phone in Joaquin’s pocket buzzed again. He pulled it free to see a message from
Hunter. The girl in Arizona was in Africa on a mission trip for the next six weeks.
They exchanged a few texts, agreeing that she was safe for now and that if the case
was still up in the air when Alicia Allen returned, they’d deal with her then. Hunter
said he was catching a return flight home tonight. Giving him the thumbs-up, Joaquin
had shoved his phone in his pocket again when he heard the bathroom door open.
Along with a cloud of perfumed steam, Bailey emerged. He caught a glimpse of her barely
covered in a yellow towel, little water droplets raining down her pale skin as she
scurried across the room.
She stopped right beside the bed, and a moment later the TV flipped on. She scanned
a few channels, then paused.
“Welcome to Callindra Howe,” said the male announcer with the buttery voice. “Thank
you for being with us. Your story of survival and courage has inspired many in the
face of adversity, and everyone is thrilled that your story has a happy ending.”
“Thank you for having me here.”
“In case you’ve been living under a rock . . .” The voice-over went into an explanation
of Callie’s history, surviving the murder of her entire family and repeated attempts
on her own life. The backstory included a description of Aslanov and his research,
along with a hint that this played a role in her tragic past. A little gasp escaped
Bailey.
Joaquin inched his gaze above the back of the chair. She stood stock-still and staring.
What had her so mesmerized? He cocked his head to see the TV. A picture of Viktor
Aslanov appeared on the screen. He whipped his stare to Bailey again. She looked spooked
and pale.
Suddenly, she made a frantic grab for the remote on the nightstand, stabbing her trembling
thumb furiously against one of the buttons. Nothing happened on the first two tries.
“Damn it,” she muttered, staring down at the device in her hand, her body taut.
“My story has a happy ending,” Callie said on the screen. “But my mother’s didn’t.
Every woman can live a longer, healthier life by having regular female exams. Pay
attention to your body and report anything out of the ordinary to your doctor. If
you can’t afford a regular exam, please contact the Cecilia Howe Foundation. Besides
cancer research, we’re trying to help women with limited resources get the care they
need.”
“That’s an admirable goal,” the announcer said in praise. “Contact information is
on the screen, folks. But let’s talk about something very happy, Ms. Howe. You’re
marrying Agent Mackenzie soon. What can you tell us about the wedding?”
Bailey jabbed at the remote again, and the TV finally went dark. Into the shadowed
room, she emptied her lungs. That action seemed to deflate her whole body. She clutched
her towel to her breasts, shaking, looking like she’d seen a ghost.
Maybe she had.
Because she was Tatiana Aslanov?
Right now, that likelihood seemed pretty promising. With one possibility dead, one
missing, and the other in Africa, Bailey Benson was his last hope for uncovering the
truth and stopping these ruthless savages from killing again. Even if she wasn’t the
scientist’s daughter, this sweet little ballerina wasn’t equipped to deal with the
danger about to knock on her door. Joaquin knew he had to be aggressive and act fast
to keep her safe. Fuck the consequences.
* * *
RED splattered her once-pink shirt. She pressed her lips together to hold in a scream.
If she couldn’t stay quiet, something bad would happen.
Terror made her heart thump in her chest, drum in her head. As she looked around the
ransacked house, splashes of red marked the walls in nearly every room. She was afraid
to look closer. Time to get out. But as she ran down the hall, she slid in more of
the red stuff, nearly losing her balance. It lapped at
Hunter. The girl in Arizona was in Africa on a mission trip for the next six weeks.
They exchanged a few texts, agreeing that she was safe for now and that if the case
was still up in the air when Alicia Allen returned, they’d deal with her then. Hunter
said he was catching a return flight home tonight. Giving him the thumbs-up, Joaquin
had shoved his phone in his pocket again when he heard the bathroom door open.
Along with a cloud of perfumed steam, Bailey emerged. He caught a glimpse of her barely
covered in a yellow towel, little water droplets raining down her pale skin as she
scurried across the room.
She stopped right beside the bed, and a moment later the TV flipped on. She scanned
a few channels, then paused.
“Welcome to Callindra Howe,” said the male announcer with the buttery voice. “Thank
you for being with us. Your story of survival and courage has inspired many in the
face of adversity, and everyone is thrilled that your story has a happy ending.”
“Thank you for having me here.”
“In case you’ve been living under a rock . . .” The voice-over went into an explanation
of Callie’s history, surviving the murder of her entire family and repeated attempts
on her own life. The backstory included a description of Aslanov and his research,
along with a hint that this played a role in her tragic past. A little gasp escaped
Bailey.
Joaquin inched his gaze above the back of the chair. She stood stock-still and staring.
What had her so mesmerized? He cocked his head to see the TV. A picture of Viktor
Aslanov appeared on the screen. He whipped his stare to Bailey again. She looked spooked
and pale.
Suddenly, she made a frantic grab for the remote on the nightstand, stabbing her trembling
thumb furiously against one of the buttons. Nothing happened on the first two tries.
“Damn it,” she muttered, staring down at the device in her hand, her body taut.
“My story has a happy ending,” Callie said on the screen. “But my mother’s didn’t.
Every woman can live a longer, healthier life by having regular female exams. Pay
attention to your body and report anything out of the ordinary to your doctor. If
you can’t afford a regular exam, please contact the Cecilia Howe Foundation. Besides
cancer research, we’re trying to help women with limited resources get the care they
need.”
“That’s an admirable goal,” the announcer said in praise. “Contact information is
on the screen, folks. But let’s talk about something very happy, Ms. Howe. You’re
marrying Agent Mackenzie soon. What can you tell us about the wedding?”
Bailey jabbed at the remote again, and the TV finally went dark. Into the shadowed
room, she emptied her lungs. That action seemed to deflate her whole body. She clutched
her towel to her breasts, shaking, looking like she’d seen a ghost.
Maybe she had.
Because she was Tatiana Aslanov?
Right now, that likelihood seemed pretty promising. With one possibility dead, one
missing, and the other in Africa, Bailey Benson was his last hope for uncovering the
truth and stopping these ruthless savages from killing again. Even if she wasn’t the
scientist’s daughter, this sweet little ballerina wasn’t equipped to deal with the
danger about to knock on her door. Joaquin knew he had to be aggressive and act fast
to keep her safe. Fuck the consequences.
* * *
RED splattered her once-pink shirt. She pressed her lips together to hold in a scream.
If she couldn’t stay quiet, something bad would happen.
Terror made her heart thump in her chest, drum in her head. As she looked around the
ransacked house, splashes of red marked the walls in nearly every room. She was afraid
to look closer. Time to get out. But as she ran down the hall, she slid in more of
the red stuff, nearly losing her balance. It lapped at
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