ’em as I seem ’em. Women gravitate toward the coin. Saw it a million times when I worked undercover. Go into a club dressed as a bum, and none of the chicks talk to you. Return to the same club dressed as a player, and it’s like bees and honey.’

Money didn’t motivate Lindsay. She had walked away from their marriage without a dime. In fact, she had given the money from their joint savings account to his mother and asked her to put it toward Zack’s recovery. He’d used that money a month ago to put the down payment on that fixer-upper that Lindsay had loved.

‘When we get to the door,’ Warwick said, ‘let me do most of the talking.’

‘No problem.’

‘Don’t say we’re from homicide. I don’t want her shutting down. Once anyone hears homicide, they start gauging their words carefully.’

‘I know the drill.’ Irritated, Zack rang the front bell.

Within seconds footsteps sounded on the other side. The door opened to a young Hispanic woman dressed in a maid’s uniform. ‘Yes?’

Warwick held up his police badge. ‘We’re here to see Mrs Jordan Turner.’

The young woman frowned. ‘Just a moment, please.’ The front door closed with a soft click.

‘Do you think she’ll show?’ Zack said.

‘I don’t know.’

The door opened a second time. This time a tall slim woman appeared at the threshold. She was dressed in a simple black sheath that accentuated full breasts and a narrow waist. A gold cross dangled from a chain around her neck. Long black hair grazed the top of slender shoulders and framed a lovely oval face that could have been classified as angelic if not for the sharpness behind her violet eyes.

Behind her, polished wood floors gleamed. Walls papered in cream and black stripes served as a backdrop to eighteenth-century portraits. A crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, twisting sunlight into rainbows.

‘Mrs Jordan Turner?’ Warwick said.

‘Yes?’ A crease formed between neatly plucked eyebrows as her gaze shifted between the two of them. ‘I understand you’re with the police department.’

Both men reached in their pockets and pulled out badges.

‘We’re with Henrico County Police,’ Warwick said.

‘What can I do for you?’ Her tone turned cautious.

‘Is there anyone else in the house with you?’ They didn’t want her alone in case she took the news of her husband’s death badly.

She glanced behind her. Feminine laughter sounded from inside the house. ‘I’ve a few ladies from the church here. What’s this about?’

‘Have you seen your husband this morning?’ Warwick said.

Answering a question with a question often led to more information.

‘Harold and I had dinner together last night. After that we went our separate ways. I had a late church meeting and didn’t get home until after eleven. I’m not sure what plans Harold had scheduled on his calendar.’

‘What time did your husband come in last night?’ Warwick said.

She frowned. ‘What’s this about?’

Warwick ignored her question. ‘I would appreciate it if you would just confirm his arrival for me.’

Jordan drew in a breath. ‘We have separate bedrooms.’ Color rose in her cheeks as if she was embarrassed by the admission. Appearances were clearly a priority for her. ‘Harold has terrible back problems and he needs a special mattress.’

Zack tucked the badge back in his pocket. ‘What time did you have dinner with him last night?’

Her lips flattened. ‘Six. We left La Mer at seven. Is Harold in some kind of trouble?’

‘May we come inside?’ Warwick said.

Jordan stepped out onto the front porch, softly closing the door behind her. ‘As I said, I’ve a group of women visiting from the church. Now is not a good time to hear about Harold’s latest indiscretion.’

‘It’s more than an indiscretion, ma’am,’ Zack said.

She fidgeted with her five-carat wedding ring with her thumb. ‘What has my husband done this time?’

‘This time?’ Zack said.

‘A month ago he was arrested for drunk driving in the city.’

Warwick’s gaze didn’t waver from Jordan’s face. ‘Mr Turner was found dead this morning behind Sanctuary Women’s Shelter.’

For a moment, she just stared at them, her eyes blinking slowly as if her brain couldn’t process. She raised her hand to her mouth. Finally, she found her voice, which possessed surprising steel. ‘Are you sure it was Harold?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Warwick said. ‘We found his wallet in his breast pocket.’

Sudden tears glistened in her eyes. But Zack couldn’t tell if they were born in sadness or relief. ‘What happened to him? How did he die?’

‘He was shot.’ He wasn’t telling her anything that wouldn’t appear on the six o’clock news. Details about the mutilation and the caliber of the gun would remain confidential until the case was solved.

She flexed her French-manicured fingers. ‘Where exactly did you say you found Harold?’

‘Behind Sanctuary Women’s Shelter,’ Zack said. Shock was natural, but this calm reaction wasn’t. Normally, when a loved one was reported dead, strong emotion followed.

But Jordan Turner didn’t show much sign that she was upset. In fact, she looked confused. ‘This doesn’t make any sense. Harold wouldn’t ever go to a women’s shelter.’

‘There’s no reason Mr Turner would be at Sanctuary Women’s Shelter?’ Warwick said.

Amusement softened her features, as if he’d just said something funny. ‘No, Harold would never go to a place like that.’

‘Why not?’ Warwick said.

‘He doesn’t support any charity unless it advances his standing with the media. And even if Sanctuary was a media darling, he wouldn’t support it. He doesn’t like quitters.’

‘Quitters?’ Zack said.

‘Women who give up on their marriages.’

Zack’s temper rose. ‘They’re abused women, Mrs Turner.’

The censure in his voice had her shoulders stiffening. ‘Until death do us part, detective. Those are the vows we all take when we marry in the church. We may not like the way our marriages turn out but that doesn’t mean we abandon our promise before God.’

‘You don’t believe in divorce,’ Warwick said.

She released the cross she had been holding. He could almost hear her defenses slamming into place. ‘I don’t. I also don’t believe in murder.’

‘No one says that you do,’ Zack said.

She raised a brow. ‘Please, I’ve been married to a defense attorney for five years. I know how it works. The spouse is always at the top of the suspect list when there is a murder.’

‘No one’s a suspect yet,’ Warwick said. ‘These questions are standard procedure. Right now we’re just trying to establish a time line.’

A fat rain droplet leaked through the porch roof and landed on Zack’s shoulder. He didn’t need to glance up to know the sky was about to open up.

Jordan turned, dismissing them as she reached for the front door handle. ‘I will contact my attorney and he’ll be in touch with you. If you have more questions, you can ask them of me in front of him.’

‘There a reason you need an attorney?’ Zack said. More droplets hit him on his broad shoulders.

She met his gaze head-on. ‘Harold said you always, always need an attorney when cops are around. Now I must go.’

Warwick stopped her retreat by asking, ‘Know of anybody who would want to kill your husband?’

The question made her smile again. ‘I’ll draw up a list. My attorney will submit it.’ She opened the door, then closed it in their faces as she went inside.

Warwick planted long hands on his hips. ‘Smooth, controlled, and not exactly torn up,’ he said, summing her up.

Zack turned up his collar as raindrops peppered the ground. ‘I’ll subpoena phone records and get a full background check on her.’

Rain greeted Lindsay’s Jeep as she pulled out of the Mercy Hospital parking garage. She flipped on her headlights and windshield wipers to cut through the river of water falling from the sky. Slowly she merged into traffic and followed the procession of red taillights onto I-64 West. The downpour made drivers hesitant and slow. The trip back to shelter was going to take longer than she’d planned.

Seeing Gail made her think of Jordan. Unable to resist, she picked up her cell and dialed Jordan again. She doubted Jordan would pick up, but she felt as if she had to try although she wasn’t sure what she’d say to Jordan when she got her on the phone.

After the third ring, the call connected.

‘Jordan?’

‘Yes. Why are you calling me, Lindsay?’

‘Because we need to talk.’

‘I’ve said all I’m willing to say to you.’

‘Don’t hang up. Please, we need to talk about Harold.’

‘There’s nothing to say. The police were just here. They told me about him.’

Harold Turner may have abused his wife but that didn’t mean Jordan didn’t love him or wasn’t feeling a great sense of loss. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. Now, leave me alone. I can’t talk to you anymore.’ Jordan’s voice sounded brittle, more tense than usual.

‘We need to talk about Harold.’

‘I have nothing to say about him.’

The questions had to be asked. ‘Jordan, you said a couple of weeks ago that you could handle him. Did you kill him?’

There was a long pause. ‘Why would you ask me a question like that? Harold was found behind your shelter.’

‘Because I think whoever put him there was sending me a message. I think you might have been telling me that you’d handle him by killing him.’

‘He was worth more to me alive than dead. And I was handling him.’ A heavy silence followed before she added, ‘Did you kill him?’

Lindsay felt dizzy. ‘No.’

‘It makes sense that you would. I saw the way you looked at him at that charity party. You hated him.’

‘Jordan, I didn’t kill Harold.’

‘Who else would? Harold was right about you. He said you hate men.’

‘I don’t hate men, Jordan. I hate it when men hit the women they say they love.’

‘Harold did love me.’

‘Jordan, you told me he held a gun to your head and played Russian roulette.’

‘I also told you the gun was empty. If he’d wanted to kill me he would have, but he didn’t. He said he was just kidding.’

Lindsay nearly cried out her frustration. ‘Jordan, you have to understand that a man shouldn’t treat a woman that way.’

‘Don’t tell me any more of your lies. I don’t want to hear them. Harold and I would have been fine if you’d just stayed out of our lives.’

‘Jordan, you’re the one who came to me.’

‘You killed my husband.’

‘I did not!’

‘I’ll never forgive you for what you did to me.’ The line went dead.

Lindsay shoved out a breath and closed the phone. Frustration ate at her. Jordan had decided Lindsay was the cause of her problems.

Lindsay tapped her pinky ring – her mother’s high school ring – against the steering wheel. She clicked on the radio, hit ‘scan,’ and hoped for some kind of news about Harold. Nothing. Each station played a collection of songs and advertisements, but no news.

Aware that her breathing had grown shallow, she drew in deep breaths. Slowly the muscles in her chest eased.

What had Harold been doing behind the shelter? Sanctuary was the kind of place he despised and he had no reason to be there – unless Jordan really had lured him to the shelter and killed him as some kind of message to Lindsay.

‘Jordan, please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid,’ Lindsay whispered to herself.

The deluge of rain slowed. Streets glistened with rain. Steam rose from the hot pavement. Puddles collected on the shoulders of the road.

Lindsay flipped open her cell phone and redialed Jordan Turner’s number. The phone rang once and then went straight to voice mail.

‘This is Jordan. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.’

‘Jordan, it’s Lindsay O’Neil. I need to talk to you again. You’ve got my number.’

Lindsay clipped the phone back into its holster on her waistband. Ten minutes later she parked in front of Sanctuary. The downpour had just stopped but it had chased away the forensics team and the curiosity seekers. A squad car with a lone officer in the front seat remained parked in the driveway and two television news trucks lurked across the street. The reporters huddled inside the front cabs.

A streak of lightning shot across the sky. Lindsay flinched. She counted to five. Thunder boomed. Another storm was close.

Grabbing her purse, she hurried across the muddy front lawn and climbed Sanctuary’s front steps. She darted in the front door.

The morning calm had been replaced by a buzz of video games and children’s chatter. Jamal and Damien Greenland had arrived home from summer school. Damn. They shouldn’t be here. Ruby should have picked them up at school.

‘Ruby!’ Lindsay shouted. She pushed open the pocket door that portioned off Ruby’s small office.

Ruby sat behind her desk, a phone cradled under her chin. When her gaze met Lindsay’s she hung up. ‘How was the hospital?’

Lindsay brushed the rain from her face. ‘Time will tell. Planted a few seeds. Why are the Greenland boys still here?’

‘The school wouldn’t release them to me and I couldn’t get hold of their mother. I had no choice but to let them ride the bus home. The bus just dropped them off. I decided to plant them in front of a video game until you got back.’

Lindsay sighed. ‘Now that the rain has let up, the cops are going to return soon to salvage what they can from that backyard. I’ll run the boys over to Riverside now. I don’t want the kids around when they return.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, I’ll be back in an hour.’

Lindsay headed into the front family room, where the boys were playing the video game on the television. Ruby had closed the shades to block all views of the police car and news vans parked out front. ‘Hey, guys, how’s the game going?’

Damien glanced up from the screen. ‘This game is kinda lame, Lindsay. No guns, no bombs, no fun.’

The video game system had been anonymously donated to the shelter two months ago. She was grateful for the donation but had immediately sifted through the stack of games that came with it and tossed the violent ones. The kids who lived there saw enough violence in real life. ‘That hasn’t stopped you fellows from playing it nonstop.’

Damien had a concerned look on his face. Usually during the day she was too busy to chat. ‘Is Mom okay? I saw the cop outside.’

She could have sugarcoated the whole issue, but she’d hated it when adults had condescended to her after her mother’s death. It’s going to be fine, dear. Don’t you worry. ‘Your mom is fine but we’re going to have to move you, your brother, and your mom to another shelter today.’

‘Because of him.’ Damien’s voice wavered even as he jutted out his chin. His brother set down his video controller and looked at her.

Him was their father – Marcus Greenland. He’d been a star linebacker in college. During his junior year, he’d gotten involved in drugs and trouble with the local police. He’d been suspended from the team. Then he’d hooked up with another college but hadn’t lasted the season. From then on, he had been on a downward spiral. Frustrated by his own failures, Marcus took out his anger on his wife and children.

Lindsay laid her hand on Damien’s shoulder. ‘No, your father has nothing to do with this.’

Suspicion narrowed Damien’s eyes. ‘Are you being straight with me?’

‘I promise, Damien. I can’t give you details but I swear that this has nothing to do with you, your mom, or your dad.’

Finally, the anxiety eased from the boy’s shoulders. ‘Thanks, Lindsay.’

‘No problem, kiddo.’

‘Can I save the game to the memory card?’ Damien said.

‘I thought it was lame,’ she teased.

‘Not too lame,’ he added.

Unless this murder was resolved quickly, the shelter would close, and she had no idea if and when it would open again. ‘You can take it and the game with you.’

He grinned. ‘For real?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Thanks!’ Jamal exclaimed.

As the boys finished up their game, she grabbed a plastic grocery bag from under the kitchen sink. Jamal pocketed the disc and memory card as Damien unplugged the game and tucked it in the bag. The three headed outside.

‘We can really keep this?’ Jamal said.

‘Until you and your brother get settled in a real home with your mom. When you guys are feeling comfortable in your new place, I’d like it back for the next kid.’

Jamal frowned. ‘Damien and I aren’t the last kids?’

Sadly, there would always be a next kid in her line of business. It was the main reason why she was there. But Jamal didn’t need statistics or grim predictions of the future. He needed hope that his life would one day be happy and normal. ‘I sure hope you are.’

Lindsay ushered the boys outside to her car. They buckled in and soon were headed across town. Fifteen minutes later, they rolled into the Riverside parking lot. The shelter was also in a residential neighborhood and looked much like the other trilevel houses around it. Toys now damp from the rain littered the front yard. The front door was open. Inside, lights glowed.

Aisha Greenland came outside, her shoulder-length braids brushing her wide shoulders. She grinned when she saw Lindsay and the boys. The boys scrambled out of the backseat and ran up to their mother. She hugged them close.

Lindsay followed with the video game system in hand. ‘How’d the interview go?’

Aisha grinned. Hazel eyes flashed with genuine happiness. ‘I got the job.’

Lindsay knew Aisha had been terrified of the interview. It had been eight years since she’d worked out of the home. ‘That’s great.’

Jamal cupped his mother’s face in his hands. ‘You got a job?’

Aisha kissed her son. ‘I sure did, baby. I sure did. I’m gonna be working as a cashier at the supermarket.’ She lifted her gaze to Lindsay. ‘Thank you.’

‘Happy to help.’ Moments like this made all the bad stuff fade.

‘I have just a little something for you,’ Aisha said.

‘You don’t need to give me anything.’

Aisha shook her head and from her pocket pulled out a small wrapped box. ‘I heard Ruby saying it was your birthday on Wednesday.’

Emotion tightened Lindsay’s chest as she slowly opened the box. Inside was a plastic butterfly. Clearly it wasn’t expensive, but that didn’t matter. ‘You know butterflies mean rebirth.’

Aisha shook her head. ‘I just liked the pretty colors.’

Lindsay hugged her. ‘So do I. Thank you.’ Unshed tears burned the back of her throat. ‘Good luck. You guys take care. I’ve got to get back to Sanctuary.’

Inside her car, Lindsay turned on the radio, found a good song, and cranked it. She felt good and wanted to savor this small victory. To celebrate, she went to a drive-thru to treat herself to a milk shake, burger, and fries. The delicious smells made her stomach rumble for she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.

Twenty minutes later, when she parked in front of Sanctuary, she’d eaten the fries and drank half the milk shake. A little food on her stomach had settled her nerves and she felt steadier.

The cop car was still parked out front, as well as the forensics van. Only one news van remained. And that was a good thing as far as she was concerned. She prayed the press would lose interest and this whole thing would just go away.

She was halfway up the shelter’s front steps when she heard a woman shout, ‘Lindsay O’Neil!’

Turning, she saw a tall woman with dark hair pulled back into a low, tight ponytail. She was wearing a sleek sapphire silk blouse that accentuated flawless porcelain skin expertly made up and black pants that showed off long legs and a narrow waist. Kendall Shaw, former cover model and now a reporter for Channel 10, was perfectly dressed as always.

One look reminded Lindsay that she’d barely had time to run a brush through her hair this morning. ‘Hey, Kendall.’

Kendall grinned and held out her hand. ‘It’s good to see you again. I guess it’s been a couple of months.’

Lindsay shifted her fast-food bag and drink to one hand so she could shake Kendall’s with the other. ‘Since you interviewed me a couple of months ago for that freelance article for Inside Richmond.’

Kendall’s grin broadened. Her grip was strong and firm. ‘That article was well received. The paper said that their sell-through for that month was eighty percent. You were a hit.’

‘It wasn’t me. The other gals you profiled were pretty amazing.’

Kendall let her gaze travel over the white vinyl siding and the trimmed boxwoods. ‘So this is Sanctuary. I always wondered what Sanctuary actually looked like. Those couple of times we met at the coffee shop, you never said where it actually was.’

‘That’s the idea. We need to keep our location secret. We still do.’

She nodded. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I won’t talk location. None of the news stations are.’ She slid manicured hands into her pocket and pulled out a slim notebook. ‘But I was hoping you could tell me more about what went on here this morning. The cops’ public relations guy said Harold Turner was killed here but won’t say much else. Any thoughts why?’

That was the million-dollar question. ‘I don’t know anything else. I’m just as much in the dark as you are.’

Kendall didn’t look convinced. ‘Oh, come on, you must have an idea.’ She’d dropped her voice as if they were somehow co-conspirators. ‘Detective Kier was in your office for over a half hour. And he was very tight-lipped when I tried to talk to him. He must have told you something.’

Zack hated the press. He never spoke to them unless he absolutely had to. ‘I really don’t know anything, Kendall.’

‘I thought he was your husband?’

Lindsay didn’t ask Kendall how she’d found out about her marriage. No doubt she’d done extra digging while working on the article. ‘I can’t add anything.’ She inched past Kendall up the stairs toward the door.

Kendall followed. ‘Harold’s death didn’t have anything to do with the Pam Rogers case?’

Tension snaked up Lindsay’s back as she reached for the doorknob. She’d never considered the two could be linked. But Kendall thought more like a cop.

‘Kendall, I’d help you out if I could.’ Another lie. ‘But I don’t know anything.’

Kendall’s smile was smooth as she laid her hand on the front rail. ‘Oh, come on, you must know something that you can share with me. I mean, I figure you owe me.’

Lindsay dropped her hand from the doorknob and faced the reporter. Whatever goodwill she’d felt toward Kendall had vanished. ‘You want to run that one by me again?’

Kendall didn’t look intimidated. ‘You were quite the “it”

girl there for a few weeks after the article came out. I’d heard that donations to the shelter had soared.’

Donations had risen for a while but that didn’t mean Lindsay liked being pushed. ‘Right now I can’t say a word.’

Kendall’s eyes hardened but she maintained her trademark smile. ‘But when you can you’ll give me a call.’

‘Don’t count on it.’ Lindsay escaped inside the shelter but the well-being she’d felt on the drive back had evaporated. Kendall Shaw’s questions had set her teeth on edge and reminded her that no matter how hard she worked on the pending grant applications, the specter of another shelter-related murder could shut her down permanently.

Lindsay headed to her office. Carefully, she laid the butterfly in the center of her desk as she studied a long white flower box sitting on her chair. It was wrapped with a thick red ribbon. There was a card on the box. It read, ‘For Lindsay.’

No one ever sent her flowers.

‘Hey, Ruby,’ she shouted, ‘what’s with the flowers?’

‘They just came.’ Ruby rounded the corner, a big grin on her face. ‘They’re for you.’

‘Do you know who sent them?’ Had Zack remembered her birthday? Could he have sent the flowers?

Ruby grinned. ‘Open the card and find out.’

Tenderly, she touched the ribbon that seemed to have been wrapped with care. ‘There must be some kind of mistake. I’ve never gotten flowers.’ The truth was she didn’t like flowers, because her father always gave her mother flowers after he hit her.

Ruby shrugged. ‘No mistake. And if you’ve never gotten flowers, it’s high time you did.’

Her curiosity rising, Lindsay opened the card. ‘Lindsay, you are not alone anymore. The Guardian.’

Ruby came around behind Lindsay and glanced over her shoulder and read the note. ‘ “Lindsay, you are not alone anymore.”

What does that mean? And who is the Guardian?’

Lindsay also was puzzled. ‘I’ve no idea.’

Ruby cocked an eyebrow. ‘I hate it when men play games. There a name?’

‘No.’

‘There’s no man in your life?’

‘No.’

‘What about your husband?’

‘He knows I don’t like flowers. Besides, romantic gestures aren’t his thing.’

Curious, Lindsay untied the crisp bow. She laid it carefully aside before opening the lid to reveal purple irises. They’d been one of her mother’s favorite flowers and, consequently, she loved them as well. ‘They’re beautiful.’

Ruby leaned over her shoulder, admiring the bouquet. ‘Maybe it’s from that doctor.’

‘I bet you’re right. I saw Sam this morning. He knows I was having a rough day and he’s one of the few who knows where the shelter is located.’

Sadness coiled inside her chest. It was foolish to want or expect anything from Zack. But for a brief moment she had. ‘I think we have a vase or a large jar in the kitchen.’

‘I think it’s under the sink. I’ll be right back with it.’ Ruby disappeared down the hallway.

Lindsay lifted the flowers out of the box. As she raised the blooms to her nose she saw a bundle wrapped in green tissue paper. She laid the flowers aside on her desk and opened the second package.

Bile rose in her throat. For a moment she thought she’d throw up as she dropped it and backed away from her desk.

Cradled in the tissue and wrapped in a zip-top bag was a severed hand.

No one noticed delivery people. Some might glance at the name Joe embroidered over a breast pocket, but few would gaze under the bill of a hat or look beyond a nondescript magnetic florist sign stuck on a van.

That was the problem with people, the Guardian thought. They were selfish and far too wrapped up in their own lives to notice what didn’t directly concern them.

That’s why it was easy to feel safe moving past the unmarked police car and the cop now distracted by a well-timed cell phone call from his kid’s day care.

And the Guardian smiled at the ambitious reporter as she tamed a strand of hair and practiced smiling as her cameraman began taping her intro for the six o’clock news report.

Like everyone else, the cop and reporter were blind. Blind to the delivery. Blind to the pain and suffering around them. Blind to everything but their needs.

The only one who could truly see was Lindsay.

She reached out to others in need. She put the lives of others in front of her own.

The Guardian closed the door to the van and started the engine and pulled out. She would get the flowers soon. Soon she would know she wasn’t alone. ‘Happy birthday, Lindsay.’

Tightening fingers on the steering wheel, the Guardian slowed at an intersection when the light turned yellow. The car in the left lane darted through a red light and he frowned.

‘No respect.’

Today had been a good day.

The rains had purified the killing ground and signaled the beginning of a long overdue holy cause.

Together, Lindsay and her Guardian would destroy The Evil Ones.