“She doesn’t know
She wasn’t making sense, and Quin had little experience talking to killers. What was she supposed to say to this girl? This wasn’t the Maggie she knew.
“You are special,” she said quietly. “You were always special. I saw that the minute we met.” And in some ways she had-she’d been enamored of having a little sister, and thrilled to have a secret she’d kept from Nora.
“You’re just saying that.”
“I’m not. I’ve always liked you, Maggie. We are so much alike.” That’s what Quin thought before finding out Maggie was a killer.
Maggie looked at her as if she didn’t know whether to believe her or not. “I don’t believe you, not after I killed your boyfriend. Why, Quin? Why did you pick him over me?”
For a moment, Quin thought Maggie was talking about a
“I liked him, but it wasn’t you
“No!” Maggie shouted, and began to pace the length of the cabin. “You don’t understand! You’re just like everyone else. Don’t placate me. Don’t pretend we’re friends, because we’re not. The only reason I talked to you was because you gave me information I needed.”
“What? I never-”
“Little things. Like Nora is allergic to peanuts.” Maggie picked up the jar of peanut butter. “This might come in handy. Face it, Quin, you’ll be better off without her.”
Quin couldn’t remember ever telling Maggie about the peanuts, but maybe she had, in conversation. She’d had a lot of talks with Maggie, mostly about growing up … with Nora. Missing her mother. Not understanding why Nora never let her see Lorraine. Complaining, always criticizing Nora.
It was no wonder Maggie thought Nora was to blame for everything. Quin had blamed her, too.
“Please, Maggie. Stop this right now. You can leave and disappear and it’ll be over.”
“No!” She kicked Quin in the stomach so hard and suddenly that the chair fell backward. “I can’t stop this. I don’t want to stop this. It has to be finished.”
All air rushed from her lungs and Quin couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, the pain spreading from her gut so fast she thought she’d pass out. She focused on taking shallow breaths.
Maggie walked past Quin on the floor and went into the bathroom. She was talking to herself and Quin made out a few words here and there: Prison. Traitor. Hopeless.
When Nora said Maggie was crazy, Quin hadn’t believed her.
She shuddered. She sure as hell believed her now.
At the former Mather Air Force Base, where J. T. Caruso housed his small plane, Duke pulled Sean aside.
“Be careful, Sean. You just got your license in June, you don’t have a lot of solo hours logged.”
“You’re doing it again, Duke.”
He wasn’t going to apologize for caring about his family. “I’m worried. Not just about you, but about Nora.”
“You really care about her.” Sean raised an eyebrow. “I’m not going to crash, Duke, I promise.”
Sean was the only one Duke had confided in about being nervous when flying; ever since their parents’ small-plane crash. Sending Sean and Nora in the air to fly to Victorville to talk to Lorraine Wright was hard, but it had to be done.
Duke was staying behind, because Nora had asked him to.
“Okay,” Duke said.
“You’re fueled and ready, Mr. Rogan,” the attendant said to Sean.
Mr. Rogan. Duke didn’t think he’d ever heard Sean addressed as such.
“I’ll get Nora,” he said.
She was talking on her phone, making arrangements with Warden Greene for landing privileges on prison property. “We just don’t have a lot of time, Warden. This is the fastest way in and out. Please.”
When her shoulders relaxed, Duke knew she’d gotten her way.
“Thank you.” She hung up and smiled wearily at Duke. “We’ll be there between four and five this morning, and he’ll let me question her immediately. I will find out where Quin is.”
“I know you will,” he said, though he had his doubts. Sending Nora down there was a risk. If Lorraine was playing a game and didn’t know where Maggie was, then Nora was going to waste precious time and suffer emotionally. She hadn’t seen her mother in twenty years-Duke had wanted to go with her. To support her.
“Thank you, Duke,” she said. “For staying. I need you here, helping find Quin. You can do more than the FBI can.”
He read between the lines. And while he did have some abilities that weren’t sanctioned by the government, he didn’t think they would help now. But he would pull out all his resources, human and otherwise, to find Nora’s sister and the killer who’d abducted her.
“Call me, okay? As soon as you leave the prison.”
She nodded. Dark circles sagged her eyes. He leaned over and kissed her, then pulled her into a hug. She squeezed him back, clinging to him. He whispered, “Remember, Nora, you’ve overcome your past. Don’t let her drag you back down there. Be strong, and know that I’m here waiting for you.”
Duke reluctantly let go of Nora and helped her step into the Cessna. He closed the door and stepped away from the plane. Why was it so hard to let go? But he did. While Nora needed his support, she needed him to find Quin more.
He watched the plane under Sean’s command roll toward the runway, where he stopped, waiting for the okay from air traffic control. Duke realized at that moment the two people he loved the most-his brother and Nora English-were leaving in a plane eerily similar to the plane his father had been flying when he crashed in the Cascades.
Duke couldn’t protect everyone he cared about 24/7. The plane quickly picked up speed as it traveled down the runway. Then it was airborne, and disappeared into the inky black night.
Duke wasn’t surprised that J. T Caruso was in the office when he turned the key at four that morning, but he had something else to do before greeting him.
He slipped into his office and closed the door. The desk light was on, and that was all he needed. He strode across the room and sat in his executive chair and opened the bottom drawer.
His Colt was still there, its bullets boxed and waiting.
For thirteen years he hadn’t needed a gun, and in that time he hadn’t lost a client or a case. And though Nora was a trained FBI agent with strong instincts, and she certainly hadn’t hired him, he still considered her his case. He was her consultant, and he’d promised to keep her safe.
He might need a weapon other than his brains and brawn. There was too much at stake to continue to appease his guilt.
Duke reached into the drawer, grabbed the Colt, and automatically checked the magazine and barrel. Both were empty.
He loaded a magazine with seven bullets, slammed it into the grip, chambered a round, then popped out the magazine to fit another round in and slammed it back in again, double-checking that the safety was on. It was an automatic process, something he’d done over and over until he could load and unload, clean and put together his gun in his sleep.
He cleaned this gun on the first of every month, so he knew it was in good working condition, but he hadn’t held it loaded in thirteen years.
He pulled his holster from another drawer, threaded it through his belt, and holstered his gun. He filled two more seven-round magazines and pocketed them.
He only needed one bullet, but he was a Marine. Marines were always prepared.
Duke heard voices from Mitch Bianchi office at the opposite end of the hall, but first went to talk to J.T. in his
