On His Six Page 2

  Turning, Dax runs a hand through his dark locks. “Good work. Any sign of the kid?”

  “No.” I shove my hands into my pockets and lower my gaze to my well-worn Vans. “And he’s changed vehicles. The ATM camera’s black and white, but it looks like he’s driving a dark-colored sedan. Pattern matching should let me narrow it down, but I can only do so much.”

  “Keep trying. The hospital called. His wife is going to live. She’ll be awake in a few hours, and I want to be able to tell her that we found her daughter by then.” With a hiss, Dax pulls off his tinted glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Get back to work, Wren. And…thanks.”

  There’s no mistaking his dismissal, and I hurry away as he mutters, “Goddamn migraine. Not now.”

  Anxiety tightens in my chest again, and I force down one of my pills with a swig of cold coffee before I turn to my second screen. What I’m about to do…so illegal. But before our client, Misty, went into surgery, she told Dax and Ford that she’d found email messages between her estranged husband and a known sex-trafficking ring operating out of Portland, Maine. If we don’t find the deadbeat soon, he’ll sell their daughter, and none of us will be able to forgive ourselves.

  The traffic camera network security in Burlington is a joke, and before the anxiety pill even takes effect, I have a partial plate and footage of the pervert heading north out of town on Route 2.

  “Come on, come on. Where’s the girl?” I advance and rewind the footage a dozen times, until finally, I see a shadow moving in the back seat. Not confirmation, but I’ll take any possibility she might be alive as a good sign.

  I follow the car—a late model Ford Taurus—until it leaves the city and run some quick calculations in my little notebook. Faster that way, leaving my computers free to try to break in to the state’s EZ Pass system.

  It’ll only take the scumbag another two hours to get to the outskirts of Portland—if that’s even where he’s going. After that, we could lose the kid forever.

  “Yes!” Pumping my fist as the Turnpike’s network firewall crumbles in the face of my code, I run the partial plate, triumph welling in my chest as it comes back with a match.

  “Dax!” I yell and jump up, then curse as I bang my knee on the leg of the desk, snag my ankle, and fall to the floor with a bone-jarring thud. “Dang it. I found him. He got onto the highway at Exit 87B five minutes ago heading east. Average highway speed of sixty-three miles an hour!”

  By the time I extricate myself from the tangled mess of wires under my desk, Dax is relaying my info to his friends at the New York FBI office. I hover at the door until he’s done, fiddling with my green pendant—a gift from my brother and one of the ways I deal with my anxiety. The emerald glass warms in my hand, and having something to do with my fingers helps calm my racing heart and eases the tightness in my chest.

  “Wren?” Dax raises his head, his brows furrowed as he ends the call.

  Taking two steps into his office, I shift from foot to foot. “How long until we know?”

  “Not long.” With a sweep of his hand, he invites me to sink into his guest chair, then swivels to his file cabinet. When he sets two glasses and a bottle of scotch on the desk between us, I blow out a breath. I should keep pounding the coffee—just in case, but Dax doesn’t share often, and we’ve been on thin ice since Zion disappeared.

  I pour, nudge one of the glasses towards Dax, and flop back against the soft leather. “I think the daughter’s still in the car. But I can’t be sure.”

  “If she’s not…”

  The scotch burns a trail down my throat, roughening my voice. “I know. We’ll never find her.”

  We sit in silence for the next ten minutes until Dax’s phone buzzes on his desk, making both of us jump. The pretty British voice announces, “Ridge calling.” His FBI contact.

  He fumbles for the phone, nearly knocking over the bottle of scotch in the process. “Dammit,” he snaps as he closes his fingers around the lump of plastic and glass.

  “Ridge,” he says. “Tell me you got him.”

  After a brief pause, Dax drops his head against the high back of his ergonomic chair. “Thank God. She’s unharmed?” Another pause. “I’ll be at the hospital in an hour. Bring her there. Her mother will want to see her. There’s an aunt she can stay with until Misty’s recovered enough to go home.”

  My fingers find their way to my pendant again, and I stroke the smooth surface until Dax ends the call. “You did it, Wren,” he says. “They pulled him over just north of exit 95. The kid was asleep in the back seat. He’d given her a sedative, but the agents were able to wake her up and confirm she’s not injured. Good job.”

  I shudder as the anxiety seeps out of me, almost like a deflating balloon. The meds, scotch, and relief at saving the girl all combine to leave me exhausted. “Th-thanks. I’ll…uh…see you tomorrow.”

  For a brief moment, a frown curves Dax’s lips, but then he nods. “I know it’s late. If you want a day off…”

  “No. I need to work. I’ll be here.” I rise so fast, I almost knock over the chair. “You need anything before I—”

  “No.” His curt dismissal makes me flinch, and I kick myself for offering. The man hates letting anyone help him. Hell, if he could code the way I can, he’d have found the perp himself.

  As I lock up my laptop and sling my messenger bag over my shoulder, I catch sight of the single photo on my desk, half-obscured by coffee mugs and granola bar wrappers.

  I can’t leave like this. Sweeping the trash into the bin and gathering up the mugs, I trudge into the small office kitchen, load the dishwasher, and make sure there’s nothing out of place. Only then do I return to my office and brush my fingers over the silver frame.

  “I miss you, Zion.” My baby brother smiles in the photo…his arms around me, full of promise with his basketball team crowding around us, celebrating their championship. Before everything went to hell. Before he discovered heroin. Before he disappeared. Before…

  Tears burn my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I’ve cried so much for him these past few years. If I start again, a part of me fears I’ll never stop. And tonight…tonight is a good night. I did my job. Stopped a bad man from hurting a little girl. “You’d be impressed, Z,” I say as I straighten the frame. “Big sis did good.”

  2

  Wren

  A bouquet of daisies sits on my desk when I trudge into the office the next day, with an effusive note from our client thanking me—us—for finding her daughter. Her husband is in jail now, and by some small miracle, he didn’t do more than scare the kid a little.

  “S’up, Wren?” Ford says as I stop at the coffee machine. “Nectar of the gods?”

  I stare longingly at the pot and inhale deeply. The rich brew beckons, but between the late night and the fitful dreams that plagued me during the few hours I managed to sleep…I’m already on the edge of an anxiety attack. Instead, I reach for a bag of herbal tea. “Trying to cut back.”

  “You?” He snorts. “Pretty sure you went through four pots last night.” His hazel eyes crinkle around the edges, a lopsided grin curving his full lips. “I heard all about how you saved the day. Good job.”

  “Thanks.” My cheeks flush, the all-too-familiar deflection coiling on my tongue. “I got lucky.”

  “Hardly. You’re a badass.” Ford’s our resident weapons specialist and the vice president of Second Sight. He’s also pushing fifty but has more in common with a body-builder than someone who’s not too far away from getting an AARP card.

  With a congratulatory slap to my shoulder, he lumbers back to his office, and I fill my mug with hot water. I hate tea. But my therapist insists giving up caffeine will help. Of course, she doesn’t have to pull fifteen-hour days tracking down the worst of humanity. Or live with the aftermath when we fail.

  Once I’m at my desk, I close my eyes and let the light, floral scent fill the small space. I don’t have a window. The walls are bare. Somewhere between cream and white. I cou
ld paint. Hang art. Bring in a plant. But when I’m here, my entire focus is on my screens. And the criminals I track down for Dax and his crew.

  I flop back in my chair. My eyes burn after so little sleep, and I regret not taking Dax up on his offer of a day off.

  Three times in the middle of the night, I woke up crying, dreaming of Zion as I saw him exactly six weeks ago. His bright blue eyes clear, hair washed and combed, clean-shaven, with an excited edge to his voice as he told me all about his new job—janitor at the Presbyterian Church down in Somerville.

  “I know it’s a shit gig, Wren, but when I told them about the drug charge, they didn’t even blink. Asked me if I was clean, and as soon as I said they could drug test me every fucking day if they wanted—” his cheeks flush pink, “—I apologized for the swearing. Anyway, they hired me on the spot. Even gave me the day off for court next week. I start tomorrow.”

  “That’s great, kiddo. I’m really proud of you.” I ruffle his hair, despite knowing how much he hates it. “And you’re going to keep attending meetings, right?”

  “Every day.” His eyes darken, and he takes my hands. When did he get so tall? So…adult? I half-raised him after our mom split when I was twenty-one and Zion only thirteen. I still think he should be this wiry, athletic kid, but he has a foot on me now, and though his recovery left him painfully thin, his hands dwarf mine. “I’m never going back to that life, Wren. I promise.”

  Tears line my eyes as I pull him into a tight embrace. “I’m going to hold you to that. I need you around, Z.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Except…a week later, when I went to pick him up for his court date, he was gone.

  “Wren.” Dax raps sharply on my door, and I jerk, spilling the tea all over my jeans.

  “Cracker Jacks,” I swear. Mom would be proud. Three years working for former SEALs, Special Forces, and Rangers, and I still haven’t given up my…unique spin on profanity. Courtesy of her job as a preschool teacher and her off-beat sense of humor. At least with all the time I spent lost in my memories, the chamomile had time to cool.

  I fumble for a stack of napkins in my top drawer as Dax takes a step forward, his brows knitting together. “Wren?”

  Times like these, he looks a little like a lost puppy. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m…edgy today. Spilled my tea. What’s up?”

  Reaching into his back pocket, he offers me a handkerchief, and the expression on his face makes me shudder as our fingers brush. “What is it, boss?”

  “You…uh…got a call a few minutes ago. They couldn’t reach you on your cell, so they rang the office. Marjorie didn’t think you were in.” His voice roughens as I try to mop up the spilled tea, and he takes a step forward, fumbling for the edge of my desk chair. “Wren…the city’s knocking down a bunch of buildings on the edge of the waterfront. The cops got tired of raiding the drug dens a few years ago and just let them be until…yesterday. Down in the basement of the old cannery…they found a body.”

  I can’t breathe. My entire world slows, then slams to a halt as a dull roar in my ears competes with Dax’s deep voice.

  “It’s Zion.”

  Two hours later, Dax sits next to me in a small office at the South Boston police department. With my hands clasped in my lap, I stare straight ahead, keeping my emotions locked away where they can’t hurt me.

  I wanted to come alone. But Dax…for all of his faults, he cares about everyone in the office like we’re his family. And I guess…we are. But after he put up Zion’s bail—and lost ten grand when Z never showed for his trial—we’ve been…distant.

  “Miss Kane? I’m Detective Raskins.” The rumpled, skinny man sits across from us and opens a Manilla folder. I fixate on a shock of his straw-colored hair sticking straight up on the side of his head. Anything to avoid the inevitable. “You are Wren Kane, aren’t you?”

  At my side, Dax clears his throat and covers my hand with his. “Wren.”

  The contact shatters the little bubble with only me and the detective’s cowlick, and I nod. “Yes. You…f-found my brother?”

  Raskins slides a photograph towards me, face down, but doesn’t take his hand away. “The cold weather this spring...probably the only reason we got an ID at all. Dental records gave us a partial match, and between that, his driver’s license, and this…”

  When he flips the photo, a dull roar fills my ears. Someone’s squeezing my heart. Hard enough that I wonder if it’s about to burst. The purple, green, and gray fluorite beads aren’t anything unique, but in the middle of the bracelet, a shiny silver sphere bears the inscription I special ordered when Zion got his one-month chip from NA.

  Courage

  “That’s…his,” I manage. I run my fingers over the picture, feeling the undulations in the crystals, seeing Zion fiddle with them as we sat in a Nar-Anon meeting together for the first time. “How…long ago did he…die? And…how?”

  “A month, give or take. Kind of hard to tell after a few weeks. But the basement of the cannery never got much above sixty degrees. He was found behind a stack of old pallets…which was probably why the body wasn’t picked clean.” Raskins takes another picture out of the folder.

  “Cause of death was ruled an overdose. We pulled all the usual paraphernalia out of his pockets, found the needle underneath him.”

  I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing. Choking back a sob, I shake my head and shove the picture back at the detective. “No. Not Zion. He was clean. He went to meetings every day. He had a job. He was making amends. He promised me.”

  The detective watches me with jaded eyes, then tucks the photo back into the folder. “His stash was gone, but some other junkie probably took that off him pretty quick.”

  “Zion…someone did this to him. Did something to him. Look again. Look harder!” I know I sound hysterical, though my eyes are dry. There’s no way he started using again. I don’t care about the needle, matches, spoon, and rubber tube in the picture. I don’t care he was in a known drug den. “My brother never broke a promise to me. Never.”

  “Wren.”

  Dax’s overly patient tone grates on my last nerve. “Don’t. You do not get to say ‘I told you so.’ Because you’re wrong. You’re both wrong.” Grasping my necklace to try to stop myself from landing in a full-blown panic attack, I tug on it so hard the chain snaps. A single tear burns my eye, and I blink it away, clutching the pendant in my palm until the edges bruise my skin.

  “There’s no evidence of foul play, Ms. Kane. And one of your brother’s drug buddies told us he used to hang out at the cannery when he wanted to get high. Addicts…when they relapse…it’s easy to OD.”

  Standing up so quickly the metal chair almost topples over, I shake my head. “Not Z.” I have to get out of here. I can’t…breathe. “I’ll…be…outside,” I wheeze, and with my bag clutched to my chest, I race for the door.

  Dax and I don’t speak on our way back to the office. He managed to convince Detective Raskins to turn over my brother’s bracelet, and I’m twirling it around my wrist like it’s the only thing keeping me sane. My heart still feels like it’s about to come out of my chest, but the worst of the panic is fading now that my meds are taking effect.

  As we climb the steps up from the T station, his hand around my elbow, I stare up at the bright blue sky. Rain and clouds have dominated the weather for weeks, and today…when I left my apartment, the day held such promise. Now…

  “Do you have anyone to stay with you?” Dax stops once we enter the lobby of the six-story office building Second Sight calls home.

  “I want to be alone.” I slip out of his grasp, but three steps from the door, I turn. “I’m sorry, Dax. I’ll…pay you back. Every penny.”

  “Wren, you don’t…”

  I’m out the door before he can finish his sentence. I don’t want sympathy. I want my brother back.

  Candles burn all around the living room, though from my position on the kitchen floor I can’t see any of the flames. Just
the gently flickering light painting my walls with shadows.

  I don’t know what possessed me to try to eat something—going through the motions, I guess—but the pizza has gone cold on the counter, and I can’t get up off the floor. Pixel, my little Bichon Poodle mix, crawls into my lap and starts licking my chin.

  I curl my arms around her solid body, twenty-five pounds of love with a white fur coat, tiny black nose, and brown eyes. For a long time, she doesn’t move—just snuggles closer. When my anxiety started interfering with my day-to-day life three years ago, Zion gave her to me.

  Of course, I didn’t realize at the time, but he used the money he earned from selling drugs to set me up with dog food, a plush bed, crate, leash, and license for the furball.

  Now, she’s all I have left of him. My little dog and the bracelet he wore every day for two months.

  I don’t know how to cry. If I start, I have this irrational fear I won’t ever stop. So now, I just sit with Pixel, burying my face in her fur, with this lump in my throat I can’t seem to force away.

  The image of the drug paraphernalia haunts me. After Mom disappeared, Z and I made one vow to each other.

  Never break a promise.

  Our only rule. When he was using, strung out, working for some Russian kingpin selling drugs to school kids all across St. Petersburg and lying about where he was, he kept telling me he’d get clean. But he never used those two little words.

  “I promise.”

  I begged him every time he called me—not that he reached out very often. “Promise me, Z.”

  But he never did.

  Until he came home. Escaped. Saved up enough for a flight back to the United States and showed up at my apartment at 3:00 a.m., shaking, sweating, and almost passing out at my door.