Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

“Tell me what?” Aaron leaned forward from the backseat to ask Ian again.

Phoebe was driving the getaway car to the FBI safe house—although she supposed it wasn’t precisely a getaway car, since no one was chasing them.

Ian sat beside her in the front, and Aaron in the back, next to the FBI agent, who was quietly feeding Phoebe directions. Apparently, making sure they weren’t being followed was a lengthy, tedious process of turns and turns and turns again.

“What does Phoebe know that I don’t know?” Aaron petulantly asked his brother.

And Phoebe glanced up from the road to shoot another look at Ian, who was as close to unsettled as she’d ever seen him. Tell him, she wanted to say. Tell your brother why you haven’t met your nephew yet. Tell him where you’ve been for all this time. And don’t forget to make sure he understands the reason why you were in a maximum-security prison—because you were protecting him and his family.

The look Ian shot back at her was a wry mix of exasperation and amusement, with the briefest glimpse of a flash of something that seemed sweetly vulnerable and …

Oh, crap, what was that?

Sweetly vulnerable, her well-educated ass. Seriously. If she was going to fantasize about the former SEAL, she should keep it purely physical.

There was plenty of daydream-worthy material in her memory of his pulling her out of the pool. The sensation of his athletic body, solid against her; the way her hands had slipped along the smooth, cool expanse of his broad shoulders; the way he’d unselfconsciously stripped naked afterward—proving that there was a God, because divine intervention had to have played a part in the creation of such anatomical perfection.

But no. Instead of fantasizing about the basic facts, Phoebe had added fiction. She’d seen what she’d wanted to see—that allegedly sweet vulnerability—in his eyes, even though it hadn’t actually been there.

Ian’s brother was at least partly right—she was way too attracted to this man. And Ian knew it, too, and was taking advantage. Any flash of anything even remotely sweet or vulnerable was part of his carefully calculated attempt to manipulate her.

She glanced at Ian again, this time forcing herself to be objective about what she saw. An intelligent, dangerously attractive man. “Tell him. Just do it,” she said, proud of herself for sounding so matter-of-fact. “Band-Aid pull. Nice and fast.”

“Ouch.” He smiled at her. Ruefully, with extended eye contact that acknowledged a connection between them.

Phoebe shut down any and all feelings of warmth or—God help her—tingle while simultaneously forgiving herself for being human as she gave the road her full attention.

“Sorry, little brother,” Ian said, managing to sound sincerely apologetic. “You’re gonna have to wait. This is not a conversation I’m having with a federal agent in the car.”

“You’ll have immunity,” Phoebe pointed out.

“But I don’t have it yet, so I’m not going to risk it,” he countered. “Pull over. Up here.”

“What?” Deb said from the backseat.

When Phoebe gave him a Do you think I’m crazy look, Ian reached over and pulled the steering wheel to the right, so she had to brake to a jerking stop at the side of the road. “Oh my God!”

“Wait, what are you doing?” Deb asked, as Aaron chimed in, “I’m coming, too.”

Ian answered his brother. “No, you’re not—unless you want to get us both killed. Besides, I need you to be at the safe house when Francine arrives or she’s gonna take Rory and bolt.” He was already out of the car before he turned back to say to Deb, “I need to make a stop. I’ll be two hours, tops.”

The FBI agent was adamant. “No way in hell am I—”

He cut her off. “It’s nonnegotiable, so save your breath. I’ll meet you at the safe house.”

“But you don’t know where that is,” Deb protested.

“Call me,” Ian said. “I have the burner phone. You’ve got the number. Trust me, I’m not leaving town.” He leaned in to look at Phoebe. “I know you think your law degree gives you some kind of magic shield or super-power against the Dellarosas, but it doesn’t.”

She started to argue, but he cut her off.

“I know what I’m asking is a pain in your ass, but if what I’m doing here, right now, doesn’t work—and I don’t expect it to—I am going to need your help. So will you please stick around until I get back?”

“What are you doing here, right now?” Deb repeated Ian’s words as Phoebe grudgingly nodded. “At least tell me where you’re going.”

But Ian ignored her. “Thanks,” he said, giving Phoebe one last smile before he shut the door. And with that, he was gone.

“Shit,” Deb said. “Trust me, I’m not leaving town. Great.”

“Welcome to the club,” Aaron muttered.

Phoebe pulled away from the curb, glancing up into the rearview mirror at Aaron, who also knew exactly where Ian had gone.

They weren’t too far from the hospital where Manny Dellarosa was recovering from a heart attack.

No doubt about it, Ian was intending to walk directly into the lion’s den.

Looking out for his brother yet again.

* * *

Sheldon was dreaming. Had to be.


Rory was tiny—a newborn—and crying, always crying. They couldn’t get him to stop crying.

Aaron was calm—calmer than Shel, who wanted to scream, too. He comforted both of them, his voice soothing and low. “It’s okay, little man, you’re gonna be okay. We’ll get through this, together.”

And then suddenly, he and Aaron were teenagers again and sitting outside the Brentwood headmaster’s office—knowing full well that the shit was about to hit the fan, and they were going to be outed. The school had sent a copy of the sex tape to Aaron’s brother and to Shel’s father. Jesus, his father was going to kill him.…

“You need to get out of here,” Aaron was telling him, his voice low so that the headmaster’s secretary couldn’t hear him. “Pretend to go to the bathroom, and just keep walking. Do it, Shelly, go.”

“What about you?” Shel asked.

“I’ll be okay,” Aaron promised, but the headmaster’s door had opened.

And with that, the dream shifted and changed again.

Aaron was right beside him now. He’d put his hand over Shel’s mouth, whispering, “Shhhh!”

They weren’t at school anymore, they were in their own living room, sitting on their sofa. Rory was finally sleeping.

And Aaron wasn’t seventeen anymore. He was older. He was full grown and even more handsome, with that glint that was half possessiveness, half exasperation, and half adoration in his eyes.

And that was too many halves, Shelly knew that, but that was Aaron—larger than life. It was impossible not to smile back at him, but then Aaron’s smile turned to a grimace and when he leaned close to whisper, “Don’t make any noise,” his voice was harsh and weird-sounding.

But Shel couldn’t speak, couldn’t ask why not, couldn’t move with that heavy hand over his mouth and something holding his hands and feet tightly in place—but it wasn’t Aaron, it was—

Sheldon awoke with a gasp, with a hand that definitely wasn’t Aaron’s covering his mouth.

“Shhhhh,” that same gruff voice hissed again, close to his ear, close enough so that he could feel the warmth of the man’s breath and smell the garlic he’d eaten for lunch.

Or maybe dinner. It was pitch-dark in here, wherever here was. And it was hard to tell how much time had passed since Shelly had first awakened, groggy, with his head pounding, to find himself being turned over so that his hands could be tied uncomfortably behind his back. Whoever had flipped him over restrained his feet, too, before the trunk hood slammed shut, plunging him back into darkness.

He’d been imprisoned in the trunk of a car for hours, he knew that much. Sometimes the car had been moving, but most of the time, it had been parked.

When he’d woken up again, less groggy this time, but his head still hammering, he’d been thirsty and hot. Still he knew immediately that this car was parked in a garage, probably underground. If the car had been left in the blistering Florida sun, he’d already be dead.

He’d tried to get out, but this was not your average car trunk. This one was made to contain. He’d been tied—via those plastic restraints on his wrists—to an anchor that was bolted to the body of the car.

He tugged on it now—it was still holding him firmly in place.

He was still a bit foggy on exactly how he’d gotten here. All he knew for sure was that Aaron had been in danger. There’d been gunfire at the house—lots of it. And, God, Berto had been there—Sheldon remembered that, too. It had been ten years since Shel had last seen his half brother—who’d hit him, hard, in the head. Knocking him out. After …

This was weird, but Shel distinctly remembered Berto punching him in the stomach, but pulling it at the last minute, so that the blow hadn’t hurt.

It was Berto’s hand that now covered his mouth, Shelly knew that with certainty, even as disappointment gripped him. Because although he’d been expecting to be awakened by a hand over his mouth, he’d been hoping the surprise would come from Aaron, in the form of a rescue.

Aaron was coming for him—of that Shel had absolutely no doubt.

“Shhhh,” Berto said again, and Shelly nodded his head emphatically in the darkness.

Four years older, Berto had spent most of his childhood living with his mother, who had been Daddy Davio’s first wife. Sheldon had been seven years old before he’d realized that the sullen older boy who visited once a year wasn’t just another random cousin, but instead his own half brother.

Their family had been the Brady Bunch 2.0—with Berto’s divorced father marrying Pauline and Francine’s widowed mother. They’d then had Sheldon. He was half brother to all three of them—although Pauline was much older and had been sent away to boarding school before Shelly could even talk. He couldn’t remember a time when she, too, lived at home.

But when Shel was twelve, Berto had turned sixteen, and he’d moved in with them, full-time. He’d gotten into trouble for stealing a car and was flunking out of school, so his mother washed her hands of him and passed him over to their father.

Despite their age differences, Berto and Shel and Francine became unlikely allies, in part due to Berto’s instantaneous crush on fourteen-year-old Francie, who was blond and ethereal and sweet. It had seemed a little creepy at first—like Greg Brady having a thing for Marcia. But, like Greg and Marcia, Berto and Francie weren’t really related, so Sheldon gave Berto a pass.

Who was he to judge, anyway?

They’d stayed close—all three of them—right up until Shelly was a senior in high school. Until the fiasco with the video.

Berto now released his death grip on Shel’s mouth. As he did, Shel remembered—all in a rush—that he’d been unarmed and taking cover on a neighbor’s lawn when two of the attacking gunmen had spotted him. Instead of killing him, they pulled him to his feet, and he’d realized immediately that they recognized him.

“Where’s Ian Dunn?” one had asked. “Is he inside the house?”

It had been easy to answer with complete honesty, because Shel had had no clue if Ian was, in fact, inside of his house. Although it didn’t surprise him one tiny bit that this situation had something to do with Aaron’s notorious former-SEAL brother.

Back when Shel and Aarie had worked with Ian, as part of the support team for his private-sector information-gathering business, the world had revolved around the man—and rightly so. As smart as Sheldon was, Ian was smarter. And as strong and tenacious as Aaron was, Eee was stronger and even more tenacious. The monsters that drove the man were meaner, with far sharper teeth—mostly because Ian had spent his life shielding Aaron from them.

He’d been a worthy team leader—right up to the day, about a year ago, that he’d disappeared.

“I honestly didn’t know Ian was back,” Sheldon told Berto now. He spoke quietly, quickly, suddenly scared that Berto was going to use him as bait to ambush Aaron. “And Aaron didn’t know either. I’m certain of that. He still might not know.” Guilt gripped him, as it always did when he thought about the whole mess with Francine, and Ian being in prison, down in Northport.…

His half brother’s words surprised him. “Yeah, I know, Shel, just … keep your voice down, aight? Dunn was released from prison this afternoon. Davio’s shitting bricks that he made some kind of deal with the feds, and with Manny in the hospital—because he had a heart attack … A mild one …”


Holy God, was Berto actually cutting …?

He was. Sheldon’s wrists were released from the plastic restraints that held him, and he moved his stiff and aching arms up across his chest, rubbing his shoulders and biceps as Berto used his pocketknife to cut Shel’s feet free, too.

“Can you walk?” his brother asked, closing and pocketing his knife, and then helping Sheldon up and out of the trunk.

“I think so,” Shel said, but he had to lean heavily against the car.

They were in a garage of an undetermined size, in what had to be some McMansion. He could smell the new construction—the wood, the paint, the sharpness of mulch from a freshly opened bag—even though he couldn’t see anything.

Berto was a shadowy shape. “You sure?”

“I could use some water.”

Berto opened the front door of the car without a light going on. Shel heard him close it with an almost silent click. And then a bottle was pushed into his hands. It was both already opened and warm, which was better than nothing, but just barely. He took a sip, afraid if he guzzled it the way he wanted to that he’d throw up.

His legs were wobbly, and not just because he’d been locked in a hot trunk for hours. His head still pounded to the point of dizziness.

As if he’d read Shel’s mind, Berto explained. “I had to do it. Hit you. Quick and easy. You had to be contained. If you’d fought back, you might’ve gotten badly hurt. More badly.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t thank you.”

Berto laughed, a short burst of air. “Believe me, I didn’t expect it.”

“Where are we? Is this your place?”

“No, it’s Davio’s.”

“Jesus! We’re up in Clearwater?”

“Shhh! I had to,” Berto said. “Bring you here. I live here, too—part of the time, anyway. When I’m not in Miami. And with Manny in the hospital, I’m not in Miami. He’s gotten even more paranoid—Davio. There’s GPS tracking on all the cars and … I couldn’t risk him getting suspicious. I would’ve been out here sooner to cut you loose, but I had to put out about a hundred f*cking fires first.”

“So now what?” Sheldon asked. The water, as awful as it was, was actually helping. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” Berto admitted. “I thought we’d start with the-f*ck-outta-here. Get you someplace safe, and then regroup. Figure out our next move. I’ve got a car—with no GPS signal—waiting out at the edge of the estate.”

The rush of gratefulness that Shelly felt was almost instantly replaced by disbelief. “Why would you do this?” he asked, taking a step forward to try to see his brother’s face in the shadows. “Davio’s going to find out. Those men who grabbed me—”

“Were mine. They’ll keep their mouths shut.” Berto took a step back, maintaining his distance, and Sheldon stopped. Berto may have been willing to help him, but the man still didn’t want him to come too close, maybe get some of Shelly’s gay on him.

“So you’re going to drive me back to Sarasota and just take me home?” Shelly asked.

“No, you can’t go there,” Berto told him. “The police are still all over that shit. Plus Davio’s got a team watching. I’ll take you to wherever your … whatever-you-call-him is.”

“Husband,” Shelly said. “Partner. Lover. Spouse. Love and light of my life. I’ll let you pick whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

Berto smiled at that—Shelly could see his teeth gleaming, straight and white. He’d worn braces at age sixteen, when he’d first arrived. He’d given tips to Shel and Francie on how to handle the discomfort, when they, in turn, had gotten theirs.

“Why are you doing this?” Shel asked his former big brother again. And big brother was exactly what Berto had been, to both him and France, too. Mentor. Teacher. Protector. Friend.

But that had changed. Dramatically. Drastically.

Back on the day that the sex tape blew up not just his world, but Aaron’s, Francine’s, and Berto’s worlds, too.

God, he’d been dreaming about it again, just moments ago. It still haunted him, and probably always would.

“Let’s go,” Berto said now, instead of answering him. “Be silent when we’re outside of the house—you remember how to be silent, right?”

“Just go. I’m right behind you.” Berto had taught Shelly a lot through the years. But after his time as a Marine, he could probably teach Berto a thing or two about stealth.

Together they moved soundlessly out of the garage, through a door that led into the humidity of the evening. Shel had been in that trunk for hours—it was dark outside.

There was plenty of time to think while he followed Berto into the dense brush—wherever it was that Davio was living these days, the property was huge and private. A vague flickering of distant lights marked the house of his closest neighbors—well out of visual range and earshot.

It didn’t take much imagination to wonder if his half brother wasn’t, in fact, leading him to some deserted part of some swampy land, to kill him and dispose of his body, in a warped retelling of the Snow White fairytale. But if Shel was Snow White, and Berto was the huntsman, well, that would make Davio the crazy Evil Queen, which was pretty damn funny. Or it would’ve been funny if he wasn’t worrying about Aaron and Rory—forget about the potentially impending execution-style double-pop of bullets to his own head.

But they finally reached a clearing where a car was parked, just as Berto had said. His brother got in first, sliding behind the steering wheel. At that point, Shel could’ve run, and he knew from the way Berto was looking at him through the front windshield that he half-expected him to do just that.

But there were more dangers in a swampy Florida jungle than gangsters with guns. There were alligators. Poison ivy and oak. Rattlesnakes or water moccasins or copperheads or cobras or whatever the hell else lived out here. Brown recluse spiders and black widows. Mosquitoes carrying West Nile virus …

Shelly got into the car. And it was only then, as Berto turned the key, as the car lights went on and the dash lit the older man’s face, that he turned and looked at Shel. Even though his hairline was receding at warp speed and his face was lined and tired, his brown eyes were the same as ever. Slightly amused, slightly pissed off, slightly kind, slightly crazy.

“I owe your sister,” Berto said quietly. “Big time. This is me still desperately trying to make amends. If I can.”

He put the car in gear and pulled away, eyes now on the dirt path ahead of them.

Out of all the reasons and all of the excuses Berto could’ve given, Shelly bought this one. Almost.

“So, where to?” Berto asked. As if Shel would just take his word for it—that this wasn’t a ploy to get him to lead the Dellarosas directly to Aaron and Ian.

Still, Shel played along. “Let’s head for Sarasota and get to a Kinko’s,” he told Berto. “There’s a twenty-four-hour branch on Forty-One, near Bahia Vista. Unless you know of a closer one in Tampa or St. Pete?”

Berto nodded. He knew what Shel wanted—access to a computer to get a message to Aaron and Francine. “There’s an Internet cafe right in Clearwater—we’re about fifteen minutes north of town. We’ll drive right past it.”


“I’d rather not stop in Clearwater,” Sheldon said.

“You know you can use my phone to send an email,” Berto said, anticipating Shel’s headshake no. “Yeah, I wouldn’t use it either.” He glanced at Shel again. “You don’t have to look at me like that. I’m not an idiot. I’m not expecting a miracle—I know there’s no happy ending to my story. I don’t get the girl. I know that. It’s not gonna happen. She’s never gonna forgive me. Shit, I don’t forgive me.”

Shelly had a flash then, of a memory from Christmas morning, this past year, when Aaron was on the floor with Rory, helping him tear open presents. He’d been laughing at their antics—it was hard to tell who was more excited, Rory or Aarie. When Shel had caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror over the sofa, the delight and joy that shone from him had made him pause. Take stock. Be thankful for his life and his beautiful family.

He’d come far since that awful night when his world had exploded.

But he’d also seen Francie in that mirror, on Christmas day. His sister had been sitting beside him, and although she’d been smiling, there had been a sadness on her face—a sorrow that she couldn’t disguise.

And Shel realized now, at this moment in this car with Berto, that the last time he’d seen France alight with true happiness … had been back before the disaster with that video, before Francine had gotten sucked in, so to speak, before Berto had turned on her, and in one violent and irreversible moment, embraced the life that he, Sheldon, and Francine had all been desperately trying to escape.

Now, the best Shelly could offer was, “I’ll tell France you said hi.”

“Better not to even mention me at all,” Berto said, and with that, they drove in silence through the night.

* * *

The FBI safe house was in a trendy part of Sarasota, relatively near the bay. Modest concrete block houses built in the 1960s sat beside enormous, recently built mansions. It was an eclectic neighborhood, for sure. But one thing was uniform: regardless of house size, the yards were all lushly planted and neatly maintained. And nearly every house boasted waterfront property, thanks to the series of canals that snaked through this part of town.

Phoebe knew the neighborhood well. In fact, the house that the FBI had rented was on her jogging route. She lived just a few blocks to the south, in a luxury condo complex that overlooked one of the wider, deep-water canals.

As she got out of the car, which she’d parked out of sight in a driveway that looped back behind the safe house, she had to stop and hike up her too-large borrowed jeans. She longed—desperately—for the chance to run home to shower and change into her own clothes.

Ten minutes was all she’d need, she was that close. Okay. Realistically? It would take more like twenty-five.

Still, it didn’t seem too much to ask, considering her day had included very nearly getting killed. More than once.

“I live around the corner,” she told Deb, the goth-disguised FBI agent who was wearing Martell’s shirt. But Deb held up one ebony-nailed finger, turning purposely to show Phoebe that her phone was to her ear.

There was another FBI agent already at the house, a dark-haired Asian American man with a deadpan yet friendly face, who held open the back door to help hustle them into the house. Aaron had his towel back over his head, and he went in first, clutching his bag.

“Are Francine and Rory here yet?” he asked.

“Not yet,” the new FBI guy answered.

“Shel’s bag is in the trunk.”

“I’ll get it,” the agent said, nodding a greeting at Phoebe, who let herself get herded inside by Deb, who was all huge gestures and wide eyes, with her phone still to her ear as she indicated Phoebe should go through the door first.

But once inside the kitchen, Deb beelined into the main part of the house, heading for a distant corner or maybe a room with a door as Phoebe heard her say, “Sir. I understand, but … No, sir, that’s not the case. Sir, this would be much easier if I could just speak directly to Mr. Cassidy, the agent-in-charge.…”

This house was one of the smaller, nonrenovated ones in the neighborhood. It was a single-story structure, built close to the ground as if to hug the earth in the event of hurricane-force winds. The ceilings were low and claustrophobic. The small rooms jammed with ancient motel-style wicker-and-overstuffed furniture added to the effect. The windows were old-school Florida jalousie-style—and all securely covered by blinds or curtains.

Which was the reason this house had been chosen over the vast number of upscale rentals in this area. Most of the newer places had crescent-shaped windows cut high into the walls and kept uncovered because no one could see in.

Unless they really wanted to.

The male FBI agent lugged Shelly’s bag in from the car, closing and locking the kitchen door behind him. His expression—or lack thereof—hadn’t changed. But when he spoke, there was a certain quizzical note to his voice. “We’re missing one person,” he said. He was a slow-talker, as if each word was carefully chosen. “There should be three of you, plus Deb.”

Aaron had dropped his own bag on the floor in order to open the refrigerator and the kitchen cabinets. Empty and empty.

“Ian—Mr. Dunn—had an … errand to do,” Phoebe answered, since Aaron was silent.

The FBI agent nodded. “Oh, good,” he said. “No wonder Deb’s head is imploding.”

“When my kid arrives,” Aaron announced. “He’s going to be hungry. There’s nothing to eat here.”

“I haven’t had a chance to stock the place with food yet,” the FBI agent said, looking from Aaron to Phoebe. “I’ll do that next. If there’s something you want in particular—”

“Diapers,” Aaron listed. “Baby food and formula, but a very specific kind. Rory has allergies.”

“Write it down, please,” the man said gesturing toward the yellow laminated counter, where there was a long narrow pad and a pen. He’d already started a list that included toilet paper and dishwasher detergent. He held out his hand to Phoebe as he introduced himself, partly because she was closer and partly because Aaron was now giving his full hostile attention to filling that pad. “I’m Yashi. Joe Hirabayashi.”

Phoebe already liked him. She shook his hand and said, “Phoebe Kruger. I’m Ian Dunn’s lawyer. I’m only here until he gets back, to make sure he has what he needs.”

Yashi blinked. Just once. “Is that what Deb told you? Because I’m pretty sure you’re here for the duration. That’s what makes a safe house safe. Civilians aren’t allowed to come and go.”

Allowed? That was not a happy word, considering the amount of work on her desk. “I’m used to keeping secrets,” Phoebe said. “Lawyer-client privilege?”

“Of course,” Yashi said, but then added, “This is different.”

“I’ll discuss it with Deb,” Phoebe said.

He nodded. “Good.”

Aaron, meanwhile, had finished his list. “The irony is that I had a car full of groceries when this bullshit started. Can you get this stuff now, please? Before Rory gets here? I’ve already heard him cry enough for a lifetime.”

“I’ll do that,” Yashi said, reaching for the list. “I’ll pick up some pizzas, too.”


“Bless you,” Phoebe said.

He smiled at that—a microscopic movement of his mouth. He held out the list to her. “Anything to add?”

“No, I’m fine,” she said. Like she’d said, she didn’t expect to be staying long. But breakfast had been a long, long time ago, so pizza would be a win. “Thanks.”

“Tell Deb where I’ve gone,” he ordered. “If someone comes to the door, don’t open it—go get her.”

“Understood,” Phoebe said, glancing at Aaron who was silently moving both his and Shelly’s bags into the living room.

“Lock up behind me, please,” Yashi said as he went out into the evening.

Phoebe did, locking both the button on the knob of the door and a thumb-turn bolt that was above it. Neither would be particularly effective against someone with a burning desire to kick the door open.

She turned back to find Aaron vanishing into the gloom of a hallway opposite the one Deb had gone down. “I’m going to find a shower,” he announced, “and take one, before Rory gets here, while I try not to throw up.”

“Ian will get Shelly back,” Phoebe said.

Aaron stopped, and slowly turned around to look at her. “You really don’t see it, do you? That you’re already a high priestess in the church of Ian. Don’t worry, you’re not the first. He has that effect on almost all women, across all continents.”

Phoebe laughed her embarrassment, turning it into a disbelieving scoff. “You’re wrong. I’m really not—”

“Yeah whatever,” he said. “I’ve heard that before, too.” He vanished down the hall.

Leaving Phoebe standing there, completely alone.

Deb was still on the phone at the other end of the low-ceilinged but sprawling house.

And Phoebe knew in that instant that Deb was not going to let her leave. Not to run home to change or to grab her own—what did Ian call it? A go-bag. She was going to be locked in here despite the fact that she wasn’t in danger. Apparently Jerry Bryant had been working for Manny Dellarosa, and regardless of what Ian believed, Phoebe knew—knew—that someone in Manny’s line of work would not harm one of his legal advisors.

And she also knew, in that instant, what she had to do.

Leave.

Now.

Before Deb got off the phone.

Go home—it would take her five minutes to walk there—take a shower, wash the chlorine out of her hair, put on jeans that actually fit, grab the clothing and work files she needed and …

She’d be back before anyone missed her, long before Ian’s couple of hours were up. If Yashi could go out into the world and run an errand, surely she could, too.

Phoebe shouldered her still-damp bag, opened the door—checking to make sure that she could trigger the lock in the knob, even though that deadbolt would stay open. She pushed the button in and shut the door behind her and …

It worked. It was secure.

She went briskly down the driveway to the sidewalk and headed for home.