The Prey (18 page)

He excused himself and went into Rowan’s den for privacy when he saw it was a restricted Washington-area number. “John Flynn.”

“It’s Andy.”

John straightened and crossed over to the blinds to look out onto the driveway at nothing in particular. “You have something?”

“You owe me big time.”

“You know I’m good for it.”

Andy snorted. “I could get fired. This goes up to Roger Collins.”

“Shit. Bad?”

“Don’t know. Just the facts. He and his wife Grace were the legal guardians of Rowan since she was ten.” John’s entire body tensed as Andy continued. “It was buried deep, but I found it on her name change papers. Her name was changed when she was ten.”

“Ten years old?” John repeated.

“She was born Lily Elizabeth MacIntosh.”

“Her parents?”

“You asked me to run similar crimes to the Franklin murders? Well, at first I came up with the standard murder-suicides.” He paused. “You really owe me, Flynn.”

“Go on,” John said, teeth clenched. His head started pounding, as if sensing what Andy had discovered.

“Well, all Rowan Smith’s juvenile records are sealed, but I found that name change, and then started searching MacIntosh. On a hunch.”

“And?”

“Nearly twenty-five years ago Robert MacIntosh killed his wife. Two minor children were taken into protective custody. Their names were expunged, but guess who the FBI assigned to the case.”

John’s stomach sank. “Roger Collins.”

“Bingo.”

MacIntosh. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Roger Collins took ten-year-old Lily MacIntosh into his home, became her guardian. Why? Witness protection program? Didn’t she have other family?

What about the other surviving sibling—male or female?

“Did the father kill himself?”

“He’s in a mental institution in Massachusetts.”

“Are you sure?”

“Shit, John, I couldn’t exactly call them and ask. Collins has markers all over these files. If I didn’t trip something already it’d be a damn miracle.”

John was going to have to push Rowan. Tonight. He had no other options. “Thanks, Andy. I really appreciate it.”

“If I get fired, I’m coming to you for a job.”

“You’ll have one.” John hung up and pondered the incredible information Andy had dumped in his lap. He always trusted his gut. And his gut told him Rowan’s past was crucial to this case.

Lily. She’d freaked out when she’d seen the lilies, and if Adam did in fact speak to the murderer, the killer knew about Rowan’s past and was using it to torment her. The surviving sibling? A brother? A brother who was possibly as dangerous as his father?

John couldn’t help but wonder if the dark pigtails were connected. Or the nightmare she’d had about Danny. Her boyfriend? Husband? Son?
Brother
?

Tonight, she was going to tell him. John didn’t doubt he could get her to talk as long as Michael wasn’t around to hover over her like a mother hen. If Rowan didn’t tell him everything, and soon, the bastard would go after her.

The thought made him ill.

Hours after Rowan’s movie premiere, Michael stepped into a North Hollywood dive spoiling for a fight.

He sauntered over to a stool near the end of the bar and nodded to the bartender. “Scotch, double. And a draft.”

He was off duty, after all, put on leave by his traitorous brother. John had told Quinn Peterson, the arrogant prick, that he hadn’t had time off in a week, and Peterson agreed. Dismissed him.

Leaving John alone with Rowan.

He downed half his Scotch and let the heat of the alcohol warm the icy pit in his stomach. He scowled at some hooker making eyes at him from the other end of the bar and turned away from her.

John had had the audacity to throw Jessica in his face yet again. John didn’t know what had really happened between Michael and Jessica. If he had, he’d know it had been even worse than he thought.

Jessica was a beauty. Long, dark hair and big chocolate-brown eyes. She was being stalked by her ex-boyfriend. Michael had been assigned the call.

She’d been so grateful for his help, truly feared for her life, so Michael gave her his cell phone number and told her to call him anytime. She did, and he found himself going over to her house virtually every night.

They ended up in bed and Michael fell in love. She needed him, relied on him, and he relished being able to protect her.

But she hadn’t been honest with him. He told himself it was because she was scared, but deep down Michael knew she’d used him. He believed she loved him in her own way, but she needed him for more than protection against a stalker. Her stalker was not her ex-boyfriend, but her husband, a low-level crime boss.

She’d ended up telling Michael that returning to her husband was the only way she could stay alive. Michael tried to convince her to run away with him, that he could protect her, that they could start over in another state, with new identities, anything. To do anything but go back to her husband.

Yet she went. Two years later, her body was found floating in a drainage ditch in the San Gabriel Mountains.

Michael tossed back his Scotch to drown the memories.

Rowan was nothing like Jessica. Yes, she needed him, and he would be there for her. But the feelings he had for Rowan went so much deeper.

John just wouldn’t listen. He’d pulled Michael aside after the premiere when Rowan was talking to the producer Annette. Told Michael he looked tired and should take the night off. Michael tried to explain that he needed to be there to protect Rowan, and John threw Jessica in his face. It wasn’t the same situation, but John didn’t understand.

Then John pulled a fast one. The FBI relieved Michael from duty for twelve hours, but he knew it was John’s doing. John escorted Rowan home.

Asshole.

He took a long gulp of beer. Sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Michael realized that maybe he himself was the one who was being an asshole. He’d blown this conflict with his brother out of proportion, letting his ego get in the way of the truth.

It wasn’t John’s fault. Michael really had fallen for Jessica. Hard. He’d loved her. He might have started in the role of knight in shining armor, but somehow, over time, it had developed into much more than that. He’d overlooked so much she did, so many things she lied about, all because he had loved her.

He owed John an apology. Some of the things Michael had said tonight were way out of line. Especially about Rowan.

For the first time, he realized that Rowan and Jessica were really nothing alike. He cared about Rowan—he really liked her—but he wasn’t in love with her. Maybe over time—but it wasn’t the same. Not like Jessica. When he saw Rowan running with John he detected a partnership, a similar style, a streak of independence and something else. Something more.

When this case was finally put to bed, could he live with the fact that John and Rowan might have something together? That John attracted Rowan and he hadn’t?

His ego might have a problem, but he was a big boy. He’d get over it. First thing tomorrow, he’d tell John . . . something. Smooth things over. Hell, he could never stay mad at his brother for long.

Someone slid onto the stool next to him, and the bartender brought over a premium Scotch.

“You look like you lost your best friend,” the stranger said. “Buy you a drink?”

Michael shrugged, glanced at the guy. Suit, tie, polished shoes. Forties. Businessman. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said, turning back to his beer. “Just an argument with my brother. It’ll pass.”

The businessman nodded to the bartender to pour two doubles. Michael shook his head.

“I’m done.”

“Working tonight?”

“No, I’m off.”

“Then another drink can’t hurt, right?”

Michael considered. He hadn’t had a night off in a week. He supposed a buzz wouldn’t hurt. “Thanks, pal,” he said.

“Pissed off at your brother?” the businessman asked.

Michael shook his head. “Not anymore.”

When the bartender placed the drinks in front of them, Michael said, “
Salute
.” He drained half the Scotch. He hadn’t eaten that night and wondered what he had around his apartment to fix. Nothing. He’d been staying at Rowan’s.

He finished the drink and played with a basket of beer nuts in front of him. He supposed he could walk down the street and grab fast food on the way home. The thought made his stomach queasy. But at this time of night, he didn’t have many options.

Michael planned to buy the businessman a drink as he left, but when he looked up, the guy was gone. Just as well; Michael certainly didn’t need another one. Two doubles and a beer on an empty stomach didn’t sit well.

He stood, tossed down a tip, and left. Fast food, then home. His apartment was only two blocks from the bar; that was why he’d picked it. Then he’d sleep off the buzz and be ready to tell John that Rowan was all his—as long as he didn’t hurt her. Michael cared about her, and John played hardball. In work and with women.

Michael fully intended to live up to his responsibilities as a bodyguard, and while he owed John an apology for some of the things he’d said, his brother had to understand that this was still his case and he wasn’t going to be pushed aside again, no matter what John thought. Then they could arm wrestle, best two out of three, and the loser could buy the winner a six-pack.

Michael smiled. He could never stay mad at John for long.

Rowan had gone up to her room to change as soon as they’d arrived back at the beach house. John took the opportunity to secure the perimeter, get out of the monkey suit, and slip into jeans and a black T-shirt.

And stew over his fight with Michael.

It had been a low blow to pull Peterson into the mix, John admitted to himself, but Michael needed a night off. He was losing his objectivity. But when John told him as much, Michael looked ready to deck him.

John regretted his end of the conversation. He hadn’t wanted to fight with his brother; he hadn’t wanted to remind him about Jessica—again. He simply needed time alone with Rowan to get her to talk, knowing she wouldn’t say word one about her past with Michael hovering over her.

John had to find out the truth about Lily MacIntosh and her father. How it fit in with this lunatic running around, he didn’t know. But somehow, it was connected. It was the only thing that made sense.

He hoped Michael would forgive him. He was sure he would once he saw through the haze of his anger. They’d had worse arguments in the past, but when push came to shove, they stood by each other.

When Rowan hadn’t come down thirty minutes later, John went up to her room and knocked on the door. “Rowan, we need to talk.”

“I’m tired. Good night.”

“You’re not getting off the hook that easy. Open this door or I’ll break it down.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me. Lily.” His heart raced. It was a gamble, but he needed to get her to open up to him. To trust him enough to tell him everything.

He didn’t say anything and neither did Rowan. Several minutes later, he heard the bolt slide open. He braced himself as she opened the door.

Hatred was etched on her face, her jaw clenched, her neck throbbing, her hands in tight fists by her side. But her eyes—they weren’t filled with hate. They showed only one emotion: pain.

“Rowan—” he began. Then she came at him with her fists, hitting his chest over and over.

“Who told you? Who told you? You bastard! How dare you invade my privacy! How dare you!” She ended in a sob and he grabbed her wrists and ushered her into the bedroom.

“Tell me everything.”

“What, you don’t know?” she said bitterly. “You obviously found out my name is Lily.” She pulled away from him, her hair whipping his face as she turned abruptly and crossed the room to stare out the window. It was dark outside, pitch black. He saw her reflection in the glass, the agony of her defeated expression, and his heart skipped a beat.

He hated doing this to her, but it was the only option.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Your name was Lily Elizabeth MacIntosh and Roger Collins became your guardian when you were ten. You were born in Boston and your father is still there.” He saw her eyes grow wide in the reflection. “And I know where he is.”

She turned and faced him, her chin up. “But you don’t know why?”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I want you to tell me.”

“Why? You know everything. How long did it take you to dig up those files? Four, five days? Nice job.” Her voice cracked at the end.

“I’m afraid you don’t have another day, Rowan,” he said, his volume increasing. “I think he’s coming after you, and I can’t protect you if I don’t know who I’m fighting against. I think you know. I think you know exactly who’s murdering these women.”

Her mouth dropped open. “If I knew, I’d tell you. I have no fucking idea who’s doing this!” She closed her eyes and John watched as she gathered her strength. He wanted to go to her side, console her, coddle her.

But she’d clam up. This was the only way.

“Convince me.” He sat on the edge of the bed and crossed his arms over his chest.

Rowan opened her eyes and stared at him. She hated John Flynn. All her fears, all the pain she’d buried for so long, filled her heart. She was at the breaking point. Was this what it felt like to lose your sanity? As if a million pounds of pressure pushed at you from within, threatening to explode?

Her chin quivered, and she tightened it, turning to face the window again. Everything had come down to this. No matter what Roger said, how much he’d reassured her over the last week that these murders had nothing to do with her past, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone knew about Dani. Who? She had no idea. Why? Why would he go after her now? After all this time? Who had she hurt so much that he wanted to destroy her?

Was Roger too close to the situation to see it clearly? She had relied on his wisdom and his strength for so long, she didn’t question his judgment. He’d been more a father to her than her own, more a mentor than any of her many partners. She loved and trusted him. But what if he’d missed something? Something important?