Of course, Flo Talley was one of the very few non-bureau people in the world that she half knew at all. Jac forced herself to relax and look at the woman who was an elderly version of Miranda. Flo Talley had a good heart. That mattered more to Jac than anything else in the world. “Of course. She tends to do that sometimes. But don’t worry; the people of PAVAD tend to take care of each other in return.”
“Of course, sweetie. You’re a good friend. I’m glad Miranda has you.”
Jac just smiled and nodded. She had to get out of here. All of this small-town, loving-family stuff was starting to make her feel like she was drowning.
Jac left the diner quickly after a small smile and hello to the big auburn-haired cowboy who had definitely been shooting her an interested look. Maybe next time she was in Masterson—she suspected there would be one; Miranda could be convincing and liked to drag Jac into situations she wouldn’t normally go into—maybe next time she’d grow a bit of courage and actually go on a date with a cowboy.
She was smiling over that when she rounded the corner and spotted the black duffel bag in the middle of the sidewalk.
Jac recognized it immediately, but she bent down and checked the ID tag just to be certain.
Dr. Allan Knight. He wouldn’t have just dropped his duffel bag for no good reason. Not Mr. Stickler.
No. Something was wrong. She’d bet good money on that.
Jac knelt down and pulled the small pistol from her ankle holster. Thanks to her father’s training, she never left home without a weapon. Ever. She grabbed the duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder.
It took her less than two minutes to make the walk to the inn.
She dropped the duffel bag just inside the front porch. The front door was wide open. Every instinct she had flared, and Bureau training kicked in.
Something was wrong. Deadly wrong.
Jac stepped inside.
66
Knight heard the scream first. He vaulted over one of the small white fence panels and ran over the cobblestone path that led to the kitchen entrance, almost tripping over one of those ducks. The dog had beaten him there, growling and snarling at the back door. Knight wasn’t about to let her inside.
Someone shouted nearby. He turned. A tall man with sandy brown hair jogged up to the fence that separated his home from the inn. There were four children playing in his yard. They’d all frozen to watch what was happening. “What’s going on?”
“FBI! Get the kids inside and stay there!” Knight didn’t have time to deal with civilians. There was shouting coming from inside. Screeching. “Call the sheriff!”
“Will do! Stay safe!”
The man took off toward the playing children, scooping the smallest one up into his arms and herding them toward his three-story Victorian almost two city blocks away.
Knight shoved open the back door, using the training that had been drilled into him long ago.
He saw the blood first.
Then Miranda.
He barely missed taking a knock to the head when something swung out toward him. Only years of defending himself saved him the headache. And the fact that he was over a foot taller than his attacker. And heavier by a good eighty pounds.
Knight dove low and lunged straight toward the threat.
67
Miranda had never been more grateful to see someone than she was Allan Knight. She’d thought he’d rented a car and left hours ago.
Thank God he hadn’t.
Monica turned toward the bigger threat immediately.
“Don’t move!”
Knight was as cool as ever. And he had his service weapon pointed right at Monica. “I think that’s my line. Monica Beise, I assume?”
“Monica was there that day, you know?” Miranda was fighting the urge to pass out. She had to get to Dixie. Her cousin had shifted once. Just once. “Yeah, apparently we missed something. Monica was there, and she was the one to argue with her grandmother. She hit Helen hard enough to knock her out with her vampire stake there. Monica convinced her mother to bury Helen. Pauline asked Jim to do it. Monica’s mother got a bit squeamish at doing the dirty part, I guess. Monica went back inside to get her sisters packed while Pauline helped Jim wrap her mother up in that quilt. I made assumptions because people told Clint they’d seen Monica in town that day. No doubt they had. She left to go buy the trash bags they packed in at the market—while her mother was burying the body. We missed it. My fault; my bad.”
Monica had told her exactly what had happened that day. Had relished it, gloated. While standing directly over Dixie.
“No kidding. That happens a lot with PAVAD.” Clear sarcasm now. She had barely thought Knight was capable of it.
Monica was still waving the stake around. Miranda wished she could get to her feet and rip that from her hands and just show her what she deserved for daring to lay her hand on Miranda’s family. “My cousin…hurry…Monica broke my arm. Ribs. Probably my head, too. But Dixie…help her.”
The entry door from the lobby to the kitchen swung open, just as someone shouted FBI! Miranda wanted to close her eyes in relief. Reinforcements.
Jac stepped inside, weapon drawn, pointed right at Monica. Jac and Knight could take care of just about everything between them.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Monica bellowed and turned, lunged for the newest threat.
Jac neatly sidestepped. Monica pivoted and somehow kept coming. Straight toward Miranda again.
Miranda reached out with her left leg and tripped her. Monica tumbled to the floor. She scrambled to her knees and came at Miranda again.
And then Monica was on her.
Miranda might be injured, but she still had her legs—and one good arm.
She slammed out her arm, her elbow going straight into Monica’s face.
Then Knight’s hands were there, wrapped around Monica’s ankle and dragging the woman back with a rough jerk and curses.
Monica slammed against the antique porcelain sink. She fell to the floor with a screech next to
