The Cove by Catherine Coulter

afraid. She was in this man’s room, a man she didn’t know, a man who was sympathetic. She hadn’t known sympathy in so long that she’d fallen for it without thought, without question. James Quinlan was quite wrong. She was as nuts as they came.
    â€œSally, what’s wrong?”
    She was tugging on the doorknob, trying to turn it, but the door didn’t open. She realized the key was still in the lock. She felt like a fool.
    He didn’t make any movement of any kind. He didn’t even stretch out his hand to her. He just said in his calm, deep voice, “It’s all right. I know you’re scared. Come now and sit over here. We’ll talk. I won’t hurt you. I’m on your side.”
    A lie, he thought, another damned lie. The chance of his ever being anywhere near her side were just about nil.
    She walked slowly away from the door, stumbled against a small end table, and sat down heavily on thesofa. It was chintz with pale-blue and cream flowers.
    She was rubbing her hands together, just like Lady Macbeth, she thought. She raised her face. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œDon’t be dumb. Now, would you like to try to sleep or talk a while?”
    She’d already told him too much. He was probably reconsidering his comment that she was the sanest person he knew. And he wanted to know why she’d been in that place? God, she couldn’t bear that. Thinking about it was too much. She couldn’t imagine talking about it. If she did, he’d know she was paranoid, delusional.
    â€œI’m not crazy,” she said, staring at him, knowing he was in the shadows and so was she, and neither of them could read the other’s expression.
    â€œWell, I just might be. I still haven’t found out what happened to Harve and Marge Jensen, and you know what? I’m not all that interested anymore. Now, I called a friend at the FBI. No, don’t look like you’re going to dive for the door again. He’s a very good friend, and I just got some information from him.” Lies mixed with truth. It was his business, his lies having to be better than the bad guy’s lies.
    â€œWhat’s his name?”
    â€œDillon Savich. He told me that the FBI is looking high and low for you, but no sign as yet. He said they’re convinced you saw something the night of your father’s murder, that you probably saw the person who killed him, that it was probably your mother, and you ran to protect her. If it wasn’t your mother, then it was someone else, or you.
    â€œYour dad wasn’t a nice man, Sally. Turns out he was being investigated by the FBI for selling weapons to terrorist countries on our No Way List, like Iraq and Iran. In any case, they’re convinced you know something.” He didn’t ask her if it was true. He just sat there on the other end of that chintz sofa with its feminine pale-blue and cream flowers and waited.
    â€œHow do you know this Dillon Savich?”
    He realized then that she might be scared half out of her mind, but she wasn’t stupid. He’d managed to say everything that needed to be said without blowing his cover. But she hadn’t responded. She still didn’t trust him, and he admired her for that.
    â€œWe went to Princeton together in the mid-eighties. He always wanted to be an agent, always. We’ve kept in touch. He’s good at his job. I trust him.”
    â€œIt’s difficult to believe he just spilled all this out to you.”
    Quinlan shrugged. “He’s frustrated. They all are. They want you, and you’re gone without a trace. He was probably praying that I knew something and would tell him if he whetted my appetite.”
    â€œI didn’t know about my father being a traitor. But on the other hand, I’m not surprised. I guess I’ve known for a very long time that he was capable of just about anything.”
    She was sitting very quietly, looking toward