Page 40 of Stealing Daddy's Heart

I turn, my body tensing instinctively. A nervous-looking assistant hovers nearby, clutching a tablet to his chest like a shield.

“Yes?” I ask, keeping my voice level and steady.

“There's an issue with your car, sir,” he stammers. “It's blocking a delivery at the loading dock. They need you to move it right away.”

I frown. My car is in the designated spot; I'm sure of it. But arguing won't solve anything. “I'll take care of it.”

The loading area is quieter than the main gallery, the excited chatter replaced by the beeping of a reversing truck.

A lone figure in a delivery uniform stands by my car, his back to me, but his posture is all wrong. He's too alert. This isn't about my car at all.

“That your car?” he asks gruffly, pointing to my vehicle.

I nod, reaching for my keys. “Problem with my parking?”

The man smiles, all teeth and no warmth. “I was admiring your ride. Reminds me of one I used to have. Back when life was simpler.”

I play along, my tone casual but my nerves on edge. “Is that so? Quite a coincidence.”

“Life's full of them,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine. “Beautiful things, coincidences. Beautiful things are often fragile, wouldn't you agree?”

My jaw tightens. “I don't believe we've met. You new around here? You look familiar.”

He chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. “Oh, I get that a lot. Must have one of those faces, you know?”

I hold his gaze, refusing to rise to the bait. “Well, I'll be sure to move my car. Wouldn't want to cause any trouble.”

The man's eyes harden, though his smile remains fixed. “Trouble has a way of finding people in our line of work. Even those who think they're untouchable.”

I meet his gaze steadily, my words measured. “Funny thing about trouble—it has a way of finding its way home. Often with interest.”

For a moment, the façade drops, and I see the cold calculation in his eyes. Then the smile is back, brittle as glass. “Indeed it does. Enjoy the exhibition. I hear it's going to be memorable.”

I watch him go, my mind racing.

Memorable faces? Bullshit. This is a Scarpetta man, no doubt about it. But why the charade? What game is he playing?

I pull out my phone and dial George's number.

George's voice comes through, sounding distracted. “What's up?”

“We have a problem.”

I recount the encounter at the loading dock, my words clipped and urgent. “It was a Scarpetta man, I'm sure of it. They're circling, George. We can't ignore this anymore.”

George sighs. “We've been over this. The Scarpettas are all talk.”

“All talk?” I spit out. “This guy was at Skylar's gallery. He made thinly veiled threats about 'beautiful things being fragile. We need to tell her what's going on.”

“Tell her what exactly?” There's a pause, then a sigh. “Maybe you're reading too much into things.”

My free hand clenches into a fist. “It wasn't just some delivery guy. He knew things, George. He?—”

“What things, Garrett? What exactly did he say that proves he's Scarpetta?”

“I know what I saw, George. This wasn't just a vague threat. They're watching her, and they're not being subtle about it,” I insist, my voice rising.

“So, no actual proof then?” George's dismissive tone grates on my nerves.

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