Walk In My Shadow: A Gripping Romantic Thriller (Mirror Book 3): A Mirror Novel (5 page)

A
fter the cab
driver's bombshell, Abby sank into a deep sleep for several hours. It was more fitful than anything, filled with dreams of Ethan saying creepy things and images of the dead bodies Vance kept showing her, but she hadn't been ready to deal with reality.

When she woke, the sun was starting to rise and she was disoriented, blinking against the light like a newborn chick. Just way less innocent.

She took a long, hot shower, careful of her bruised ribs. The ugly purple bruise would be there a good long while, but the pain would linger beyond that. Right now, it felt as if she was being stabbed with a knife every time she took a breath.

She edged her way to the kitchen and gingerly laid some ice on her side while her coffee dripped. Teige had brought her mail in and left it on the table and she paused when she saw another manila envelope in the mix.

She slid it out—same deal, with Ethan's familiar writing and no evidence of location. If nothing else, if Teige saw this, it would go well with her lie that things were "just fine" with her and Ethan.

"Just a big misunderstanding," she murmured out loud, as if saying it enough might make it true. If nothing else it would help her not to choke on the words.

She slid the envelope open and let the contents pour out, steeling herself for what she'd see. Thankfully, her stomach was empty.

Because there were pictures of bodies. Maps. New missing persons reports that matched the newly discovered bodies. She recognized the names from the ones Vance had shown her. She'd stared at them for seventy-two hours plus. The names were effectively burned into her brain.

She wanted to throw up. Run away. But she needed to find out what happened to Ethan. She owed him that. He'd never leave her behind.

Was the CIA planning on doing just that to one of their own?

When her cell phone started ringing, she tore her eyes from the messes in front of her and saw
Private number
. Ethan's calling card, although to be fair, it could be a witness with a protected number.

But it could be Ethan—the man pretending to be Ethan—and what timing. She picked up, said, "Hello," hesitantly.

"If you get another package like the one you're looking at, call and tell me." Vance's voice. Calm. Like he hadn't just held her hostage for days.

"How about you go fuck yourself," she told him and then hung up. "Obviously, he knew I got it—knew what was in here, so I guess I don't have to report shit."

And now you're talking to yourself. Great.

* * *

A
fter she'd medicated enough
to fake like she wasn't hurt—and enough to wrap her ribs securely—she burned the photos and missing persons reports and headed to a tanning bed. She needed a golden glow to sell the impromptu vacation cover story. Vance had assured her that work believed she was away, and indeed, when she stopped into the office, Carl seemed pleased that she'd taken a vacation without prompting.

Technically, she still had several days of vacation time left. How generous of Vance.

Asshole.

Teige and Jacoby were less than pleased, and as suspicious as she would've been in their position, but she appeared golden brown and unscathed, and she forced herself to relax under their scrutiny.

She'd planed to stop over at Teige's so she could escape when she was ready, but both Teige and Jacoby ended up on her doorstep minutes after she'd pulled her car into the garage. Thankfully none of them were big on hugs and she'd taken enough painkillers to get through it. Because they'd brought lunch and weren't going to be appeased with anything but a nice, long mental health check.

So far, so good, she thought, because she'd gotten them to believe she'd been away. She distracted Jacoby by asking about Ward, and in the middle of his telling a story about the man he lived with, her cell phone rang.

She stared at it like it could bite her.

"Your favorite witness?" Teige asked.

Vance.
Again
. "Asshole," she said firmly as she deleted the last three calls. It was a new number—her third this week, and he'd managed to get all of them. Teige and Jacoby stared at her. "And yes—the witness. Pain in my ass. I feel like I need to be saged," she muttered.

"You need more than that," Teige told her.

"Maybe an exorcism," Jacoby offered helpfully.

"Fuck both of you." Still, she couldn't help but wonder if Jacoby's suggestion was the way to go.

"Abs, look at the line of work you picked. You put yourself in the line of bad people daily, and then you wonder why you keep getting stalked." Jacoby's words were firm but understanding, because he'd done the same thing with his life. It was like they did so because they needed to put themselves through the same shit over and over—maybe an absolution from guilt, or maybe they thought that by reliving it, they could get over it.

It wasn't working. "Maybe it's time to retire," she said.

"Maybe. But you'd be bored as shit." Jacoby handed her half his sandwich since she'd scarfed hers down in record time. Like she was a wild dog who hadn't eaten in years. "I still want to know where you were last week."

"Leave me some mystery, please. I just needed to get away," she lied, her mouth purposely stuffed full of sandwich. Telling the men in her life about the CIA would only make them crazy—crazier—and then they'd never leave her alone. It was over. She'd handled it. Ethan was gone, and she was able to mourn him the way she needed to. She wasn't going to ask Teige anything again. Wouldn't involve him. "Hey listen—don't worry about the Ethan stuff. It's cool."

Teige frowned. "It sounded like
stuff
to worry about."

She felt Jacoby's eyes on her. "He called back and explained. He was sorry to freak me out—it was part of a job."

Teige nodded. She sounded believable but hey, he was going to believe what he wanted. Maybe he let it drop because Jacoby was there, or maybe they'd talk about her when she wasn't there.

Not much she could do about it but keep up the ruse. That Ethan was alive and well. That she wasn't being stalked by his killer.

That she wasn't about to bring danger onto all of them again.

She was
definitely
buying sage.

* * *

S
everal hours
after Jacoby and Teige left, and still unsure if she'd convinced them of anything, Abby threw on comfortable sweats and an old, cut-up T-shirt from a concert she'd gone to in high school (hey, those were the best kinds of T-shirts) and went downstairs for more ice for her ribs.

By the time she hit the fifth step from the bottom, she realized she wasn't alone in the house. Since she didn't travel the house without her weapon in hand, a sad but true fact, she immediately went still and listened.

"It's just me—don't shoot." Vance's voice drifted toward her from the living room area.

"I'm not making any promises," she called back and carefully went toward the sound of his voice, weapon drawn.

He was sitting on her couch, watching TV like an invited guest. He'd taken a soda from her fridge too.

"Kidnapping wasn't enough, so now you're adding breaking and entering?" she asked, still keeping her weapon drawn, well aware he noted how tightly she kept her arm to her bruised side.

"I didn't break in. I've got a key."

She narrowed her eyes. "You had a copy of my keys made when you kidnapped me."

"You were a willing guest of the CIA, Abby. Let's not get dramatic. And I'm here for your protection—no more, no less."

"So no pretend dates?" She tried to keep the bitterness out of her tone and hoped she succeeded.

Vance stared at her steadily and ultimately ignored her question. "When were you going to tell me about the phone call and the packages?"

Her stomach tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Haven't we come further than this?" he said, almost sadly.

She wanted to ask how long he'd known about the contact and guessed probably from the beginning. Why had he let her get away with holding out about it…or had he? "Maybe you could send the cab driver over—he seemed more than willing to give up information."

The doorbell rang. "I ordered pizza. It's all paid for," Vance offered.

"Impossible," she muttered and marched off to answer the door. She holstered her gun and grabbed the pie with one hand, carried it to the kitchen counter and proceeded to eat by herself. After a few minutes Vance wandered in, but she had the box positioned under her elbow as if he'd have to fight her to get a slice.

"Nice tan," was his only comment. It was then she realized he'd gotten her favorite pizza—black olives.

Dammit, did the man know everything about her? "You should go."

"Yeah, thing is, I can't."

"Sure you can," she said, her mouth full of delicious hot cheese. "One foot in front of the other. I can push you if it helps. Or shoot at your feet…"

"While the sentiment is appreciated, I'm afraid we've got unfinished business." He sat across from her and she continued eating, like that would somehow make this whole thing, and him, disappear.

It didn't, though.

"Ethan hasn't stopped killing," Vance explained.

"It's not Ethan doing the killing," she pointed out. "And it's not my problem, even if it was."

"Technically, you might be right, but since he's doing it for you…"

"For me?" she managed to choke out. She threw the pizza down and stood.

"That's the part I figured you'd freak out about, which is why the pizza." He waved a hand over the box. A few seconds later, she threw the box at him. Of course he ducked in time and the pain screamed through her and now, to top it off, she'd be stuck cleaning it all up. But in the moment it felt great. She wanted to do more, to break everything in the house trying to hit him, even if it was just a one-time graze.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she managed through gritted teeth.

"It's not me, Angel."

"You need to stop calling me that. And yes, it's most definitely you. Unless you forgot about the kidnapping."

"Angel…" He took a step toward her, got a little too close and even though she stood her ground, she felt herself flinch.

She was pissed at herself for that, but obviously, Vance was more so at himself because he paled and stepped back. Cursed under his breath.

It was the first time she'd seen him off his game.

"I'd never hurt you," he told her, his voice low. Steady. Apologetic.

"How can you say that?" she asked and immediately regretted it.

"I was just trying to prepare you, Abby. You need to goddamned know that."

"Prepare me," she repeated hollowly. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days? I mean, why, Vance? Why would you do that to me?" she demanded, and he continued to look pained.

Maybe he's just a damned good actor.

"I had to," was his only answer.

"You're going to have to do better than that. Why did you have to—an order from your superiors?" she continued and he shook his head. "Then who?"

His voice was hoarse when he said, "I did it for Ethan."

She backed away and stared at him. "For Ethan? What are you talking about?"

"I had to make sure you weren't involved in his death," Vance said fiercely, and his famous detachment was completely gone. "Can you fucking understand that?"

"How could you even think that?"

"How could I not?" he yelled. "You were the last person to see him alive—the last person to ever talk to him."

She took several steps back, hugged herself.

He stared at her. "You didn't know that?"

"How would I know that?" she asked. "I didn't even know he was dead until the guy in the cab told me. I thought Ethan was alive the entire time you tortured me."

"I didn't torture you, Abby. Trust me," he scoffed.

"Did you get the information you needed to trust
me
?" she asked.

"Yes, I did, or I wouldn't be here now."

"Good for you, but I don't want you here."

"Tough shit. You don't have a choice."