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“You won’t find anything,” Maggie interrupted flatly. “He’s better than that.”
Adriana, who’d been listening carefully to the entire exchange, finally burst out, “James, can’t you do something? What if she’s really not safe?”
“I’ll arrange for extra patrols past your house.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then pulled them out again. “I’m sorry, it’s all I can do at this point.”
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. How many people had been apologizing to her lately? Would they keep saying it, even if she were dead? “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his tan trenchcoat, looking a little as if he ought to be in a black-and-white noir film. “I’m listening, Maggie. Call me if you have anything else.” Then he turned to leave.
Maggie turned and walked into the kitchen, only half listening to Adriana argue with Brentwood as she went outside to see him to his car.
She traced her fingers around the smooth, cool lid of her blue sugar canister, the Firestar nestled inside once more, loaded and ready. There were other weapons hidden around the house—guns, knives, Mace. Would they be enough?
They had to be.
Last time around, she’d had the protection of the entire NOPD and a few FBI agents, and it hadn’t been enough. She’d had her gun, her martial arts training, her normally flawless intuition that had warned her of approaching danger countless times. None of it had kept her safe.
Now, she had what her former colleagues politely called “a psychological condition,” she jumped at mere shadows, and she had all the credibility of an alcoholic bag lady. Sure, her friends and family would be there for her if she asked, but she couldn’t involve them. Keeping them far away from this crazy game, more than anything, had to be her first priority. This time, despite the fact that Addy’s detective might believe her, she was alone.
Her eyes fell on Billy Corrigan’s card.
She palmed it off the table, then curled her fingers around it until it was crushed inside her fist.
All alone.
Chapter Five
Maggie balanced her weight evenly on the soles of both feet and slowly raised her arms upward to greet the sky—well, in her case, the ceiling. Tadasana—mountain pose. Adriana had told her that the yoga posture improved alignment, balance, confidence, and was good for people who constantly felt cold.
So far, it wasn’t helping with any of it.
She exhaled and bent her body at the waist, dropping her hands in front of her until her fingertips swept the ground. Shifting the bulk of her weight to her palms, she pushed one leg backward into a lunge, then brought the other leg back to meet it. Plank pose. The second part of a sequence that was supposed to “invigorate the nervous system” and relax her.
Whatever.
Do you wanna live forever, Maggie?
The whisper was so real, Maggie could almost feel the Surgeon’s breath on her cheek, the tingling steel of the knife blade as he trailed it down her spine with soft, butterfly touches that would soon turn vicious. Her arms gave out and she landed hard on her stomach. One breath. Two.
How would she ever stop him this time? Closing her eyes, she dropped her head forward until her forehead touched the soft surface of her yoga mat. Her hands curled around her face, creating a barrier that blocked her peripheral vision and reduced her world to one small square of blue foam. One breath. Two.
If you run, he can’t getcha. If you run, he can’t getcha. If yourunhecan’tifyourunifyourunifyourun….
“I can’t,” she moaned, a small pathetic noise from a small, pathetic person. “I can’t.”
A loud banging noise echoed through the house, abruptly bringing an end to her latest mental mini-collapse. The front door.
Maggie closed her eyes and listened to the muffled sound of the waves hitting the beach for a moment. Thank heaven for this house near the ocean—water always managed to relax her when she needed it most. Even through a barrier of stucco walls and thick panes of glass.
The banging on her door grew louder and more insistent. With a sigh, Maggie slowly rose to her feet, bringing her hands to the ceiling to stretch her spine one last time. Then, she pulled the coated rubber band out of her hair and quickly finger-combed it before redoing her ponytail. No sense looking like a crazy person, even if it was probably just Adriana kicking the door because she held a bag of groceries in her hands.
With one hand on the wall for balance, Maggie started to rise on her tiptoes to look through the peephole, but then dropped back down. She reached out and clamped her fingers around the small yellow spray can that sat on the nearby phone table. Just in case.
When she did glance through the peephole, what she saw made her wish she hadn’t bothered interrupting a perfectly good nervous breakdown. “I have Mace,” she called through the wood.
“It’s important,” came Billy Corrigan’s muffled reply.
She didn’t answer, preferring instead to remain quiet and see how long it took him to give up and go away. But instead of walking to the other side of the house, she stayed in place, watching him through the small bit of magnifying glass. Today his T-shirt was plain gray, and his jeans were the dark, smoky blue her Abercrombie & Fitch catalog called “dirty wash.” Trendy guy.
Maggie turned around abruptly and leaned her back against the door, folding her arms and making a mental note to avoid scrutinizing Billy Corrigan’s wardrobe or any other part of him. Then again, since she wasn’t about to open the door, she probably wouldn’t have the chance. He’d probably leave for good if she could just keep him out this one time—out of her home, out of danger, out of her life, so she wouldn’t be tempted to make the mistake of depending on the FBI to save her. Because that had worked so well the last time around….
“Agent Corrigan, do you have a subpoena?” she called through the barrier between them.
Pause. “No.”
“Then I am not required by law to open this door or talk to you?”
“Maggie—”
“Right then. Off you go.” With that, she finally managed to make herself walk away, ignoring the fact that part of her was dying to let gray-eyed Billy Corrigan inside.
OUTSIDE, BILLY SMACKED his palm against the pale stucco exterior of Maggie’s house. What would it take for her to open the damn door and let him in? Why couldn’t he find the right words, for once? Just this once, when it really mattered?
“Do you know what day tomorrow is?” he called. Then he waited.
Nothing. Not even the mention of October 8th got a response.
“It’s an anniversary, Maggie. Two years ago tomorrow, the Surgeon killed his first victim in New Orleans.”
This time, he waited for what felt like half the afternoon, but still Maggie refused to open the door. He pressed his ear to the wood, and the silence that greeted him made him wonder if she hadn’t walked out of earshot, into the depths of her house.
He pushed away from the door, nearly growling in frustration. “Dammit, Maggie, people are going to die. Doesn’t anyone matter to you anymore?”
Abruptly, the door swung open, and then Maggie stood before him with eyes that had changed from brown to angry black since the last time he’d seen her.
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