normally, but Mason did check all the vehicles that have been outside the compound since you joined us. We could have missed something, though. The only time a tracker could have been added is when we went to Dr. Franklin’s house. We thought there were two people hiding nearby, but there could have been a third.”
Then she remembered the business card. She pulled it from her jeans pocket and turned it over. It read The Stirling Institution and nothing else. No contact name, number, or address. The card stock was a rich cream color and heavy. Expensive. She scowled and muttered. “Weird.”
“What?” Mallory asked, voice heavy with curiosity as she took the card. “Where did you get that?”
“The shooter must have dropped it when he was fighting with Brax.”
Both men had drawn closer as they spoke, Aaron careful not to look at her sitting in just her jeans and bra. She might have found his discomfort amusing, even endearing, under other circumstances.
“You’ve heard of it?” Brax asked Mallory.
He couldn’t keep the scowl from his voice or shield the protectiveness he was feeling from his thoughts. Man, they took defending their women just a little too seriously. Mallory apparently knew how to take it stride, though. She smirked.
“And you haven’t.”
“Mallory.” His voice was low, almost gentle, but the warning and demand were easy to read. The younger woman’s smile widened.
“It’s about an hour northeast. It’s a very exclusive, very expensive mental health facility. Where the well-heeled and influential send their family to dry out or get them back on their meds and stable.”
Brax frowned. “How do you know about it? I’ve never heard of this place.”
“I have a friend from school who went to work there.” She shrugged. “Apparently the security is insane. Permanent lockdown. But the pay is so good staff turnover is nonexistent.”
“Aaron, you know anything about it?”
“Not really. It’s well outside our jurisdiction. And the kind of people who can afford care like that expect total discretion from the facility. If they have any problems I’m sure they handle it in house or with mediators.”
Why on earth would a place like that be interested in her? Brax apparently wondered the same thing. His expression was thoughtful, considering.
“Mallory?” Brax asked. “Can you ask your friend about this place? Discreetly.”
She nodded. “Sure. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
While she’d spoken, Mallory had done the sutures. She covered it with a large bandage and backed up.
“All done. Keep it cleaned and bandaged, and get it looked at in a few days.”
Esme nodded she understood. Mallory gave her a sympathetic look and pulled a notepad from her shirt pocket. “I need to ask you about the fire.”
“I wasn’t there. I can’t imagine I’ll be any help.”
“You never know,” Mallory said. “Tell me what Sunday morning is normally like in the building.”
Her condo was one of four in what had once been a stately Victorian mansion. All of the units were three stories and roughly the same size, about two-thousand square feet. The place had as much character as the rest of its residents: the artist who lived behind her, the young goth couple next store, and the retired judge who lived behind them.
“Was anyone hurt?” she asked and felt awful that she hadn’t thought about them before.
“No, everyone got out fine.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “What happened?”
Mallory gave her a slight smile. “Tell me about Sunday mornings first.”
She wasn’t sure what was behind the request, but didn’t see the harm in it. “Nothing special. I get up about eight and sit on the porch with a drink and the paper. Sometimes one of the neighbors will join me.”
“No breakfast?” Mallory asked lightly.
“Not me. Star cooks breakfast every morning, really early. She likes to be done before dawn. Something
Then she remembered the business card. She pulled it from her jeans pocket and turned it over. It read The Stirling Institution and nothing else. No contact name, number, or address. The card stock was a rich cream color and heavy. Expensive. She scowled and muttered. “Weird.”
“What?” Mallory asked, voice heavy with curiosity as she took the card. “Where did you get that?”
“The shooter must have dropped it when he was fighting with Brax.”
Both men had drawn closer as they spoke, Aaron careful not to look at her sitting in just her jeans and bra. She might have found his discomfort amusing, even endearing, under other circumstances.
“You’ve heard of it?” Brax asked Mallory.
He couldn’t keep the scowl from his voice or shield the protectiveness he was feeling from his thoughts. Man, they took defending their women just a little too seriously. Mallory apparently knew how to take it stride, though. She smirked.
“And you haven’t.”
“Mallory.” His voice was low, almost gentle, but the warning and demand were easy to read. The younger woman’s smile widened.
“It’s about an hour northeast. It’s a very exclusive, very expensive mental health facility. Where the well-heeled and influential send their family to dry out or get them back on their meds and stable.”
Brax frowned. “How do you know about it? I’ve never heard of this place.”
“I have a friend from school who went to work there.” She shrugged. “Apparently the security is insane. Permanent lockdown. But the pay is so good staff turnover is nonexistent.”
“Aaron, you know anything about it?”
“Not really. It’s well outside our jurisdiction. And the kind of people who can afford care like that expect total discretion from the facility. If they have any problems I’m sure they handle it in house or with mediators.”
Why on earth would a place like that be interested in her? Brax apparently wondered the same thing. His expression was thoughtful, considering.
“Mallory?” Brax asked. “Can you ask your friend about this place? Discreetly.”
She nodded. “Sure. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
While she’d spoken, Mallory had done the sutures. She covered it with a large bandage and backed up.
“All done. Keep it cleaned and bandaged, and get it looked at in a few days.”
Esme nodded she understood. Mallory gave her a sympathetic look and pulled a notepad from her shirt pocket. “I need to ask you about the fire.”
“I wasn’t there. I can’t imagine I’ll be any help.”
“You never know,” Mallory said. “Tell me what Sunday morning is normally like in the building.”
Her condo was one of four in what had once been a stately Victorian mansion. All of the units were three stories and roughly the same size, about two-thousand square feet. The place had as much character as the rest of its residents: the artist who lived behind her, the young goth couple next store, and the retired judge who lived behind them.
“Was anyone hurt?” she asked and felt awful that she hadn’t thought about them before.
“No, everyone got out fine.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “What happened?”
Mallory gave her a slight smile. “Tell me about Sunday mornings first.”
She wasn’t sure what was behind the request, but didn’t see the harm in it. “Nothing special. I get up about eight and sit on the porch with a drink and the paper. Sometimes one of the neighbors will join me.”
“No breakfast?” Mallory asked lightly.
“Not me. Star cooks breakfast every morning, really early. She likes to be done before dawn. Something
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