Page 92 of See How They Hide

“Michael, go,” she heard Matt say, “I got her.”

The door closed, and Michael sprinted to catch up to her.

“He was sitting at the bar, I don’t know how long,” Kara said as they ran down the stairs. “I alerted Dean.”

Kara glanced at the bar. The beer was there; Anton was not. She shouted at the bartender, “Don’t touch that glass!” as she and Michael headed to the main door.

She didn’t see Dean anywhere. Before they reached the entrance, the doors opened and two staff members were escorting Dean back into the lobby. He was unsteady on his feet and blood dripped down his face.

“Truck. Waiting out front,” Dean said.

Kara and Michael ran outside. The icy cold hit her hard; she only wore a lightweight blazer to conceal her weapon. They didn’t see Anton or a vehicle leaving. But to the right of the second set of doors was blood in the snow and a scuffle of footprints.

“Well, shit,” Kara said and went back inside.

Michael followed. “I’ll talk to security.”

“Get that glass on the bar, he drank from it. We might get prints, DNA if we’re lucky.”

She walked over to where Dean was sitting in the lobby. He had an ice pack on his head.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“I pursued the white adult male you identified as Anton as he exited the building. Told him I was FBI and to stop. He didn’t. When I opened the second set of doors, I saw a dark green Ford truck idling outside, but didn’t see the suspect. I was then hit from the right. I grabbed him, but he hit me again and jumped into the truck. I couldn’t pursue, but noted a female in the driver’s seat and Colorado license plates. My vision was cloudy, and there was exhaust distorting the numbers. Maybe security has a good shot of the driver and plates.”

“Michael’s on that.” She texted him the information about the truck.

She wanted to yell at Dean for not falling in step behind her when she got up. She had assumed he would. But he wasn’t Matt or Michael or even Sloane, who was a rookie but would have instinctively risen as a security precaution. Dean wasn’t part of their team, and she had become so confident with her team and how they worked together that it threw her off.

She wouldn’t let it happen again.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, and she was surprised he apologized. He was her superior, Matt’s superior, and she didn’t expect an apology. She expected him to justify himself or not address it at all. “I was making notes—I should have gone with you. I thought Riley was just making an excuse for not wanting to talk about her mother.”

Riley was odd, but Kara was beginning to trust her instincts. She went back to the table and looked from that angle. Where Anton was sitting couldn’t be seen from Riley’s place at the table; Kara would have had a partial view of him, but she wouldn’t have recognized him.

Now she would never forget his face.

She called Matt to inform him of the situation.

“Tell Dean to have the hotel medic look at him, if they have one. Otherwise he should go to the hospital.” Matt sounded irritated. She didn’t blame him.

“How’s Riley?”

“Frozen. She’s sitting on the couch, not talking.”

Riley was a fighter, but seeing Anton had terrified her into inaction. Kara had practically pushed her all the way up the stairs. Whatever happened in Havenwood had deeply affected Riley. Maybe abuse, physical or psychological. Maybe another type of violence. Kara needed to find a way to shake her out of that fear, but didn’t know how. Riley’s response could be the difference between life or death—for Riley, or for someone on Kara’s team.

“Matt,” she said, keeping her eyes on the room, wondering if there was someone else from Havenwood here, watching, “Riley identified the man at the bar as Anton. If they didn’t know she was alive before, they know now.”

“Sloane is on her way back to help with security. George Stewart can stick with Jim and help him with whatever he needs at the Morrison house and morgue.”

“Good,” Kara said.

“Kara, I think you should come back to the room,” he said, his voice low. “Riley responds best to you. You might be the only one to convince her to pick up her pencil and draw us Anton’s face, and anyone else her mother may have sent.”

“Five minutes,” she said and ended the call.

33

---