yard, feeling the gravel through her thin slippers. Slowly and out of practice, she surveyed her surroundings before approaching the van. Her heart trampled inside her chest, the rush she had once thrived on now terrifying her.
With a deep breath, she moved on. When she reached the van, she lay her hand on the handle. Was he inside, waiting to shoot her? Her gut said no. He had been in her bathroom as she showered. He'd had plenty of opportunity to kill her then. And he hadn't. She shoved the dread from her mind and concentrated on the van.
Stepping out of the path of whatever might spring from inside, she tightened her fingers and tried to pull the door open. Her fingers cramped, and she couldn't get a grip on the handle. Frustration caught in her throat.
On the back side of the van, she found the door partially unlatched. She pulled the latch up, and the door fell open. Casey groaned as a man's weight toppled her, throwing both of them backward.
The gun fell out of her hand, her grip too clumsy and weak to hold on. She landed hard on her back, knocking her head on the pavement. She flailed to escape. Fighting with the dead-weight, she rolled out from under the body, and pushed herself away.
Standing, her legs collapsed and she fell again, crawling away on her lumpy fists. She wiped her hand against her face and felt the warm stickiness of blood. Startled, she realized it was his blood, not hers. She looked back at the victim. A single bullet shot to the head. A low caliber, judging from the small exit wound. Leonardo had stripped the electrician of his uniform before the kill. Blood soaked his undershirt and shorts.
Casey backed around, peering at the surrounding houses and cars. Where was Leonardo? He had found her. He had been in her house. She was certain he was watching her now.
Chapter 11
Michael McKinley straightened his tie and took a last glance in the mirror. Today, looking sharp was as important as being sharp. Closing arguments in the biggest case of his career. The jury was primed to vote that his client's technology had been stolen. Already the dealings suggested the settlement would be the largest in the history of his firm—in the order of two hundred and twelve million.
And they would take fifteen percent—thirty-nine million dollars, twenty percent of it his. He wished he were more excited about the money. It was enough to retire on. Still, he found himself longing for something more. Even if he won, there wouldn't be time to get away for more than a few days with Amy. He had to be in Silicon Valley for another case in less than two weeks.
He pulled on the dark suit coat and picked the brief off the bedside table, frowning as he headed downstairs. Silicon Valley was damn close to Casey. Anger welled against his desire. He wanted to see her. She'd become a distant wife and mother, then nearly gotten herself killed, pushed them away, and he still wanted to see her. He needed therapy as badly as she did. He wondered if she'd gotten any. Probably not, knowing Casey. If he still knew her, that is.
Mary handed him a cup of coffee as he entered the kitchen. Her gray hair in one long braid down her back suddenly reminded him of the way Casey had braided Amy's hair when she was little. He glanced at Amy, with her shoulder-length hair styled straight on her shoulders.
Amy sat at the table, drowning a stack of dollar pancakes in syrup.
"You going to have any pancakes with that syrup?" he asked, sitting beside Amy.
Amy laughed and rolled her eyes. "Dad. Syrup's good for you."
"Really?"
She looked at him earnestly. "Gives you energy."
"Who told you that?"
"Mom."
"Mom knows best," he said, then quieted at the reference to Casey. His eyes met Mary's, but she looked away then said, "Would you like some pancakes? I've made enough for both of you."
"Just toast would be great."
Mary nodded and set to the task. "I'm going to go to the store and pick up your shirts today."
He nodded and
With a deep breath, she moved on. When she reached the van, she lay her hand on the handle. Was he inside, waiting to shoot her? Her gut said no. He had been in her bathroom as she showered. He'd had plenty of opportunity to kill her then. And he hadn't. She shoved the dread from her mind and concentrated on the van.
Stepping out of the path of whatever might spring from inside, she tightened her fingers and tried to pull the door open. Her fingers cramped, and she couldn't get a grip on the handle. Frustration caught in her throat.
On the back side of the van, she found the door partially unlatched. She pulled the latch up, and the door fell open. Casey groaned as a man's weight toppled her, throwing both of them backward.
The gun fell out of her hand, her grip too clumsy and weak to hold on. She landed hard on her back, knocking her head on the pavement. She flailed to escape. Fighting with the dead-weight, she rolled out from under the body, and pushed herself away.
Standing, her legs collapsed and she fell again, crawling away on her lumpy fists. She wiped her hand against her face and felt the warm stickiness of blood. Startled, she realized it was his blood, not hers. She looked back at the victim. A single bullet shot to the head. A low caliber, judging from the small exit wound. Leonardo had stripped the electrician of his uniform before the kill. Blood soaked his undershirt and shorts.
Casey backed around, peering at the surrounding houses and cars. Where was Leonardo? He had found her. He had been in her house. She was certain he was watching her now.
Chapter 11
Michael McKinley straightened his tie and took a last glance in the mirror. Today, looking sharp was as important as being sharp. Closing arguments in the biggest case of his career. The jury was primed to vote that his client's technology had been stolen. Already the dealings suggested the settlement would be the largest in the history of his firm—in the order of two hundred and twelve million.
And they would take fifteen percent—thirty-nine million dollars, twenty percent of it his. He wished he were more excited about the money. It was enough to retire on. Still, he found himself longing for something more. Even if he won, there wouldn't be time to get away for more than a few days with Amy. He had to be in Silicon Valley for another case in less than two weeks.
He pulled on the dark suit coat and picked the brief off the bedside table, frowning as he headed downstairs. Silicon Valley was damn close to Casey. Anger welled against his desire. He wanted to see her. She'd become a distant wife and mother, then nearly gotten herself killed, pushed them away, and he still wanted to see her. He needed therapy as badly as she did. He wondered if she'd gotten any. Probably not, knowing Casey. If he still knew her, that is.
Mary handed him a cup of coffee as he entered the kitchen. Her gray hair in one long braid down her back suddenly reminded him of the way Casey had braided Amy's hair when she was little. He glanced at Amy, with her shoulder-length hair styled straight on her shoulders.
Amy sat at the table, drowning a stack of dollar pancakes in syrup.
"You going to have any pancakes with that syrup?" he asked, sitting beside Amy.
Amy laughed and rolled her eyes. "Dad. Syrup's good for you."
"Really?"
She looked at him earnestly. "Gives you energy."
"Who told you that?"
"Mom."
"Mom knows best," he said, then quieted at the reference to Casey. His eyes met Mary's, but she looked away then said, "Would you like some pancakes? I've made enough for both of you."
"Just toast would be great."
Mary nodded and set to the task. "I'm going to go to the store and pick up your shirts today."
He nodded and
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