Walk In My Shadow: A Gripping Romantic Thriller (Mirror Book 3): A Mirror Novel (7 page)

"Can't let that happen."

"Just let me go. Have to let me go. He promised to and now he can't…"

"I never made that promise, Angel. Never will."

* * *

V
ance had been pacing
a hole in the floor waiting for Knox's call. When it finally came through as a FaceTime call, his "How's Abby?" came through a little too fast.

Knox paused and then said, "She's hot." Vance heard himself growl through clenched teeth. Of course, Knox laughed. "Guess she's got you by the balls."

Vance couldn't argue. "Just keep your hands off her."

Knox shrugged innocently when he was so goddamned not. "You sent me to her."

Vance trusted Knox. Implicitly. As in, he'd take a bullet for the guy.

As in, he had taken a bullet for him when they'd served side by side in the SEALs.

Knox had never met Ethan, but he knew the whole story about what was going down in Ethan's life, with the stalker. With his death. And finally, with Abby.

In fact, Knox had been watching the entire time Vance was interrogating Abby. Because Vance hadn't wanted anything to happen to her. When she'd thrown herself into the lie detector machine, he'd cursed himself that he hadn't seen it coming. But she'd been too smart to do anything before he got back. She'd known she was on closed-circuit camera.

She was too damned smart for him.

He didn't mind a damned bit. "Just watch her six. And yours."

"Will do. She invited me back anytime, by the way," he added quickly before hanging up.

Vance heard himself growling again. Dammit. And he would protect Abby against her will. He tried to give her a wide berth but he was dealing with someone used to covert ops.

Her instincts were as good as any seasoned agent he'd seen. Given her family history, he had no doubt it was due to a blend of training and genetics.

Made his job more of a challenge, and it had already been that times a motherfucking million.

She was stubbornly cautious. She believed him that she was in danger. She covered her six. Checked for tails. Never took the same route home twice.

But Ethan's killer knew where she lived. She could take a million different roads home and the stalker could simply wait for her to tire of the ruses and come home.

She had to know that too.

A
bby spent
the next day resting, something she hated. But she was still technically on her 'vacation' and her witnesses was well covered. So she did as little as possible physically and she swore whatever Knox put in his IVs was working.

She'd refused to take the pain pills. Above all else, she didn't need to be groggy.

Instead, she'd paid her bills, organized some paperwork and then sat down and went over her conversations with Ethan pre and post break up.

Ethan Graves is dead, ma'am. He was killed in the line of duty eleven months ago.

The knock on the door was in conjunction with her phone ringing.

Vance. She answered with a weary, "Hello," and was greeted with, "I'm coming in—are you decent?"

"Never." She hung up on him and called, "I have a doorbell."

He came into the living room. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine."

"You're lying down. Knox said you could do some damage if you were up and about too much."

"You're lying."

"Maybe Knox didn't want to tell you anything."

"Hmmm. Maybe. We didn't spend a lot of time talking."
Zing.
The look on his face was priceless. "No other guys to send who I can chase through the woods?" she added innocently.

"If that was your idea of chased—"

She pointed to her ribs. "Injured, remember? And it doesn't matter that I didn't catch him. I
made
him."

He sat next to her on the couch, as she was more curled than sprawled. "I'm sure you'd make them all, but it took you long enough."

"Fuck you."

"So I've decided to take over."

"Again, fuck you." She smiled as she said it as sweetly as possible. "Feel free to send Knox around though."

"Not happening."

"Maybe if I talk to him?"

"Not. Happening."

Well, well, Vance was possessive. A possessive, kidnapping asshole. Her plan was to throw him as off-balance as he'd thrown her. She needed intel. She'd get it any way she had to. "So you knew about me—about me and Ethan. And you decided I didn't deserve to find out he'd been killed until now?"

"Yes."

God, she hated him. She understood the necessary lack of emotions, for his job and for hers, but this was her ex. This was personal—no way around it. "What's the threat level from the man who killed him?"

Vance continued to stare at her steadily.

"That high?"

He sighed. She noticed that the ace of spades tattoo was gone but the tiger remained. She hadn't expected that. "Enforcer," she murmured.

"Got it in Thailand. They do it with wooden spikes, hammer the ink into the skin bit by bit."

She wanted to trace it with her fingertips. Thankfully, the tug in her side reminded her not to. "Glutton for punishment?" she asked instead.

He considered that, then drawled, "More like that sweet, fine line between pleasure and pain. Just like you, Angel."

In order to distract him—and herself—she admitted, "I have to tell you something."

"You want to kiss me, Angel? Go right ahead."

Her palm itched to slap his smug face. Probably because kissing him was never far from her mind, their night together replaying itself whenever she tossed and turned. Which was pretty much nightly. "It's about Ethan."

His expression turned serious. "Go ahead."

"I didn't tell you that he called me, the night before I got the package from him—the first one. Right before you kidnapped me."

"Ah Angel, don't be like that. Let's call it more of a safekeeping situation."

She rolled her eyes and continued. "Look, I didn't tell you because—"

"Because it was a shitty, scary-as-fuck thing and you thought you were talking to Ethan." Vance's voice was gruff with emotion.

"Yes." She paused. "He told me—"

"That he loved killing the way he loved you," he finished bluntly.

"Is there any part of my life you don't know about?" she asked.

"No. And that's not changing anytime soon, Angel."

* * *

T
he next afternoon
, Abby decided to take herself out to lunch. Her ribs felt moderately better, or maybe she was just used to the low level of shooting pain emanating from them.

Of course, Vance followed her in his stupid serial-killer-looking van.

He hadn't called or come inside the diner, and she had to wonder how high-profile an agent he actually was.

She told herself that he had to be low level in order for them to give him permission to guard her.

She knew, in her heart, that he was far more high level, which meant the amount of danger she was in exceeded the amount of energy she wanted to expel thinking about it. She was already busy fending off Teige and Jacoby's constant inquiries about her time off…and she’d had to come up with a way to explain her needing even more time to recuperate from her "vacation."

So she’d lied and told both men she'd hurt her ribs doing boxing for her training on her first day home. There wasn't much she could get past them and this injury wasn't one of them, because it put her semi-out of commission for too long. They were used to her being up and out, running, going to the gym, not sitting around.

She finished her meal, worked on some emails for work, texted
I'm fine
to Jacoby a thousand different times and ways and then grabbed extra take-out for later.

When she went out to her car, Vance was waiting for her. She refused to look at him, flicked her locks open and put her things into the back seat.

He wasn't moving. She could try to run him over, which would be satisfying but would also require way too much paperwork. Or she could talk to him, again, which was exhausting in its own way.

Exhausting to pretend she wasn't hurt and angry at what he'd done.

Exhausting to pretend that she wasn't in mourning for Ethan, who, at the heart of things, had been a friend. A confidante.

Exhausting to pretend that his murderer wasn't a possible serial killer.

Exhausting to pretend she'd had it all together before any of this happened, because she didn't. "Vance, I don't need your help."

"Right. Forgot. This is what, your third run-in with a possible serial, so you're an old pro. Unless third time's the charm…for them."

Her lip curled. "God, you're an asshole." She crossed her arms, cocked her head and stared at him. "On second thought, stick close, and maybe he'll get you first. Worse comes to worst, I'll use you as my human shield."

"Hey, if that makes you happy." He opened her passenger's side door without another word. After a brief hesitation, she joined him in her truck and jerked it away from the curb.

"Good job—no one can follow you with the shitty driving," he said, clawing for the seatbelt.

She ignored him, turning the radio on instead, nice and loud. An 80s metal hit blasted through the speakers and she opened her window and sang along.

She had a terrible voice, but she was having a hell of a good time. When she pulled into her garage, she asked, "Are you spending the night in that stupid van again?"

"Maybe."

"I'm surprised my brother hasn't spotted you yet."

"I'm a professional, Abby. Besides, he's got to know something's up." He shrugged. "Maybe it has to do with the fact that you’re telling him you’re on sick leave this week."

So Vance did know everything about her life. She was tired. What Vance was doing seemed like an extension of the kidnapping and questioning. "I'm going inside. But first, you have to tell me."

"What?"

"Ethan. Is he really dead? You saw a body?"

"Yes."

If Vance—and the CIA—truly knew for sure that Ethan was dead, it had to follow they didn't think him capable of, or culpable for the killings. "Do you have any idea who killed all those people and tried to pin it on him?"

After a long moment, he said, "Yes," and she turned so fast the pain shot through her ribs. "Yes? Yes! And you're just telling me now because…"

He glanced up at her, unconcerned with her yelling. "Because this is the first time you asked."

The anger welled up inside her more fiercely than ever. So if that was how it was going to work, she wasn't going to wait for Vance to share. No, she'd rapid-fire question him at every turn, because despite his pleas of honesty, it was all still completely on his terms.

Until now. "Name and age of the suspect. In fact, run the profile for me. If there's more than one perp, run each and every one including last known whereabouts."

He didn't look ruffled, just nodded. "I'll send you the information you've requested." Then he took her bags from her and walked her to the door. She didn't protest. Not until he told her, "I have no problem giving you the information, but you need to be careful with it. You can't research. You can't leave a trail."

"Because I'm in danger."

"Yes."

She nodded, her key in the door. And then she turned as if to take the bags from him but instead, she had another plan. "So are you really concerned for me?" She pushed the flat blade of the knife hard against the denim between his legs. "Or are you using me to catch a killer?"

He raised his brows. "Which answer lets me keep my dick?"

"Neither."

"Christ." In a swift motion, he flipped her around to press against her front door and held the wrist with the knife pinned behind her back. "Stop fucking with people you can't win against."

"Haven't come up against one of you yet," she spat.

"Stubborn thing. You're about to make a scene, Angel."

"Get off me."

"Not until we get a few things straight."

"You want to protect me and catch a criminal. So you'll tail me until whoever's impersonating Ethan is captured or dead. How am I doing?" She hadn't released her grip on the knife, hadn't even loosened it a touch.

"I understand why you're finding it hard to trust me."

"Thanks for that," she said sarcastically. "Warms my heart."

He sighed. Held her in place and slammed her wrist a few times against the house to force the release of the knife. When it scattered across the porch, he shoved away from her and pocketed it.

She was still moving too slowly for her liking. She opened her front door and eyed him warily. He just walked away, but she was sure he heard her say, "So much for protection," right before she slammed her door.

This is what, your third run-in with a possible serial, so you're an old pro. Unless third time's the charm…for them
.

Her thoughts shifted to her neighbor, Willa Mueller and her tarot cards. Willa always did spreads of three for Abby. Never more, never less.

"Three is your number. It just feels right," Willa had explained.

Oh, the goddamned irony.