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She expected him to beg her to climb in with him, to make more excuses, to apologize, to break down and give in.
He didn’t.
“Fine,” he said.
Tyler slammed the door and backed out of his parking place, spraying gravel when he turned onto the main road.
Quinn was still standing there, watching the dust settle, when a dark-haired man climbed out of the black sedan and approached her. He was young, mid to late twenties, maybe, with dark eyes and very average features. He wore a sport coat and khakis. If she saw him on the street, she probably wouldn’t give him a second glance. He looked like every other daddy of a three-year-old in a tutu.
Maybe he’d seen their argument and he wanted to make sure she was all right.
He said, “Quinn Briscoe?”
She frowned. “Yes?”
Then she kicked herself. What if this guy was a social worker? Or a cop? Wasn’t this how it happened? They cornered you somewhere and made you give your name—
“I was wondering if you could help me for a moment,” he said.
Sure. Maybe he was legit, or maybe he was a crazy ra**st who would take her back to his commune.
But at least that didn’t sound like the way a social worker would lead off. “Yeah, what kind of help do you need?”
“My name is Gareth.” He pulled out a gun and put it right in her face. “And you’re going to help me kill Nick Merrick.”
Nick felt Quinn’s flare of panic in the air like a bright star-burst in his senses, amplified when the door to the studio swung open, sending the chimes ringing through the near empty space.
He grabbed Adam’s arm and dragged him to the opposite side of the risers.
Adam inhaled to speak, but Nick got an arm around his neck and slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Be still,” Nick said, his mouth right against Adam’s ear.
“Please. Be still.”
Adam went still.
Nick hadn’t had time to tell him much about his family, and he definitely hadn’t gotten to the part where someone might be trying to kill them.
Quinn was silent, but her fear was a beacon, her shaking breath giving him information with every passing second. Footsteps approached, slow and steady on the wooden floors.
He could also feel whoever was frightening her. Even breaths, pure confidence. There had to be a weapon of some sort, for Quinn to be this pliant.
“See?” she said loudly. “They’re gone already.”
Please, Quinn, Nick thought. Please don’t be stupid. He tried not to think of Michael’s stories of what Silver had done to Hunter’s girlfriend Kate. The torture, the final bullet to the head.
Was this Silver? Had he escaped from prison?
He begged the air for answers, stretching his senses far.
“They’re here,” said a male voice.
Adam went very still. He held his breath.
“Come on out,” said the man. No British accent. Not Silver.
But definitely a Guide.
