Page 61 of Ace of Spades
The man sat at the bus stop, sandwiched between a teenaged girl wearing earbuds—her head bopping to the music she was listening to even as her thumbs furiously typed out a text—and a woman and her fussy young boy. He guessed the little brat was around three or four years old, and the man would very much like to have wrapped his hands around the boy’s neck until he shut up.
The FBI building was across the street from the bus stop, the people on the bench with him serving as camouflage as he waited for his angel to appear. Would she have his flowers with her, maybe even let him see her touch her nose to them as she smelled them? Would she smile?
Although he wished he could use his camera to take a close-up photo of her when she came out, that would be too obvious. Instead, he had his phone’s camera open, ready to capture a picture to add to his collection.
How long would she make him wait to see her? He glanced down the street. The bus was about four blocks away, with one stop to make before it reached his bench. Once the people giving him camouflage got on, he would be sitting here alone, making him too noticeable.
His gaze darted between the approaching bus and the FBI’s front door. One block to go now. He would have to fade into the background and wait for new people to come and sit. The building’s door swung open, and he jerked his head to the right, exhaling a loud breath when his angel walked out with the man he was going to kill for touching her. He just had to figure out when and how.
The man wore his usual jeans and black T-shirt, and like always, his long hair was in a ponytail. He’d been coming and going out of the fed’s building lately, so he must be an FBI agent. But didn’t they all wear suits and ties, like the other men who walked in and out that door? Had she possibly hired a bodyguard? Or was he her boyfriend, one who couldn’t seem to let her out of his sight?
His questions were forgotten when he realized she wasn’t carrying his flowers. Rage colored his vision when the man in the black shirt put his arm around her shoulder, and she leaned her head against him. He brought his camera up, but before he could snap a picture, the bus arrived, its airbrakes making their whooshing sound as it stopped, blocking his view.
By the time the new passengers had boarded and taken their seats and the bus moved on, his angel and the walking dead man had disappeared.
He slammed his phone against the bench, then, after seeing he’d cracked the screen, he did it again and again, until little pieces of glass were scattered over the wood seat.
“I want him to come in with me,” Taylor said after Dr.Gleason introduced himself. “He’ll know what questions you need to ask me.”
“I’ll bring him in once you’re in a hypnotic state,” Dr.Gleason said. “Until then, he’ll be a distraction.”
Nate would have insisted on it, but it was better that it was her idea. She’d been nervous on the drive over, worried that it wouldn’t work. Or that it would, and that she might learn things better left alone. Nate had briefed the doctor when he’d called, and Dr.Gleason had spent a few minutes explaining to her what would happen, his easy manner seeming to calm her.
After Dr.Gleason took her away, Nate paced the confines of the waiting room. Was this the right thing for her to do? She had no memory of her mother’s murder, but according to Rosie, Taylor had witnessed it. What if she couldn’t deal with remembering that night? If that happened, he would help her get through it.
“You can come in now,” Dr.Gleason said.
Nate glanced at his watch. He’d expected it to take longer than fifteen minutes. He followed the doctor into the room, his gaze going straight to Taylor. She was sitting in a chair, which surprised him. He’d expected to see her reclining on a couch.
“She’s in a deep state of trance,” Dr.Gleason said. “I’ve taken her back to the night her mother was killed. Right now, she thinks she’s sleeping. You’ll also be able to ask her questions.”
“Will she remember what we talk about?”
“If I tell her to, she will. I asked if she wanted to remember, and she said that she does.” He gestured to a chair a little off to the side of Taylor. “You can sit there.”
Dr.Gleason took the seat in front of Taylor. “Taylor, if I say the wordblue, you will go to sleep again. And if I sayyellow, you will wake up and tell me what you see. Do you understand?”
“Uh-huh. Blue sleep, yellow talk.”
Nate had researched hypnosis after Taylor had agreed to it and had read that hypnosis subjects sometimes reverted to the age in question, but he was not prepared for the change in her voice. It was disconcerting.
“Yellow, Taylor. I’m waking you up so I can ask you some questions. I have a friend here, too. His name is Nate, and he’s a very nice man. He’s also going to ask you some questions.”
“Is he one of my mommy’s friends?”
“No, he’s my friend. If he asks you something, you can answer.”
“Okay,” Taylor said in her little-girl voice.
At hearing Taylor’s question about her mother’s friends, Nate wondered how much she’d understood at that age about her mother’s life.
“What woke you up that night, Taylor?” Dr.Gleason asked.
“Yelling. My mommy was yelling. She never does that.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Get out.’ I think the man is hurting Mommy.”
