Chapter 1

Chapter One

N oah Merchant had planned to spend the fifth anniversary of his wife’s death getting drunk in the local Irish bar. Instead, he watched Violet Lee, one of his fellow security specialists, pound on the door of a red brick warehouse located on the edge of the Warehouse District in Central Houston.

“She isn’t in there.” Violet scowled at him. “This is pointless.”

Noah checked his phone. “It’s the right address, so she definitely lives here. The message says she has an apartment on the top floor.” He glanced up at the old three-story building. The windows were dark.

“I’m telling you.” Frustration thickened her Scottish accent. “She isn’t in there. This is a waste of time.”

Violet wasn’t known for her patience—he’d learned that the hard way when they worked together in the London office of Benson Security. To say he’d been dismayed when she’d also joined the Houston team would be putting it mildly. As a former cop, he preferred his colleagues to remain calm under pressure, especially now they were working in a country where every second person was armed. Strike that—this was Texas. Most likely, everybody was armed.

“She has to be in there,” he said with all the patience he could muster. “She’s agoraphobic.”

The diminutive ball of barely contained rage glared at the door. “Then she’s just refusing to answer. I don’t like it when they don’t cooperate.”

Yeah, he’d found that out the hard way in London too. Yet again, he tried to explain that not everyone they dealt with was the enemy: “This woman isn’t a perp. She’s an important witness in a high-profile case.”

Noah pulled up the details their new boss had texted and called the witness’ number. No reply. He stepped back into the dark, empty street and eyed the building. Long and narrow, it took up the corner position on a block of older industrial businesses. A narrow alleyway ran between the building and its neighbor. The alley had been fenced off with tall ironwork. The main entrance was on the narrow side of the warehouse, facing what would be the busiest street during office hours. A larger goods entrance sat at the rear of the building, although the old wooden doors had been replaced with heavy steel ones that looked rarely used.

The front entrance also had an abandoned air about it. The sign over the door was cracked and faded, but you could still make out the words Bella’s Antiques . Noah peered through the dark and grimy storefront window. The interior was crammed with all sorts of junk, the kind of stuff you’d find in a garage sale, and most of it was covered in dust. He looked up and spotted a camera in the corner above the door. A shiny new security camera. At last, a sign of life.

He rang the bell again—the one Violet had abandoned after declaring it didn’t work. “Can you see an alarm system?” Maybe they could call the security company to find out if it’d been tripped.

“Aye, it’s one of those cheap ones you can disarm by cutting the main wire.” She pointed through the small window beside the hefty door. “I could knock out a pane of glass and access it from here.”

“But it’s still functioning?”

“Looks like it.”

“Then nobody got here before us and disarmed it. She must still be inside.”

Violet wasn’t impressed. “She could have let an attacker in and then reset the alarm. Maybe a delivery guy or maintenance crew or someone from the DA’s office. They’re the ones with the leak, aren’t they? She’s probably already dead.”

“You’re a ray of sunshine, you know that? She could be sleeping. Or in the bath. Or wearing headphones. There are a million reasons why she might not hear the door. We’re two floors beneath her, and she isn’t expecting anyone to turn up. She’s probably just busy.”

Violet smirked knowingly. “You were one of those nice cops, weren’t you? The ones who join the force to actually serve instead of hunting down bad guys.” Her words dripped with disgust as she opened one of the many zippered pockets on her cargo pants and withdrew a set of lockpicks.

“You can’t break in.” Noah pinched the bridge of his nose, desperately wishing he was sitting in O’Loughlin’s, nursing a single malt, instead of dealing with Scotland’s most unhinged cop. Make that ex -cop — they’d fired her ass for being a health risk to everyone around her.

“Watch me.” She set to work.

“Seriously,” he said, “you can’t go around picking locks.”

“We sure as hell can’t break down the door. It’s solid wood and a good six inches thick. And we can’t climb through the windows because of the bars.” She cocked a thumb at the metal security shutters pulled across the inside of each window.

“We don’t need to break in at all. We can call the local cops. Or the security company. Hell, the sheriff’s department only a few blocks away. They’ll get us in and walk us through the building.”

“The Assistant District Attorney called Benson Security because she isn’t sure who she can trust in local law enforcement—or in her own office. So, no calling the cops. Which reminds me, when we’re done here, I need you to explain all these different police forces to me. In Scotland, there’s the police. Full stop. Nothing else. Do Americans think competition will make their officers work harder? Because that’s just dumb.”

“The point is,” Noah said with long-suffering, “picking locks is illegal.”

“There’s illegal, and then there’s illegal ,” she said.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, we aren’t cops anymore. We don’t need to follow the rules.”

“Uh… yeah, we do. They’re called laws . Everybody needs to follow them.”

“Boy Scout,” she muttered as she carried on breaking in.

Noah longed for the good old days when Violet barely spoke to her teammates. He stared up at the camera. “If you’re watching, we’re security specialists with Benson Security and former cops. We’ve been sent here by your contact in the Harris County district attorney’s office, and our orders are to ensure your safety. Your location’s been compromised. We are not breaking in to harm you, only to check on you.”

“You about done?” Violet frowned at him. “Can we get this woman out of here now?” She swung the door wide.

Noah reluctantly followed her into the store, making sure to close and lock the door behind him. While he doubted there was anything in the shop to tempt a thief, this wasn’t the greatest of areas, and junkies weren’t known for being picky.

Violet gave the dust-covered stock a look of disgust. “I can’t believe I’m missing The Bachelor for a babysitting job.”

Okay, he did a double take at that little piece of info. “You watch The Bachelor ?” For some reason, he’d assumed she only watched documentaries about serial killers or YouTube videos of preppers turning everyday objects into weapons.

“It’s psychology in action.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “So many personality disorders in one place, all being examined under the camera.”

“Ah, so you watch it for the romance,” he teased.

She shot him her trademarked “look of death.”

“So.” Seeing as Violet’s nickname on the Scottish force had been Violent Lee, Noah thought it best to change the subject. “According to the new boss, our babysitting gig lives on the top floor.”

“Then we go up.” She pushed the door to the stairwell open.

The stairwell was wide, and its walls inlaid with Art Deco tiles in various shades of blue. It was the kind of decorative touch you’d never see in a newer industrial building, where everything was concrete and metal. It made Noah wonder when exactly builders had decided that functional meant ugly.

“In a few years, when gentrification has made it this far into the Warehouse District, this building will probably sell for a fortune and be converted into trendy condos.” He ran his fingertips over the tiles. “Then the place will be overrun with avocado-toast-eating, micro-brewery snobs who won’t appreciate its history.” He gestured to a plaque inlaid into the wall: Watson & Co, Exotic Imports Ltd, est. 1905. “Wonder what they imported.”

“Avocados?” Violet suggested, her expression deadpan.

“And here I was thinking you didn’t have a sense of humor,” Noah said.

“I don’t.” Came the flat reply.

They pushed open the wide door to the second floor but found only a corridor filled with abandoned offices.

“Nobody’s been in here in a long time.” Violet pointed to the undisturbed layer of dust on the floor. “What a waste.”

They carried on to the top floor. This time, there was no corridor, just a small lobby area and a reinforced steel door.

“This is more like it.” Violet retrieved her picks and eyed the multiple locks.

“We knock first,” Noah ordered, doing exactly that.

There was no reply. He dug out his phone and called the client’s number again while Violet blithely set about breaking and entering. A faint ringing sounded inside the apartment, but no one answered.

“Phone’s in there.” Now he was worried. They had scant information, only that the woman was the key witness in a high-profile case and that some very dangerous people wanted to stop her from testifying. Unfortunately, there was a leak in the DA’s office or law enforcement, so those dangerous people now knew where she lived—not to mention that she wasn’t likely to run from them. Apparently, Annabelle Simmons hadn’t left her apartment in years.

“We’re probably too late,” Violet said. “Do we still get paid if the client’s dead?”

“She isn’t the client. She’s a witness. The client is the DA’s office. And if they’ve killed her, why lock up on the way out?”

“Why do killers do anything? Because they want to, that’s why.” She pushed the door open. “Whoa, not what I was expecting. I thought this chick was a housebound senior, but this place is yuppie heaven.”

“Nobody says yuppie anymore,” Noah muttered as he looked around. He had to agree with Violet, though. This wasn’t what he’d expected either—especially given the unkempt state of the other two floors.

Almost the entire top floor of the building had been turned into one vast open-plan space—aside from a couple of doors set in a plain white wall at the far end of the room, which Noah assumed led to a bathroom and storage. Oversized windows lined three walls, although one set looked out onto the brick wall of the neighboring building. Three massive skylights set at equal intervals in the high ceiling allowed a pristine view of the night sky. Support columns broke up the space, with partitions separating sections according to their function.

To their right, in the area directly above the shop, sat three sofas, several low tables, stuffed bookcases, an array of green plants, and an impressively large TV. The middle section contained a kitchen area against a three-quarter-height brick wall, which created a wide corridor between the kitchen and the windows facing the building next door. Yet more plants topped this wall, and two enormous potted trees sat at either end. Appliances ran along the dividing wall while an island counter faced it, and an old wooden dining table sat on the other side of the island, close to the windows that overlooked the street.

Just beyond the kitchen was a workspace, partially shielded from view by two rolling wooden screens with intricate cutout designs. Behind the screens were two drawing tables, a multi-monitor computer setup, and easels holding memo boards covered in pinned images. Beyond the work area was a more permanent partition made of glass bricks, and through the glass, Noah could make out the outline of a bed. To the left of the bed area, in the corner near the doors, was a treadmill and an exercise ball. And right in the middle of the whole space, behind the partial wall that divided off the kitchen, an old-fashioned swing hung from the ceiling. Plants were dotted everywhere, and the walls held an array of framed artwork in bright colors.

“I could be agoraphobic if I got to live somewhere like this. Lots of light and space, nice high ceilings, and a place to work out. Apart from the fact she’s trying to grow a jungle, it’s pretty much perfect.” Violet wandered through the office area. “Cartoonist? No, comic book artist. Must make a good living to afford this building. Think she owns the whole thing? Or just renting this space? But then, why wouldn’t her landlord turn the second floor into apartments too? It’s money down the drain to leave it empty.”

“I think she owns the building and doesn’t want anyone else in it.” Noah paused at a noticeboard filled with photos—all taken from the windows of the apartment. On the table beside them sat a state-of-the-art camera with a telephoto lens.

A series of photos showed a woman holding a small child’s hand. The little girl clutched a balloon, and the pair were laughing. There was something deeply sad about the images. As if longing were an invisible third person in the frame. It made Noah wonder what it must be like to watch life happening outside walls that were both a sanctuary and a prison. Had to be lonely, that’s for sure.

“Does all her shopping online,” Violet said from the open laptop. “Looks like she’s in some Facebook groups, though, so she isn’t just walking around her apartment, talking to herself.”

The glow of the streetlamps seeped into the space, bathing it in warm, diffused light. Although all the windows had white shades, none were drawn, and beyond the living room area, you could see the built-up high rises of central Houston.

Noah rounded the glass partition to check out the bedroom and froze in place. “Uh, I’ve found our witness.”

“Is she dead?” Violet sounded almost hopeful.

“Why is that always your first thought?” Noah said as his partner came to stand beside him.

“Experience.”

They gazed down at the witness in silence. Annabelle Simmons was younger than Noah had expected, early thirties at the most. It was impossible not to notice her bronze skin was smooth and blemish-free, seeing as all she was wearing were French-cut panties and a camisole. She lay sprawled on her stomach across the massive bed. Her nose was red, her mouth hung open, and she was softly snoring. Her long, mahogany hair was a tangled mess about her face and shoulders, and crumpled tissues covered the bed. Beside her left hand rested an empty cough syrup bottle.

“Well, that explains a lot.” Violet picked up the bottle. “Heavy-duty stuff. Probably drank the whole lot while washing down these.” She held up a box of well-known decongestants. “There’s a warning on the label about it making you sleepy. I think the witness may have medicated herself into a coma.” She leaned over and prodded the woman’s shoulder.

A loud snore erupted, but Annabelle didn’t move.

Violet strode from the bedroom area. “I’ll get some cold water.”

“Coffee would be better.”

“Not for her to drink.” Her tone made it clear she thought he was the idiot. “To throw at her and wake her up.”

“Let me try something a little less aggressive. Wouldn’t want you to drown the witness.” He crossed to the bed, put his hand on Annabelle’s shoulder, and shook gently. “Miss Simmons, we need you to wake up now.”

She just groaned.

Noah shook her a little harder. “Annabelle, you have to wake up. You’re in danger.”

“This is pointless,” Violet said. “I’m getting the water.”

“Give me a minute.” He used a firmer touch. “Annabelle Simmons, you are in danger. Wake up!”

Annabelle shot upward so quickly that the back of her head caught Noah on the chin and sent him reeling against the wall. She knelt in the middle of the bed, her long, dark hair wild around her face. Her eyes, wide and unfocused, stared at them in dazed horror.

“We’re the good guys,” Violet said unhelpfully.

Noah rubbed his chin. “The assistant DA sent us. You’re in danger, and we need to take you to a safe house.”

Annabelle blinked several times as though working to clear her vision. As it registered that there were strangers in her home, her body tensed, and her breathing sped up. She inched toward the edge of the bed nearest the windowless wall—seemingly uncaring that it took her closer to him.

He held out his hands in a calming gesture. “Please don’t be alarmed. You can check out our story with the district attorney, but you’re in danger and need to come with us. Please put some clothes on. We have to hurry.”

“No,” Annabelle whispered. “Not again.”

Before he realized what she was going to do, she launched herself off the bed, slammed her hand on the wall beside the huge mirror that sat between the two unaccounted-for doors, and shouted, “Stay away from me!”

The mirror slid aside, revealing a doorway.

“Panic room,” Violet snapped. “Grab her before she gets inside.”

But it was too late. Annabelle disappeared through the gap.

Noah didn’t think. He just reacted. And threw himself through the door after her, narrowly making it into the room before the concealed entrance slammed shut behind them.