Page 56 of Missile Strike

“Despite your father’s efforts, anyone who knew where to look could find the information.” He gentled his tone. “It was all over the media.”

A sheen of tears glistened in Bella’s eyes. “But why would she write about what happened? I told her my personal life wasn’t up for discussion.”

Icy rage had Danny’s fingers tightening into fists.

And the reporter had ignored it.

“Give me your phone.” He held out his hand. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

A hard stare, then Bella shrank as if all the air had been sucked from her body. Without a word, she unlocked her cell and handed it over.

He scrolled through her recent calls until he found Olivia Flores’s number. His temper mounted with every unanswered ring. When the call went to voicemail, a growl scraped his throat.

“You’ve reached Olivia Flores at The Charlotte Times. I’m out of town and will return on Monday. If this is urgent and you need to reach a member of the Times staff, please contact the news desk.”

“Ms. Flores is conveniently indisposed.” He handed Bella her phone.

“Ms. Strickland?” Melody Santos approached, clutching a newspaper.

She handed it to Bella.

“Thank you.” Bella’s voice was too soft, her shoulders caved. This morning, she’d resembled a fresh summer flower in her pretty pink dress. Now, the bloom had faded, and the fog of anxiety surrounding her was so thick Danny could feel his own throat close in response.

Dammit. She didn’t need this right now.

Hassan’s death had loosened some of the fear about exposing herself to the public eye, and even though he hadn’t agreed with her about the interview, he never expected it to blow up in her face like this.

He took her hand. Squeezed.

“Let’s go home.”

Isabella clutched the newspaper as Danny, with a firm grasp on her other hand, pushed through the glass revolving door of The Waverly’s main entrance and into the oppressive wave of August heat.

She should object to being led around like a child. But the press of his fingers around hers, the way he placed himself in front, as if daring anyone to look her way, sent a frisson of warmth through her chilled veins.

A man passed them on his way into the hotel. His deep brown eyes locked onto hers.

A shiver skated across her neck.

Dark hair. Beard. Average height—shorter and not as athletic-looking as Danny.

Something tugged at her memory.

Her grip tightened on Danny’s hand.

She glanced over her shoulder, but the man had already disappeared inside.

You’re jumping at shadows.

The article had her rattled.

Danny held the Mustang’s passenger door while she got in, newspaper crinkled in her fist. Melody had folded it open to the page containing the article. She skimmed until she got to the words that stole the air from her lungs.

The first time Graham Strickland ran for office proved to be a deeply traumatic experience for then twelve-year-old Isabella Strickland.

Only two paragraphs, but it was enough to plunge her back into that storage unit.

The suffocating heat.