Chapter 12

You Better Brace for This

FIONA PRIDED HERSELFon living thirty-four years without ever setting foot inside a police station. Her visit was yet another in a string of bizarre experiences. The officer behind the desk greeted Noah like he was a regular. When he told him to go on up, he had no problem finding the violent crime division on the third floor.

Detective Owens' desk was a disaster, cluttered with stacks of thick case files, and she counted at least three half-empty coffee cups. He motioned toward a hard metal chair, positioned tightly against the end of his desk, and invited her to sit. He didn't extend Noah the same courtesy because he couldn't. Surrounded by at least a dozen equally cluttered desks, all with a single chair next to them, there was barely enough space to breathe.

The room hummed with voices, other detectives on the phone or interviewing other witnesses and, judging by the man with his hands cuffed behind his back, criminals. Accurately sensing her anxiety, Noah curled his hand around her shoulder and squeezed in reassurance. Without wasting a moment, the detective launched into his questioning.

Aside from if she'd recalled anything new from the night before, his questions were mostly to confirm the information she'd already given him. Then he handed her a tablet and had her scroll through a few dozen mug shots of "potential perps" that fit her description of the killer. Each face stared back at her, their expressions somber, some scowling, all of them frightening. She never imagined she would have to do this—ever. But none of the faces looked familiar, and she handed the tablet back to him with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Next, he had her sign her official statement, and she was done—for now.

Thankfully, the detective compensated for his lack of desk organization with efficiency in other areas and it only took an hour. Noah stood by her the entire time, providing his silent support.

It was an incredibly surreal experience, to be sure. She kept wondering when she would snap out of the crime thriller she'd gotten caught up in and return to her normal, mundane life. It hadn't happened when Noah once again loaded her into the sleek black SUV and headed toward her Culver City home.

She must have dozed off because she remembered nothing after he took the on-ramp to the Santa Monica Freeway until he pulled into a parking space in the side lot of her apartment complex and cut the engine.

Noah looked at her from the driver's seat, his blue eyes filled with concern. "Can you make it inside?"

"Yes, but not beyond that. The toast and coffee have definitely worn off."

"Stay there," he ordered. "I'll come around and get you."

Despite his high-handed manner, or maybe because of it, a pleasant warmth suffused her body. How long had it been since a man opened doors for her, worried that she was eating, and held her hand when escorting her? The answer that came instantly to mind was never.

Noah opened the door, and she slid to the ground. When her feet touched down, her legs didn't want to fully cooperate. She gripped the door handle, and him, to steady herself. Startling her, he swung her up in his arms.

"You shouldn't. You'll—"

He grunted, and, with a firm squeeze, cut off her protest. Then said in a low, unyielding voice, "I know you're exhausted, but if you're going to insult me by suggesting you're too heavy for me to carry, you need to rethink that pretty damn quick."

Sleep deprivation hadn't erased all instincts for self-preservation, and she was too tired to fight about it. Wisely, she remained silent and rested her head against his shoulder. With him holding her close, she felt more than heard the hum in his chest. Was it in approval of her heeding his warning, or the same contentment she was experiencing with his powerful arms enveloping her? Either way, she surrendered to the moment, closing her eyes to savor the journey.

Much too soon, he set her down in front of her door so she could fish her keys out of her jeans pocket. When he took them from her, she leaned heavily against him, fatigue dragging her down as he let them in. But his fingers barely brushed the knob when the hinges creaked, and the door swung inward.

"I didn't leave it open," Fiona exclaimed in alarm. "I'm OCD about things like turning off the stove and locking doors, and I always double-check before walking away."

Noah pushed her to the side, out of the doorway, and with his gun in hand—it was like it had materialized out of nowhere, she hadn't even seen him move to un-holster it—he ordered, "Wait here."

For once, she didn't think about arguing. Her stomach in knots, she waited and listened as seconds then minutes ticked by.

"It's all clear."

Startled, Fiona practically jumped out of her skin.

"Sorry, kitten. Didn't mean to scare you."

That hardly mattered. She knew she had bigger problems just by looking at him. Like she didn't have enough already. "Someone broke in, didn't they?"

"Yeah." He took her hand again, squeezing more firmly than all the times before. "You better brace for this."

"It's that bad?"

His expression grim, he nodded and led her inside.

Her once-neat-as-a-pin living room now lay in ruins, the lamps in shattered bits on the floor, the furniture overturned. Whoever did this had taken a knife to the cushions and slashed them to ribbons, the white stuffing strewn all over the floor. They'd hacked her pillows to bits, left the chenille throw from the back of the couch in tatters, and even shredded the pages of the books on her coffee table. What was left of her coffee table.

It was bad, but the message scrawled in ominous red paint across her once-pristine ecru wall had her trembling in horror.

Fat cunts with big mouths get d-e-a-d.

"Oh my god!" she gasped. It was the second time she'd gotten that threat and was a chilling reminder of why Noah stood beside her, gun in hand, an arm around her waist, holding her up. "It sounds like..."

"What?"

"Not what, who. Jordan called me that several times."

"Not to mention emblazoning it across your car."

Slowly, she turned to him, almost hating to ask. "What about my car?"

His brows slammed together as he looked down at her. "You don't know."

"Know what?"

Nodding toward the wall, he told her, "They spray-painted something similar across the side of your car last night."

Her second "Oh my god!" was higher in pitch and at twice the volume. She didn't know how much more her sleep-deprived, horror-stricken brain could take. "That's why Detective Owens and Officer Briggs were so freaked out. Not about the murder. Naturally, that was horrible, but they were extra concerned about me getting out of town or getting security. This wasn't random."

"We don't think so. No."

Her gaze fixated on the crimson paint dripping like blood. She didn't think that was by chance, either. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Swiftly, Noah moved her into the hallway as he urged, "Take deep breaths."

She tried, but the gulps of air she drew in were shaky and not deep at all. Feeling like she was coming apart, Fiona slumped against the wall and wrapped her arms around herself. Her whispered words were barely audible above the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears. "He's insane. Who reacts like this over a canceled club membership?"

Noah pulled her close, his strength supporting her more than the wall ever could. She clung to him, grasping fistfuls of his shirt like a lifeline.

"It was more than one canceled membership. Eric spread the word, and they blackballed him at every club, public or private, from here to Texas. It probably started out as revenge, his plan to shake you up by vandalizing your car and leaving his message. But whatever happened in the garage between his two associates escalated it to a murder case. If it is Jordan, which I firmly believe it is, it makes him an accessory to murder." As he spoke, he dialed. "It's Noah. I need a team at Fiona's. Someone tossed and vandalized her place. And call Brent Owens. Tell him his case just got more complicated."

When the call ended, she gripped him tighter and in a small, petrified voice, asked, "What do I do now?"

"You can't stay here. You're coming home with me."

Her head dropped back, and she gazed up at him through eyes blurred by tears.

"No arguments," he preempted in a tone leaving no room for debate. "Unless you've got a better, safer, more acceptable option."

She shook her head, and a lone tear escaped.

The tension lines around his mouth softened as he wiped her wet cheek with his thumb, his touch so incredibly gentle it brought her to the brink of tears for a different, much better reason.

"I didn't think so," he murmured. "Try not to worry. This was sloppy, and using words and threats he's used with you before was stupid. We'll get him, Fiona, and until we do, I swear I'll keep you safe."

"Thank you, Noah," she replied, adding with as much weariness as resignation, "I suppose I should pack a few things."

"Tell me what you need, and I'll get it."

"It would be quicker if I do it. You don't know where anything is."

He hesitated, his expression grim, and she stiffened.

"They trashed my bedroom too. Didn't they? What don't you want me to see?"

"Let's just say the CSI team won't have to look too far for DNA evidence."

"I don't—"

"He left his calling card on your bed, Fiona."

"You mean he..." She grimaced and shuddered in disgust. "Ew! Who does that?" Abruptly, she spun and picked her way through the debris to the kitchen and grabbed the magnetic notepad and pen off the side of her fridge. "I'll just make you a list."

"Good call."

"While you grab my stuff, I'll start one for my insurance claim. Pillows, linens, and a new mattress are at the top because I'm never sleeping there again."

"We'll get him, Fiona," he repeated, the steely determination in his voice leaving no room for doubt.