Page 9 of Faded Gray Lines
But it wasn’t darkness I ran into.
“Miss Harcourt. Going somewhere?”
At first, I didn’t see him. I just felt his hard chest and heard his winded grunt as I fell into him. I reached for the lapels of his jacket, bags tumbling off my shoulder and onto the floor when I smelled it.
Coffee and cigarettes.
It can’t be.
His large hands closed over my shoulders and steadied me in a firm grasp. “Careful there. You rush around like that, someone’s going to get hurt.”
It wasn’t until I jerked out of his hold that I saw it. Same wrinkled gray suit. Same windblown salt and peppered hair. Same deep dimple in the center of his chin.
“You,” I breathed.
“We meet again.”
But it wasn’t just “we.” Two men flanked him, each one taller and more muscular than the other.
I jerked out of his hold, the awkward twist of my feet kicking open the trash bag and displaying its damning contents. Four pairs of eyes cast downward, and everyone stared at the sin buried inside, but no one said a word.
Well, no one except for me—the one who should’ve remained silent. “Stalking is against the law, you know.”
“So is murder.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped and shook his head. “Step inside, Miss Harcourt, or we can have this conversation in a place you won’t find as appealing.”
Time stood still. My apartment was small—the living room blending into the kitchen in one modest open area. There weren’t many places to run, and with three against one, the odds weren’t in my favor.
Out of patience, he pointed toward my kitchen table, waiting with his arms crossed over his chest while his two henchmen stayed by the door like a couple of guard dogs. He sighed again, which turned into a rattling cough.
“You should quit smoking,” I blurted out, dropping into the chair. “Those things will kill you.”
“Not as quickly as those things.” Sliding into the chair beside me, he tilted his head backward at the open trash bag, the butt of Luis’s handgun sticking out. “Miss Harcourt…”
The adrenaline that had rushed through my veins all night finally stalled, sending me careening into a wall of sadness and annoyance. “It’s Leighton,” I snapped. “Let’s drop the formalities, shall we? If I’m about to die, I’d rather do it on a first name basis.”
“Okay, Leighton,” he said, leaning back in his chair. The fact he didn’t dispel my fear of dying didn’t escape me.
“Don’t I get to know your name too?”
He held my stare. “Alex Atwood.”
I continued with my false bravado, motioning to where his men still hovered against my door. “Well, I’d offer for you to come in, but it seems you’ve already—”
“Drug enforcement officer.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a leather wallet and dropped it open, flashing official looking credentials.
I gasped. Screw the bravado. “DEA? You’re…you’re a government agent?”
Brody’s voice echoed in my head.
Admit nothing. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.
As he studied my face, I wondered what secret he hoped to find hidden there. I’d never been a particularly good liar. I tended to wear my emotions like a second skin.
Finally, he rested his forearms on the table and whispered, “I know everything about you and everything you’ve done.”
