Out of Uniform (Wingmen Warriors 14)

Chase sauntered forward. Smugness mushroomed from his every step like an insidious threat. “Even if there was money missing, how’s Jacob gonna know you didn’t take it?”

He stopped almost toe-to-toe with her. The lobby suddenly seemed small…and deserted. Wind moaned through the eaves while Dee struggled not to flinch. How could she and Jacob both have misjudged this kid?

Chase didn’t look much like a kid at the moment.

The phone shrieked through the silence. They both twitched, but Chase didn’t budge.

“Fine, Chase. We’ll play this your way.” She pivoted away to dismiss him, cowardly, maybe, but she wanted him out of the lobby. Now. She reached for the phone.

His hand fell on her shoulder. Dee’s stomach lurched as if she’d taken a wrong turn off a mountain curve.

Show no fear. Regardless of how he looked he was just a kid. Pull out the adult authority, put him in his place and get him out the door.

Dee plastered her best “schoolmarm frown” in place and shrugged his hand loose. “Chase, step back.”

His bravado slipped. Dee almost sagged with relief—until his eyes narrowed with a male arrogance meant to intimidate, insult.

The phone stopped ringing.

Where was the child who’d swung a shovel at snowballs? The boy who’d chased his girlfriend through the snow, the young man who held his baby tenderly?

Chase ambled forward, forcing her to retreat until the backs of her legs pressed against the computer chair. He smiled, but it wasn’t pleasant or in any way childish. “You have quite a rep around here thanks to all the gossip. No secrets in this town. People aren’t sure what to think of your whacky amnesia claim. You’re not in any position to be talking trash about me.”

His eyes journeyed a slow drag down her body and back up again, lingering on strategic places.

A shiver trickled down Dee’s spine like a melting icicle. Without another word, she pushed past him. Maybe she could lock herself in Jacob’s apartment. Chase’s hand snaked out. He grabbed her shirtfront.

“Not so fast.” He twisted the fabric, yanking her forward. “Where do you think you’re going?”

The chill iced all the way through her veins.

Where do you think you’re going?

His words echoed in her head, deeper pitched.

Where do you think you’re going?

A Midwestern twang sounded, rather than Chase’s local lilt.

Fear gripped her tighter than Chase’s fist on her shirt. Dee’s feet tangled. The shirt pulled taut. Panic frothed, higher, higher still, until she screamed. Couldn’t stop screaming. “No!”

“Calm down.” Chase eyed her warily. His hold on her still unrelenting, he shook her. “Don’t get wigged out or anything. Hey now—”

—not so fast, growled the Midwesterner’s voice, a voice from her past.

Dee jerked. Buttons popped from her shirt. She backed away, her steps clumsy and haphazard, until she slammed against the soda machine. Her teeth jarred. She slithered to the floor and huddled, teeth chattering.

In her mind, other buttons popped loose. Coat buttons. She swallowed back the nausea and watched pearl buttons spiral across the tile until they blurred into larger, black buttons from her coat.

You’re not going anywhere with my kid. I’ll kill him before I let you see him again, Deirdre.

Pain slashed behind her eyes like a needle piercing her skin. White-hot, then frighteningly cold, like a deep sleep or even death. Through the pain emerged a suffocating gush of memories.

She remembered her name.

She remembered her child. Her son.

Both of which might have been cause for rejoicing. Except nausea choked her as, God help her, she remembered her husband.