Chapter 7

SEVEN

T he chase was a blur of flashing lights, screeching tires, and a manic gleam in Truman’s eyes.

Emma glanced in the side mirror, spotting an unmarked black sedan with a single blue light on the roof passing a patrol car to gain on them. “They’re catching up!”

“Not for long.” Truman jumped a curb and sped down a wide sidewalk, which was thankfully devoid of pedestrians this time of night. He clipped a planter, sending its contents flying before they bumped back onto the road and the cars waiting at a red light.

A horn blared, and he yanked the wheel right, then took a left at the next intersection, barely avoiding a delivery truck. They’d made a loop and now were back on Wisconsin Avenue.

Emma's heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest, her head pounding like a bass drum from the rush of blood to it. For a heartbeat, she didn't see anyone behind them, and the sirens grew more distant. "Where are we going?"

He hesitated, thinking. "Out of the city, that's for sure. Beyond that, I don't know yet."

Even in the heart of the chase, she was stunned that he would admit any uncertainty about what he was doing. "What about my dad's place?"

He considered it, then shook his head. "It's probably hot, just like your place.”

The next few minutes took them past more hotels and restaurants before they left the main hub, passing commercial buildings. He seemed lost in thought, and she didn't know what to say.

Due to her mother’s vocation, the two of them and their ‘family’ of thieves had often been on the run, but not like this. They’d never had law enforcement breathing down their necks, ready to grab them any second.

It had always felt like a game with Catherine. Even when her mother hadn’t just completed a job, they were always on the move, never staying in one place for long.

From classic French studio apartments to grand villas in the Caribbean, Emma had had a taste of life that normal people hadn’t. A privilege of sorts. She'd only realized when she was older that most of the places had belonged to others. The owners of the villas were out of the country, not realizing their home was invaded by a criminal gang. The loft apartments were between renters, the landlords unaware that squatters had taken over temporarily.

Catherine had always had a nose for finding free, uninhabited, and exceptionally useful accommodations. Even in America, she could hunt down a brand new subdivision filled with empty model homes or country acreages recently foreclosed on. There was no limit to available housing, even for those on wanted posters.

And yet Emma had a truckload of good memories of those times. Not realizing why they moved so much, she’d never questioned her good fortune—there was plenty of food to eat, video games to play, and books to read. More often than not, some of the other gang members stayed with them. A rotating menagerie of aunts and uncles, not related by blood but by purpose. Each and every one had played with her, read to her at night, wiped tears from her cheeks when she was upset, or had one of her ongoing nightmares about being lost.

Lost. That's how she felt right now. She thought being released early from that horrible jail cell was a blessing. Tonight had shown her it wasn't. Everything had gone to hell.

The commercial strips turned into residential housing. Her body grew limp from the overload and stress of the past few days. Her foot throbbed, and no matter how she turned up the heat, she couldn't get warm.

And Truman's cut… It wasn't nothing. She could see the blood had spread all along the side of his shirt.

They passed through a prestigious neighborhood, and she spotted a For Sale sign in one of the yards. "There." She pointed. Each mansion had at least two acres and was decorated with extensive landscaping. The house was dark, and there were no cars in the drive. On top of the realtor’s photograph and logo was a placard that read Price Reduced. “We should check that place. I bet the owners have already moved out, and it's empty. We could at least get cleaned up."

"We may come back to it," he told her, squeezing her hand. "I have another idea to check first."

"What?"

"There's an apartment building not far from here where Brigit and I used to stay when she was consulting for the Department of Homeland. SIS keeps it in case they need a safe house for one of their operatives. It's totally off the books, and that makes it ideal for us. At least, temporarily."

His hand felt warm, his grip reassuring. That sense of safety filled her up again, but her mind was too logical to give in to it. "Unless she tells them about it.”

"She won't."

He was so confident. “Why not? She married the deputy Director of the CIA. She's not your boss anymore.”

“She never was, luv. It was only an op, a continuing mission that spanned several years and multiple continents. We worked well together, though, and we shared a lot of confidences during that time. The secrets we know about each other run deep. If anything, she'll do whatever she can to protect me."

Emma wished she had someone like that. Her dad came the closest. "I need you to know something."

"You were framed, and I sent you to prison. You told me already. And if that’s true—which I’m beginning to believe—I have some groveling to do."

Damn straight, he did. "I hate being in anyone's debt, but I'll do whatever I have to to keep from going back there. The thing is, if I've been framed again, my odds of avoiding it are slim to none. I appreciate what you've done for me, but it may be time for you to cut bait and run. Sticking with me is a no-win proposition.”

He chuckled. “Giving up on me already?”

"I can't trust anyone. Not Brigit, not law enforcement, not anyone.”

He released her hand, and she noticed his slight grimace as he shifted in the seat. "Not me, is what you mean.”

“If our roles were reversed, would you trust me?”

"Fair enough. Let's take things one step at a time." He made a turn and slowed a few blocks from a gated entrance to a three-story apartment building. "We need to ditch this car anyway. We walk the rest. I’ll scope out the property and make sure there's no one waiting for us and no one occupying the apartment. Then we can clean up. There will be clothes and food. We can rest for a minute. You can pack some supplies, and I’ll find our next safe spot.”

Exhausted, she nearly sighed with relief. To get out of this dress, to get a drink of water, to lie down, sounded like heaven. “Is there one for us now?"

He put the car in park and reached across the console to cup her cheek. "I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do, and if you stick with me, your odds of clearing your name and bringing the true culprit to justice are far higher than you think. I won't let you down.”

She wanted to believe him. It would be easy to do so, but falling for him before—trusting him—had resulted in time behind bars, not just for her but also for her mother and the others in the Red Hearts.

Maybe they deserved it, but still…

They were her family. Not one of them was hateful or violent. They stole for the thrill of it, and only from people who had so much money and jewels they couldn't keep track of them. Her mother had always given a portion of her payment, after turning the stolen goods over to the Mastermind, to various organizations that supported women and children.

The Mastermind. Where had he been hiding all this time? None of them had known his identity and none of them had tattled on him. Had he gone into hiding when the Red Hearts had been caught? Had he started a new gang?

Truman was so close, his presence so reassuring, she wanted to lean into him. She wanted to feel his lips on hers again.

Dangerous, that. His betrayal had cut her so deeply that, even though her instincts pushed her to trust him, she just couldn't. In the heat of the moment, sure. With a clearer head, though, it seemed like the most foolish thing in the world.

He might keep her safe for now, but what would happen if he decided she was guilty again? What if he refused to believe her tomorrow or the next day?

She felt more gutted than she had that night in her loft, down on her knees, while he pointed that dreadful, frightening gun at her.

She swallowed hard and removed his hand. "Like you said, we’ll take it one step at a time."

Hurt flickered across his face before he shuttered his eyes. His jaw clamped tight, and he turned away, reaching for the door handle. "Stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

Would he? She watched him disappear into the shadows along the street, her heart thudding hard in her chest again, urging her to take action. Go after him. Tell him the truth. You never stopped thinking about him, not once, in all these months .

Traitor.

She slipped out of the passenger seat, quiet as a mouse. Her mother had made her practice becoming invisible and moving in silence as often as she’d taught her how to pick locks and play the innocent card in case she was ever in a jam.

That had been years ago. Another lifetime.

Could she still do it?

Feeling the creeping numbness soaking under her skin, Emma slipped into the shadows and blended into the night.