In His Shadow (Tangled Ivy Book 1) (23 page)

“Miss Mason, thank you for coming,” he said. I noticed he was much more polite this time than when I’d first met him at the bank. “Please, come with me.”

I followed him through a door and between a maze of desks. Though it was a Sunday, there were plenty of people working and some glanced up as we walked by. Finally, we reached what I supposed was his desk. He motioned me to the chair next to it while he took the one behind it.

Lane was an attractive guy, his jaw lightly shadowed with stubble that gave him an appealingly unkempt look. His shirt was wrinkled in a way that said he was a bachelor who couldn’t be bothered with an iron, and a cheap tie was knotted loosely around his neck. His shoulder holster held his gun, which gleamed from the care and attention he reserved for it alone.

Taking off my sunglasses, I slid them into my purse. “So why did you want to see me?” I asked, crossing one leg over the other.

“I hear you were mugged last weekend,” Lane replied instead.

I shrugged, glancing away from his penetrating gaze. “It’s the city. It happens.”

“You didn’t report it,” he persisted, making me wonder how he’d known. The hospital maybe?

“I just want to forget it,” I said.

“The man who was with you when you were . . . mugged,” he said. The way he said “mugged” made me think he didn’t believe a word of our story. “You know he didn’t give a name to the hospital. Paid his bill in cash and walked out. Did you know him?”

“He’s a . . . friend,” I said, not sure what else to call him and wary of why the agent was asking about Devon.

Lane looked at me for a moment longer, then reached for a manila file folder on his desk. Opening it, he turned it around to face me. “Is this your friend?”

It was Devon, but the shot was a candid one and looked like it had been taken at a distance, the quality grainy.

Hesitantly, I nodded. “Why do you want to know?”

“We found your fingerprints, and an unknown set, at Mr. Galler’s residence,” Lane said. “The unknown prints didn’t match your friend’s, but running his through our system brought up some . . . interesting information.”

I swallowed but remained silent.

“Miss Mason,” Lane said with a sigh, “I think you’ve gotten mixed up with some bad people, in particular, this man.” He tapped the photo of Devon for emphasis. “How did you meet him?”

Thinking quickly, I said, “He was there when the bank was robbed. He helped apprehend the robbers.”

“He didn’t apprehend them, Miss Mason,” Lane said flatly. “He killed them.”

The reminder chilled me and I lashed out. “If you think he’s so dangerous, why didn’t you arrest him then?” I snapped.

“We weren’t allowed to,” he said.

I frowned. “What do you mean you ‘weren’t allowed to?
’
 ”

Lane sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Your friend must have friends of his own in high places. One phone call was all it took and word came down he was to be released with no further questioning.” He leaned forward again. “But I think he’s in this up to his neck, Miss Mason, and I think you know that.”

There was no way for me to answer that without incriminating either Devon or myself, so I stayed silent.

“Law enforcement is a small world,” Lane said. “No matter what agency we work for, we’re all on the same side. So I did some digging, and your friend has turned up in a few other places.” Taking a stack from the file, he began flipping through the papers.

“Sri Lanka, five years ago, seven men dead.” He placed a piece of paper in front of me, then photos. I blanched at the sight of several bodies. “Amsterdam, three years ago, thirteen dead.” Another sheet. More pictures. “Beirut, right after Amsterdam, nearly an entire village was wiped out.” More sheets and this time the pictures were of burned-out homes in the desert. “Stockholm, two years ago, ten dead, two of them women.” A photo of a beautiful woman, her eyes vacant beneath a bullet hole in the center of her forehead.

The words fell on my ears, but I barely comprehended. My stomach churned with nausea. I’d known, in a visceral, dreamlike way, that Devon hadn’t been lying when he’d told me what he did for a living, but to have it handed to me, in cold black and white, all the murder and mayhem that he wreaked around the globe . . . it was too much to take in.

“Interpol sent me these earlier,” Lane said, flipping through the file to another picture of Devon, this time at airport security. “Looks like he left the country late last night, headed for London.”

I waited, sure there’d be a question.

“Any idea when he’ll be back to the States?
If
he’ll be back?”

I shook my head, my lips pressed tightly closed. Lane stared at me.

“The mugging was pretty brutal,” he said, suddenly changing the subject. “I hear you were bruised up pretty bad, even a couple cracked ribs.” Reaching forward, his fingers tipped my chin up, turning my cheek toward the light streaming in from the window. “Hard to cover completely with makeup.”

I jerked away from his touch. “Excuse me,” I snapped, “but what’s your point?”

Lane’s eyes narrowed. “My point is that your friend leaves a trail of dead bodies in his wake without so much as a flicker of remorse. Now I don’t know who he is or who he works for, but I believe your involvement with him is not only a severe threat to your life, but also may not be . . . consensual.” He rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forward.

“Miss Mason, I want to help you,” he said, his voice gentling. “I think you
need
my help. You’re a beautiful, innocent young woman who somehow became involved with a man who may get you killed . . . if he doesn’t kill you himself.”

I stared at him, eyes wide, and hesitated, indecision and fear now creeping into my mind. Lane was a good guy, trying to do the right thing and help someone who he saw as a damsel in distress. Was that me? Would I be the body Lane identified in a few days or weeks, his words a prophecy of what was to come if I stayed involved with Devon?

“Please,” he said, laying a hand atop mine. His palm was warm and calloused. A hardworking man’s hand. Lane sensed the conflict within me. “Let me help you.”

I remembered all the people Devon had killed, the men who’d held me captive and made me scream. I shuddered to think of that happening again, but what choice did I have? And Lane didn’t even know the half of what I couldn’t tell.

“I’m scared,” I whispered, the words falling out of my mouth. It was almost a relief to say it, to admit my fear. “But I can’t get out. I just . . . I can’t. You don’t understand.” Tears stung my eyes and I grabbed my purse, jumping to my feet.

“Wait! Miss Mason!” Lane called, but I was already rushing through the maze of desks and out the door. I didn’t stop until I was back in the Porsche.

I started the car but didn’t leave. I just sat, hands on the wheel as I tried to think what to do. Tears trickled down my cheeks but I barely noticed.

Not only was I in this too deep to get out, I felt too much for Devon to have the willpower to leave. It was a demoralizing realization. Would I really gamble my life for a man I was obsessed with, maybe in love with, whose only tie to me was his desire to have sex with me?

A knocking on the window startled me. I looked up to see Agent Lane standing there. Cautiously, I rolled down the window.

“Take this,” he said, his gaze pained as he took in my tear-stained face. “In case you change your mind. My cell is on the back.” He held a white business card between two fingers. I took it.

“Thank you,” I managed to say, before rolling up the window and backing out the car.

Glancing in my rearview mirror, I saw Lane standing there watching me until I was out of sight.

Logan called me late that night.

“Hey, Ives, how’re you feeling?” he asked.

“
Good. I’m feeling good,” I said. “How was your trip?”

“Fantastic!” he enthused. “Met a couple of snow bunnies that kept us warm, didn’t break anything, so all in all, a successful trip.”

I smiled, shaking my head at him. That was typical Logan.

“I should be home within an hour or so,” he said, “but don’t wait up.”

Shit. “Um, yeah, I’m not at home,” I said. “I’m, um, staying with a friend for a few days.” I winced at the white lie.

Except I never could get a lie past Logan, and his silence was telling.

“Why would you do that?” he asked. Gone was the lightness in his voice.

“I, um, well, I think I might’ve seen . . . Jace.”

“What? Are you kidding me? Are you all right
?” His frantic questions came one after the other.

“I’m fine,” I hurried to reassure him. “It might not have been him at all, but I thought it might be wise to stay somewhere else for a few days.”

“Well, I’m back now so you can come home tomorrow,” he said. “No one’s going to hurt you while I’m around.”

His sweet protectiveness made my chest hurt, which made it even harder to say what I had to say. “Actually, I think I’m going to stay here for a few days longer.”

A long pause. “You’re with Devon, aren’t you.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. It hadn’t been a question.

Logan let loose a string of curses and I flinched.

“Logan, please—” I began.

“He put you in the hospital, Ivy,” he said, cutting me off. “And don’t give me that story about being mugged—I know that’s bullshit.”

“Logan,” I tried again, “it’s just for a few days—”

“Until what?” he broke in. “Until I get another call that you’re in the hospital again? Or the morgue?” He let loose a heavy sigh. “God, Ives, please just listen to me. I’m begging you. Come home. Forget about that guy. He’s such bad news for you. Please, Ives.”

Logan was the second person that day to tell me I was in over my head with Devon. The second man who thought he knew what was best for me, who would take my choice away without even attempting to understand what I was feeling and without knowing the circumstances that tied me to Devon. And my temper snapped.

“Last I checked, Logan, I wasn’t still twelve years old. And while I appreciate your concern, I think it’s really crappy of you to have so little faith in my ability to make decisions for myself. I already know you think I’m ‘damaged.’ Must you add insult to injury?”

“Ives, I didn’t mean—”

“Save it. I know all too well what you meant. I’ll talk to you later, Logan.” I ended the call.

I was angry and upset, combined with worried and afraid, which made it really hard to get to sleep.

Work the next morning seemed surreal. After all that had happened in the past couple of weeks, the normal pace and tasks of my job were strange to settle back into. Marcia wanted to know about the mugging, and I got away with not saying a whole lot by telling her I didn’t really remember. My boss, Mr. Malloy, was kind and solicitous—I think he realized that between Mr. Galler’s death, the attempted robbery, then a mugging, I’d had a rough time of it lately. It was midafternoon when he approached me.

“The estate attorney for Mr. Galler requested the contents of his safe deposit box,” he said. “Would you mind boxing up the contents? They’re sending a security guard to pick it up here shortly.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, taking the dual set of keys he handed me.

I headed down to the safe deposit box area and unlocked the cage. The keys he’d given me were the set I’d had the day of the robbery along with an additional set—customer override keys. They were only to be used in situations like this, and I was glad I hadn’t known where they were kept. If they’d kept using me as a punching bag that day, I was sure I’d have given in to their demands.

My curiosity about what was in the box was raging as I scanned the numbers, finally settling on box 928. The two keys went in and the box slid out of its chamber.

I’d brought a cardboard bank box with me to place the items into and I’d set it on the table in the privacy room adjacent to the cage. Moving aside the heavy curtain that separated the room from any prying eyes—electronic or human—I rested the safe deposit box next to it. I raised the lid with anticipation.

To my disappointment, only a stack of papers and an envelope of photographs were in the box. I glanced through the photographs as I transferred them. They were old photos, mainly black and white, of various people who seemed to have no bearing on one another. No one face was recurring the way you’d see in a box of family photos.