Stolen Secrets Page 3

  Lucy handed her phone over the seat.

  “It’s from a burner account, I’m guessing.” Karp stared at the screen. “But we’ll check it out anyway. Local police are pulling all the surveillance footage from nearby businesses. If that doesn’t pan out, we’ll widen the net and canvass for doorbell cameras.”

  “Even if you find something, it’s going to be useless,” Jordan said. “This guy was icy. Seven shots, fifteen seconds apart. All aimed above sight line.”

  “A warning?”

  “An order,” Jordan replied grimly, recalling the information he’d gathered. “We need to learn everything we can about the person who tried to access the information from Lucy’s employer, Consolidated Unlimited. I’ll contact her supervisor and see what they were after. I’ll also pull the security footage. Sounds like someone tried to impersonate her.”

  Lucy stifled a yawn.

  She caught his gaze and her cheeks flushed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m exhausted all of a sudden.”

  “It’s the shock,” Jordan said. “If you can, close your eyes. It helps.”

  “That seems impolite, somehow.” Her eyelids drooped and she rubbed her cheeks. “It’s like the adrenaline wore off and took all my energy with it.”

  “It’s a common feeling.” Jordan gave a rueful laugh. “You were shot at this morning—you don’t have to worry about being rude.”

  There was no way to predict how the brain might react to stress. People generally responded to shock in one of two ways—either they became jumpy and hyper, or exhausted and drained.

  Lucy covered her mouth, her nostrils flaring as she stifled another yawn. “I used to get carsick as a kid. The medicine my parents gave me knocked me out. It’s like I’m conditioned to fall asleep when I’m in the back seat.”

  The ice pack forgotten, she turned slightly, curled her uninjured leg beneath her and rested her cheek against the back of the seat. Jordan shifted. He was too cramped to get comfortable. Westover had jammed the driver’s seat as far back as the vehicle allowed, crowding Jordan’s knees.

  Road construction had narrowed the highway to one lane, and a mile of headlights extended into the distance. Jordan angled his body to buy himself some leg room and stretched his arm across the seat.

  Slowed to a crawl, Westover made annoyed noises and slapped his palm against the steering wheel. Karp kept his attention focused on a sheaf of papers in his lap. The minutes stretched out in silence and the hum of the engine was strangely soothing after what they’d been through that morning.

  Soon Lucy’s breathing grew deep and even. Jordan wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but the next thing he knew, she was nestled into the crook of his arm. Conscious of his audience, he stiffened, but there was nowhere to go. Instead, he forced himself not to notice the soft brush of her hair against his skin or the way her head nestled perfectly in the nape of his neck. He ignored the jolt of awareness when she splayed her hand against his chest.

  Karp swiveled in his seat. “Let her sleep. She’s still got a long day ahead of her.”

  Westover’s curious gaze appeared in the rearview mirror. “Anyone else think it’s odd that her fiancé was killed and now someone is taking potshots at her?”

  “Yeah.” Jordan’s gut twisted. “It’s worth a second look.”

  The day of the bombing had started like any other. They were about to wrap up their surveillance, and Jordan was restless. Sometimes that happened at the end of a job. Sitting in the same room day after day, week after week, didn’t bother him until he knew it was almost over. That was when the walls started closing in around him.

  Brandt had understood. He’d urged Jordan to visit the local market. It was their third assignment together, and he knew that Jordan always picked up something for his dad before going home.

  Grab a silk scarf for me, will you? Jordan recalled the last words Brandt had said to him. Something with embroidery. Lucy’s favorite color is blue. Wanting to select the perfect shade, Jordan had lingered over the task.

  “Everything about this is odd,” he muttered into the heavy silence. “Why target Lucy in the first place?”

  Seven years on the job and not one of his installations had ever been discovered. Not until that day. And Brandt had paid with his life. What had they done wrong?

  “Was there anything odd before the bombing?” Karp asked. “Anything that might be connected?”

  A faded scene tugged at the edges of Jordan’s memory. The night before, he’d seen Brandt speaking with a woman in the hotel lobby. When he’d interrupted them, Brandt had said she was visiting from out of town and needed some advice on where to eat. Except something hadn’t rung true about the story.

  Jordan shook his head to clear the memory. Was he reading into the chance encounter to assuage his own guilt?

  “Maybe,” he said with a glance at Lucy. “I’m not sure if it means anything. We can talk more later.”

  Karp adjusted his seat belt. “Here’s our working theory based on what little we know so far. Someone impersonating Lucy made a deal and didn’t deliver. Only the person on the other end of the deal—we’ll call him the buyer—doesn’t know he’s been double-crossed. Which means he’s pressuring the real Lucy to come through. Chances are, the fake Lucy has gone underground. Which means we have the perfect opportunity to set a trap.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Jordan said, unease skittering down his spine. Setting a trap meant leaving bait. “Not an option.”

  The duplicate engagement ring weighed heavily in his pocket. A second Lucy. A second ring. What other secrets were in store for them?

  “It’s the only way,” Karp said quietly. “Either you’re with us, or I’ll find someone else to take your place.”

  Lucy’s platinum hair shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, and her subtle jasmine scent surrounded Jordan.

  His head throbbed. “You know my answer.”

  He didn’t like it—but there was no way he’d abandon her.

  Because the only bait they had was Lucy.

  THREE

  Lucy stared at her kitchen counter. Something wasn’t right.

  She’d purchased the hundred-year-old house in a diverse area of town the year after she’d paid off her student loans. The compact two-story featured a living room, kitchen and sunporch on the first floor, along with two dormered bedrooms on the second floor. Real estate was an investment, or so she’d told herself. In truth, apartment living was claustrophobic, and she enjoyed gardening.

  Jordan appeared in the doorway. “We don’t have much time. Take only the essentials.”

  She hadn’t been able to look him fully in the eye since waking in the car. What sort of person fell asleep in front of strangers? He’d handled the whole awkward encounter with brisk efficiency, but she hadn’t felt such an acute sense of embarrassment since junior high.

  The other agent, Westover, had tossed her a speculative glance—which she’d ignored. He was probably wondering what Brandt had seen in someone like her.

  She pictured the spouses at the NSA Christmas party as perfect carbon copies of each other—thin, expertly coiffed women with honey-blond hair, designer cocktail dresses and seats on the hospital fund-raising board. The kind of women Lucy’s mom wanted her to emulate. When she’d said as much to Brandt, he’d laughed and said they didn’t have an office Christmas party.

  Pulling her attention back to the present, she concentrated on the black-and-white-checked tile of her kitchen floor. “I’ll be quick.”

  Only a few hours had passed, but it might as well be an eternity. Everything was the same, yet everything felt different. Probably she was letting her imagination run away with her. Who could blame her after this morning?

  The agents had taken great pains to ensure everything appeared normal. They’d retrieved her car from near the coffee shop, and
Jordan had driven her here. Karp and Westover were parked around the corner in case someone was watching the house. Given the photo she’d received, they were right to be cautious.

  Though she tried to convince herself otherwise, the sense of unease lingered.

  “Something isn’t right,” she said, her gaze fixed on the far end of the room. “But I can’t put my finger on what’s out of place.”

  Jordan’s posture changed ever so slightly. There was a sharpness to his gaze and his shoulders stiffened.

  “It’s probably nothing,” he said casually, too casually for his shift in stance. “It’s the stress. Messes with your head. You’ve been through a lot this morning.”

  Feeling as though she’d gotten the wrong notes for an important meeting, Lucy frowned. “Yeah. Stress.”

  Jordan stepped closer. “No place is safe these days.”

  She murmured something innocuous that was meant to signal her agreement.

  If he was trying to warn her, there was no need. After this morning, she was well aware of the danger.

  Hypervigilant now, she searched for the source of her unease.

  With Jordan close behind her, she cautiously opened a kitchen drawer. “This isn’t how I left things.”

  Reaching around her, he carefully pushed the drawer shut.

  “I was just trying to help,” he said, the heat of his body close against her back. “Your system of organization is too complicated.”

  Instantly flustered, she struggled to make sense of his words. Jordan had never even been to her house, and he’d certainly never put away her dishes.

  He held his index finger before his lips, then tapped his ear. Her breath caught. He thought someone was listening to them. Why hadn’t the possibility occurred to her sooner? Because I was a normal person before this morning, that’s why, she mentally reassured herself.

  Jordan hoisted an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to tell me why your system of organization makes perfect sense?”

  He appeared to be running the conversation on autopilot, his attention clearly distracted.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Her heart pounded against her ribs. “You’re supposed to organize by categories.”

  Backing away, he tilted his head. Though the ceilings were tall, he easily reached the smoke detector.

  Using his fingertips, he gently unscrewed the cover. “How do you organize by categories?”

  “It’s really s-simple,” she squeaked. Not only was Jordan searching for listening devices—he was finding them. “You start by putting everything from your kitchen into one big pile. Then you hold each item and decide if it makes you happy.”

  He tugged on a few wires and stepped back. “How do you know if something makes you happy?”

  A tiny, round disk dangled from the plastic case. Her mouth went dry and she swayed, clutching the counter for balance. She was being monitored.

  The past few weeks came into sharp focus, and nausea rose in the back of her throat. All the days and evenings she’d thought she was alone, someone had been with her. Someone had been shadowing her every move in the house.

  What had she said? What had they heard?

  Though she wanted to shout into the tiny microphone, she held herself in check. “You just know if something makes you happy, I guess.”

  As she recalled snippets of her inane chatter and off-key singing, hysterical laughter bubbled in the back of her throat. She sincerely hoped they’d been tortured by her screeching renditions of show tunes.

  Jordan snatched a piece of paper from the kitchen island, and she scrambled to locate a pen.

  “That sounds like quite a project,” he said, then scribbled, Just go along with whatever I say.

  The laughter died in the back of her throat. This was serious. Someone had followed her this morning. Shot at her. They knew where she lived. What else did they know about her?

  Gazing in revulsion at the listening device, Lucy nodded her understanding of his instructions.

  Jordan crossed into the living room and studied her bookshelf, then did a half circle. The walls were teal blue and plastered with colorful paintings she’d purchased at local art fairs over the years. Oriental rugs in deep shades of garnet and orange covered scratches in the ancient wood flooring. An original ornate chandelier dangled its crystal beads, and the sofa was covered in bright floral throws.

  Her mom loathed this room. She claimed the mix of patterns exacerbated her migraines, and she was forever nudging the furniture into right angles.

  Lucy squared her shoulders and studied Jordan’s expression for any signs of judgment, then caught herself. She didn’t care what he thought of her decorating. He didn’t live here—she did.

  Running his fingers along the top of her bookcase, he asked, “What happens if something doesn’t make you happy?”

  Her mind went blank. What on earth was he talking about? Organizing. They were talking about organizing. She’d make a terrible spy. Even as her perceptions of her safe, monotonous world were fragmenting around her, her thoughts drifted to the mundane.

  Jordan dusted his hand against his pant leg, and Lucy cringed. “If something doesn’t make you happy, then you get rid of it.”

  He moved several knickknacks, frowning at each one in turn. Why hadn’t she curated her collection of bedazzled elephant figurines when she was organizing the kitchen? No, she was proud of her flamboyant style. It wasn’t for everyone, sure, and maybe she wasn’t the tidiest person in the world, but she wasn’t a hoarder or anything awful like that.

  Jordan removed and replaced each book. “What about me? Do I make you happy? Because you’re going to be seeing a lot of me. Especially after what happened today.”

  He splayed his arms, urging her to agree.

  “Absolutely you make me happy.” This time she didn’t hesitate. “You may stay.”

  If only putting the rest of her life in order was as simple as organizing the linen closet. What else might she excise that didn’t make her happy? She’d start with traffic jams and finish with the person who was impersonating her.

  “Excellent.” Jordan stepped closer and spoke close to her ear. “Almost done. You’re doing great.” He raised his voice. “As usual, there’s nothing to eat here. Why don’t we go out?”

  “Sounds good,” she agreed, her stomach churning.

  Food was the last thing on her mind. Momentarily at a loss, she took a few halting steps. The events of the day were starting to catch up with her, and she was having trouble focusing. A list of tasks bounced through her head. She needed to find someone to water her plants. She needed to check the locks. She needed...to feel safe again.

  As though sensing her distress, Jordan’s expression softened.

  “Sit,” he ordered gently. “Rest your ankle.”

  “It’s better already.” Her nerves were raw, and the pain was the furthest thing from her mind. “Hardly a twinge.”

  “I know you’ve had a long day, but I think it’s better if we go out to eat. You could use a change of scenery.”

  “That would be nice,” she replied with a nod to their invisible audience. She felt as though she was a marionette being coaxed into speaking. “I can walk as long as you go slow.”

  “Don’t forget to grab your things. You shouldn’t be here alone tonight.”

  Lucy widened her eyes. “Do we want people to know I’m leaving?”

  If someone was listening, how much should they give away?

  “You’ll only be gone a few days.” Jordan shrugged. “Just until the excitement dies down.”

  Her pulse hadn’t returned to normal since she’d learned someone was listening to them. Even gathering an overnight bag seemed like an overwhelming task.

  Lucy knotted her index finger in the hair at the nape of her neck. “Sorry about the mess.”

  Se
eing her house through Jordan’s eyes increased the tension. There were always stacks of books on the coffee table, and papers seemed to breed and multiply the moment she turned her back. There were a few dishes in the sink and more set to dry on the counter. Judging by the smudge on Jordan’s pant leg, the whole place needed a good dusting.

  “I like your place.” He tweaked a patchwork throw on the back of a chair. “It’s exotic. Like a Moroccan market.”

  She assumed he was merely being polite. What else was he going to say? It looks like a circus clown threw up in your living room. Then again, if this was how conversations played out when people were listening, she was tempted to tell her mom about the surveillance equipment. Maybe an audience would coax a compliment out of her. Lucy snorted. Not likely.

  Jordan tilted his head. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  His concern sent melting warmth through her chest before she caught herself. Having him here brought back a torrent of emotion.

  Jordan reminded her of a future she’d finally given up on. She missed Brandt. She missed his larger-than-life personality. She missed his understanding. She even missed his terrible taste in movies.

  Lately she’d felt his memory slipping away, and letting go had felt like losing Brandt all over again. That was why it was easier to be numb. Except Jordan invoked a confusing mix of emotions she wasn’t quite ready to face.

  “I’m fine.” Her head throbbed. “Still a little dazed, I guess. I’ll get the rest of my things from upstairs.”

  Jordan reached for the paper and wrote, Let me go first, just in case.

  Unable to speak, she nodded. Even going upstairs felt like an irrationally enormous undertaking.

  The stairs were tight in the turn-of-the-century house, and Jordan had to duck his head.

  Once upstairs, she relaxed a little. Her bedroom walls were a deep shade of salmon. A Turkish rug in a mix of magenta, orange and yellow covered the floor. Keyhole-patterned curtains blocked the late-afternoon sunlight.

  She was running out of adrenaline, energy and outrage. There was no way to go back and pay attention to the niggling unease that had been plaguing her for the past few weeks. Someone had been in her house. Someone had been watching her. All she could do was move forward with a solemn promise to be more vigilant in the future.