Page 86 of Three Steps Behind

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“I’m not really up for lecture hour,” she said, an edge to her voice.

“No lecture here,” he said, hands held high. “I was just asking.”

“I think that’s enough questions for tonight.”

“Okay, if anything comes to mind about Dalton, let me know. Even the tiniest detail can lead the way.”

“Will do. Now, I’m heading to bed.” She stood and headed for the door.

“Sleep tight,” he said.

She turned to look at him, a quizzical look in her eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

“It’s just something someone used to say to me.” She left it hanging there. Moving to the door, she turned and waggled two fingers.

He watched her walk across the hall to her apartment, then waited until she latched the door before going back into his. Sitting down again in his chair, he raked a hand through his hair. Why was he so drawn to the woman? She was just a mark when he chased her across the country, and now . . . He didn’t know. Something had shifted, and he couldn’t put his finger on it, but it didn’t bode well.

He checked the FBI surveillance out front for any sign of Dalton’s men and waited until Bristol was probably asleep, then he finally crawled into bed. A few hours of sleep might not be a bad idea after all. All seemed still, but he never knew when things might hit the fan, so best to get some shut-eye while she was safe across the hall. Safe for the moment.

He lay there, his arms behind his head, his fingers interlocked. Father, please keep Bristol safe. She’s right about being bait, and it bothers me. I don’t like sending her in like that, not with a man like Dalton Shaw.

But he had no choice. It came down from the boss, and it was his job to follow orders. Besides, they needed Dalton Shaw behind bars. Even more so—and Bristol couldn’t know this, according to his boss—they needed the man above Dalton. They needed the big fish.

He shook his head. He was turning to clichés. But Dalton really was just the middleman. They wanted the head of a snake.

But Baxter insisted they keep her in the dark, which didn’t sit well with Aubry’s conscience.

Unable to sleep, he got up, grabbed a glass of water and moved for the front window—yet again. This time a car sat outside, down about a block on the right. Its lights were off, but he’d seen it before. One of Dalton’s numerous cars.

Did that mean he distrusted Bristol, or was he trying to protect her? Or was it a fine line in the middle?

Aubry’s job was to make sure Bristol got the information they needed, but it was also his job to keep her safe in the process. But what if that wasn’t possible? What if something went sideways? Would they sacrifice her to get Dalton? Baxter would without a second thought.

Thirty-Four

DECKARD LAY IN BED, the covers tossed to the side, his pillow crushed under his head. Sharp ice pellets bounced off the windowpanes like tiny knives stabbing the glass. He hoped the windows didn’t crack under their pulsing force.

But it wasn’t the ice keeping him awake. It was the beautiful woman in the living room. He’d offered to stay up with her, but she insisted he get some rest. He prayed she got the same. She was running on fumes. Barely nodding off for a few hours each night before the nightmares returned.

Getting to his feet, he strode to the window. The cold floor penetrated a chill deep in his feet, snaking up his legs. He hopped as he moved, trying to stave off the cold wrapping itself around him. Time to throw another log on the fire. He moved for the hearth and grabbed the poker to jab the embers back to life, then added another log.

He rubbed his hands, and his mind flitted back to his dad. Seeing him after all these years of being free from him . . . as terrible as that sounded. But they’d never truly be free until he was behind bars, just like their mom.

He exhaled. Of course their dad was alive, hiding like the coward he was. At least their mom had taken a hit for it, landing in prison for a twenty-five-year sentence.

He tried to shake off the thoughts, but they sneaked back to his childhood and the destruction he’d been reared in.

Don’t let him get to you. He’s not coming back into our lives. I won’t let it happen.

He was just about to toss himself back into the bed when a high-pitched wail echoed from the living room.

He bolted down the hall and into the living room.

He searched Harper’s panic-stricken face as she sat up on the couch, her hair matted to her face. “It’s all right,” he said without thinking in an effort to soothe her.