Hidden Steel by Doranna Durgin Page A

recognize as confidence. When she’d arrived at the gym, she’d needed him—she’d needed help. Now he wasn’t sure she needed anyone.
    She said, “Only hurry is to get you there before you fall over.”
    “Excuse me,” he said, unable to stop that defensive ruffling. “But I’m fine.”
    “Uh-huh,” she said. “I know. Self-defense instructor.” She poked his side and he grunted, doubling until he caught himself. “You shouldn’t have come after me.”
    Finally. Someone who didn’t want his help. Not any longer, anyway.
    He thought it should be easy to turn around and walk away.
    It should be easy .
    And yet he didn’t.
    Maybe he’d figure it out later. For now, he straightened himself up and tried to ignore the flicker of … something that made it easier than expected. Hope?
    Not likely. Belatedly, he said, “No poking. Let’s go.”
    She lifted her hands to look down at herself, a distinct hey, I’m ready to go gesture. And they went, an inconspicuous pairing of a homeless amnesiac with no discernible panty line and a buff Greek gym rat who’d had the stuffing beaten out of him.
    When they reached the cop mini-shop—hardly more than a red tape outlet in a storefront—Steve straightened his shoulders enough to remove the last vestiges of fetal hunch and put a little casual saunter into his step. Mickey said, “I’ll catch up with you when this is all over, tell you whatever I find out. I owe you that much. Plus a pizza.”
    He felt her puzzlement when he didn’t respond, and was impressed with how she somehow faded out of sight as he took the bag of weapons and walked them up to the storefront. Flyers filled the glass-fronted case beside the door, official-looking notices of classes and community resources, and he would have ignored it all and casually deposited the bag if he hadn’t been caught by the small patch of flyers off to the side, shadowed but still legible. Lost pets, lost people …
    Lost Mickey.
    Jane A. Dreidler, and a photo of amazingly bad quality with Mickey—Jane?—looking dazed. No real details, just a phone number and a plea that the missing woman had been ill.
    In that moment, his hope plummeted.
    But he couldn’t quite lose it all. Not that suddenly. And if he hung around here any longer, he was going to grab the attention of the uniformed woman behind the high counter. For the moment she was bent over paperwork, but it wouldn’t last.
    He set the bag against the door and took himself back out to the sidewalk.
    She was gone.
    “I know you’re here somewhere,” he said through his teeth. “And I’m going to march back in there and tell them about Tank Top Woman if you don’t—”
    Somehow, she was behind him. “You were supposed to go in .” She glanced over her shoulder at the center and took him by the arm, walking him away from the well-lit plate-glass storefront and the cop within. “You were supposed to get help. ”
    “Jane A. Dreidler,” he said.
    Her expression didn’t change, but her fingers tightened on his arm. “Where did you hear that name?’
    “I read it. Where are we going?”
    “To someplace with a bed. Read it where?”
    He gestured back at the center. “Right there. They’re looking for you.”
    “Already knew that much,” she said, tugging him off the sidewalk to jaywalk over to the next block. “As it happens, now I’m looking for them. Don’t tell me they put up one of those posters?”
    “Milk carton could be next.” He took a bad step on at the curb and would have fallen had she not kept her hold on his arm. “They said you’re sick.”
    “You should have gone in.” The turn of her head hid her face, but couldn’t hide the sound of her scowl.
    “I thought you’d want to know.” He caught his balance and his breath and added, “Jane.”
    She snorted. “That’s what they called me, and it’s a name I know, but … it’s not me.”
    “You sound pretty sure.” He suddenly realized they were heading for the local