CHAPTER ONE

   He was waiting for her outside the clinic.  Shelby had no sooner stepped off the crumbling stoop of the faded, pre-second world war building and into the murky light of the one working street lamp when a man grabbed her from behind.  She dropped her purse and briefcase onto the sidewalk that was littered with rotting garbage.  She managed a startled shriek before he hooked her at the neck, cutting off her voice and his arm clamped around her waist, crushing her against his body.

   Shelby clawed at her attacker’s arm.  The man wore a light overcoat in deference to the nip in the air on the August night and her attempt to dig her nails into him was futile.  She kicked back, striking him in the knee with the heel of her dress pump.  He hissed in pain then his grip tightened, squeezing her wind pipe like a vise.  She’d thought she couldn’t breathe before, but now she couldn’t take in any air at all.

No . . . No!

   In her mind she shouted that to him, but in reality she wasn’t capable of making any sound other than desperate gasps for air.

   Her attacker began dragging her down the sidewalk.  She dug her heels into the cracked cement in an attempt to slow him down, but he was stronger and the dim light faded as they left the short street and entered the alley behind the clinic.

   “Got a message for you,” the man said.  

   Shelby froze as a new and entirely different fear rose within her.

   He brought his lips to her ear. “Tick. Tock.”

   She didn’t need to ask who the message was from.  Her insides quivered. She whimpered.

   “Hey!  You, there!  What you doin’ to that woman?”

   Shelby knew that voice.  It was Joseph, the elderly maintenance man from the clinic.  Her stomach tightened in fear for Joseph now as well as for herself.  Any man sent to deliver this message would be ruthless and would have no qualms about killing Joseph.  But, to Shelby’s relief, the man who held her must not have perceived Joseph as a concern.  He didn’t even spare Joseph a glance.  Message delivered, he released her. All of Shelby’s weight had been balanced on him and she fell onto her hands and knees on the stained and broken asphalt.  He stepped over her and strolled out of the alley.

   “Lady!  Lady!  You all right?”

   Joseph again.  Shelby coughed and struggled to get up but couldn’t manage to do so. Then Joseph was there in the alley with her. His face, worn and creased like old leather, bent to hers.

   “It’s you, Dr. Grant!  Dr. Grant are you hurt?”  Without waiting for a response, Joseph pulled a cell phone from the shirt pocket of his blue uniform.  “I’m calling for an ambulance.  You hold on, Dr. Grant.”

* * *

   Chief Of Police Mitchell Turner took the next turn, taking him onto the interstate leading out of Blake County, New York.  Cars sped by his SUV making a soft whooshing sound.   His police radio was tuned low though he could still make out the nasal voice of the woman working dispatch tonight.

   Mitch cast another glance at his rearview.  A late model sedan and a compact were still behind him where they’d been since he’d taken the on-ramp and pulled out in front of them.  No other vehicles had followed him onto the highway. 

   Ten minutes later he was still in the clear and turned onto the deserted stretch of road that would take him to his destination.  Trees lined both sides of what passed for this road and rose high into the sky but moonlight filtered through the branches, lighting his path. Gravel crunched beneath his tires, making a silent approach impossible if he’d wanted one.  He didn’t.  He wanted the man he was meeting, Dan Harwick, to know he was on his way.

   Harwick was working undercover, investigating Christopher Rossington whose business dealings were a front for organized crime.  On the phone earlier today, Harwick sounded . . . tense.  A first for the cool-under-fire Harwick.  Another first for Harwick was this request for an unscheduled meeting tonight. Mitch had never known Harwick to alter a plan and it concerned him.    

   Harwick had told Mitch he’d be driving a pickup truck for the meet.  Mitch’s headlights illuminated a truck parked at the edge of the road and Mitch was glad to see Harwick inside the vehicle.  Harwick’s cheeks hollowed as he drew deeply on a cigarette and the tip of the smoke glowed red. Mitch flicked the high beams as they’d agreed and pulled up alongside the truck.  

   Without preamble, Harwick said, “We got trouble, Mitch.”

   “Tell me.”

Harwick met Mitch’s gaze. “Rossington’s got a mole in our investigation.” 

   Mitch had taken care to keep a tight lid on the investigation, restricting access to information, keeping status strictly need-to-know but he didn’t ask Harwick how he knew about the mole or doubt that it was true. If Harwick said it, it was fact.  “What do you know?” 

   Harwick took another drag on the cigarette then crushed it against the doorframe with a lot more force than was necessary to extinguish it.  “Nothing.  No face.  No name.  All I know is that our mole exists.”

   Harwick’s anger was palpable.  Mitch could well relate. There were only a handful of people working the Rossington case, and Mitch had selected each one of them. The mole could only be someone he knew.  He tamped down on his rage for the moment.  First things first.  “What about you?  How’s your cover?” 

   “Solid. They’re bringing me in deeper every day. Local business man, my ass.” Harwick sneered. “Fuck, Mitch, this guy is into everything dirty and depraved.” Harwick’s lips thinned. “I want to nail Rossington by his balls.”

   Yeah, Mitch wanted that badly.  “We’ll get him, Dan.”

   Harwick gave one swift nod.

   “I’ll be in touch,” Mitch said.

   “What are you going to do about the mole?”      

   A rush of anger heated Mitch’s face. “I’m going to find that bastard.”

* * *

   A 911 call would bring the police.  Shelby couldn’t let that happen.  She couldn’t let the police find the messenger.  If her association with the messenger and the man who sent him was discovered . . . she couldn’t let herself think about the consequences of that without losing her mind.

   As she sucked air into her starved lungs, she scrambled for a reason to stop Joseph but fear had numbed her ability to think and before she could come up with an excuse, Joseph had made the call. 

   She had to get out of here before the police arrived.  Again, she tried to gain her feet but her arms and legs felt as strong as overcooked noodles.

   “Should you be movin’ around, Dr. Grant?  Better to stay put, I think,” Joseph said. “You should stay put till the ambulance gets here.”

   “I don’t need an ambulance.”  Her throat burned from the messenger’s choke hold on her neck and her voice came out raspy, belying her statement.

   Deep crevices cut into Joseph’s brow and his eyes narrowed in concern behind wire-rim glasses.   But when Shelby continued to struggle, Joseph grasped her arm. “Here let me help you, Dr. Grant.”

   Joseph hovered at her side as she ignored pain in her middle where the messenger had squeezed her, and made her way from the alley and back to the street. Her purse and briefcase were in front of the clinic where she’d dropped them.  Shelby bit back a moan of pain and bent to snatch up the items.  She dug inside for her cell phone. Her hands were shaking so badly the phone slipped in her grasp.  She let out a whimper of frustration and fear, then locked her fingers around the phone and sent a text message.  One asterisk.  The man who’d sent the messenger to her tonight had devised a single star as their signal to meet. 

   He had to meet with her tonight—now.  She had to assuage the anger that had prompted him to send her this warning.  She squeezed her eyes shut.  She had to drive home the depth of her commitment to him. Though how he could doubt that, doubt her . . .

   Shelby opened her eyes and stared at the phone, willing to see an asterisk in response.  Praying to see one. Seconds ticked by and the screen remained dark. 

Tick. Tock.

   Fear filled her and a scream began to build.  She bit her lip hard to suppress it, breaking the skin and tasting blood.

   “Dr. Grant, you want to call someone?” Joseph said.  “The Chief?  You’re shaking something awful and no wonder at all.  Here, let me call Chief Turner for you.”

   Calling the man she was engaged to marry would be the normal thing to do, but Mitch was the last person she wanted to see now. 

   “No!” In her anxiety, in her panic, the word erupted from her before she could stop it.  Joseph’s frown deepened at her vehemence.  She swallowed and tried to think, tried to sound sane.  She pushed hair back from her face.  The strands were damp with perspiration brought on by fear.  “No need to call Mitch, Joseph.  No need to worry him.” She swallowed.  “I just—just want to put this behind me and go home.” Though his intervention had done her more harm than good, she couldn’t discount that Joseph had put himself in harm’s way for her.  There hadn’t been many people in her life who would do that.  Ignoring her stinging palms, where bits of gravel had cut into them when she’d landed on the ground in the alley, she reached out and clasped Joseph’s arthritic hand.  “Thank you.  Thank you for everything you did tonight.”

   Joseph ducked his head and mumbled something but she didn’t catch the words. Her attention became riveted on an ambulance and the patrol car right behind it that turned onto the street.

   Both vehicles screeched to a halt at the curb, sirens blaring, roof lights flashing.  Neighborhood residents, no doubt alerted by the wailing sirens, poked their heads out their front doors.  Some left the confines of their homes to stand on their lawns and peer across the street while others ventured nearer, taking up positions on the chipped sidewalk and the brown grass in front of the clinic. 

   A cop and a medic exited their respective vehicles and began closing the distance to Shelby.  She didn’t want a report of this incident.  She needed to send both the medic and the cop on their way. 

   As the men reached her, and she was about to do just that, a black SUV she knew all too well pulled in behind the cop car. The driver’s side door was flung open and before the SUV had rocked to a stop, Mitch charged out.  Her stomach clenched then dropped. 

   Mitch was dark-haired and tall with a hard, tough body.  Standing above those around him, his eyes, a deep penetrating blue, landed on her.  He kept his gaze trained on her as he made his way through the men and women that blocked his path to her.

   Shelby tilted her head back to continue to look at him as he stopped in front of her.  “I thought you’d be home by now.”

   Was she going into shock?  Of all the things to say to him, that had to be the most inane.  Mitch must have thought so as well because his gaze on her intensified.  

   “Had a meeting,” he said softly. 

   He still wore the charcoal-gray suit he’d had on when he’d left for the police station that morning, though the tie was no longer knotted and hung loose on his crisp white shirt.  The  jacket was open, showing his paddle holster and cell phone on either side of his belt.

   His brows were low, his handsome face pulled taut with worry.  He lifted a hand to her neck and his gaze hardened.  It was obvious by his expression that the skin there was marked.  So much for keeping what had happened today from him. Her struggle with the messenger had left marks on her that she would never have been able to hide from Mitch.            

   Despite the look in his eyes that was now lethal, Mitch wrapped his arms gently around her and drew her against his body.  “Are you hurt anywhere else?  Did he—”

   She didn’t need to clarify what he was asking.  She shook her head quickly, hastening to reassure him, of this, at least, and ease his fear.  “No.” 

   Mitch’s hold on her tightened.  She ignored the pain in her middle made worse by his fierce grip and wound her arms around him. For just this moment, she gave in to her need for him.  Allowed herself the delusion that she was safe.  That she wasn’t alone.  That what she had with Mitch was real.    

   He held her for a long time.  She let him hold her far longer than she should have, undermining her intention to show him that what happened tonight was not as significant as he believed it was.  It was significant, all right.  Just not for the reasons Mitch thought.

   Finally, he pressed his lips to her brow.  He drew back slightly, just enough that he could look at her.  “Have you been examined, honey?”

   “Just got here myself, sir,” the medic said.

   Mitch rubbed his hands up and down her arms, left bare by the sleeveless pale blue dress she wore.   Goose bumps had pebbled her skin.  He removed his suit jacket and placed it around her.  When he tried to pry her cell phone from her cold fingers, Shelby held tighter.  If Mitch wondered about her strange attachment to the phone, he didn’t press the issue and let her continue to hold it.  With one arm around her, he gently led her to the ambulance.

   There was no point denying the medic now.  Any hope she’d had of keeping the attack from Mitch was long gone. She’d only draw more attention from him if she didn’t allow the medic to examine her neck and to treat her abraded palms.  After, she declined riding on to the hospital for a more thorough examination. 

Mitch didn’t look pleased with that.  “Honey, you should be seen by a doctor.”

   Shelby shook her head.  “That’s not necessary.” 

   At her hoarse voice, his eyes narrowed.  He looked about to make a stronger case for a hospital visit then released a breath and let the matter drop.  He received instructions from the medic on what to watch for that would suggest a complication from the trauma she’d sustained to her neck, then led her to his vehicle.  He positioned her with her side against the passenger seat and with her feet on the running board.  Leaving the door open, he stood in front of her.  He ran his thumb along her cheek.  “What happened tonight?”

   Shelby closed her eyes.

   “Take your time.”

   He thought she needed time to fight back the trauma of being attacked before she could respond.  While that would certainly be believable, what she needed time for was to decide what to tell him.  How much to tell him.  His touch was gentle, so tender, tears welled in her eyes.

   Mitch brought her close again.  “Easy, baby.  Take it slow.”

   Her hands were against his chest, her fingers curled around his shirt. She forced herself to release him and brought her hands together in a tight grip. “There isn’t much to tell.” She cleared her raw throat carefully.  “I was leaving the clinic and a man came up behind me.”

   Mitch’s body tensed though his arms around her remained gentle.  “Take me through it.”

   His tone was calm but his eyes were fierce. His gaze remained on hers and fearing that her own gaze was too open just now, she lowered it to her hands.  She gave him an edited accounting of the incident, leaving out that the man had spoken to her and what he’d said.  She didn’t want to mention Joseph but couldn’t see a way out of that.  Mitch was sure to find out about Joseph and would consider the man a witness.  Fear of what Joseph may have seen made the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise. “Jo-seph called out,” she went on, “and the man who held me released me and ran a-way. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”  She needed Mitch to believe that.

   He didn’t respond to that but asked instead,  “Did you get a look at him?”

   “Too dark and he was behind me the entire time.” That, at least, was the truth.

   Mitch rubbed her shoulder.  “Okay. Don’t worry about that.  There are other ways to find this bastard.”

   Shelby’s throat tightened.  “I just want it to be over.”

   She didn’t want Mitch pursuing this but how to deter him?  Any logical woman—logical person—would want a violent man off the streets for their own peace of mind as well as to prevent him from hurting anyone else.  Added to that, she was a psychologist who counseled survivors of violence. She saw up close how violence devastated lives and had dedicated her career to helping her patients overcome such trauma and resuming their lives.  Dealing with violence—living with violence—weren’t foreign to her.  She’d known all about the shattering effects of violence long before she’d met any of her patients.

   “Chief? Dr. Grant?”  Joseph said.

   Joseph and Mitch were acquainted from times Mitch had stopped by the clinic to see Shelby.

   Mitch kept one arm around Shelby as he turned to greet Joseph. Mitch held out his hand.  “Mr. Bowden. Thank you.”

   Joseph shook Mitch’s hand.  “I didn’t do anything, Chief. I’m just glad I picked that moment to take out the trash.”  Joseph shifted position, shuffling his feet in his brown polished shoes.  “I overheard you sayin’, Dr. Grant, that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, like the attack was random.  I’m not so sure about that.”

###

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