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She shouldn’t have surprised him.
But Zhou always seemed to.
Maybe he was naiver than he’d like to admit, or she was just that good. He’d bet on the latter.
“What about the Dalton case?” she asked.
“Put Martinez on it. Or whoever.” And he was gone. Leaving her in her faux zen environment to deal with the headaches of their private investigation firm. If there was one thing he knew about Zhou, it was she was laser-focused and efficient. Ian was damned certain she could handle just about anything.
Including finding some trace of his recalcitrant ex-wife.
Los Angeles, CA
Then
Blood.
Everywhere.
Mama moaning as men lifted her from the bed to a stretcher.
The scissors.
Where were they?
“Honey, are you all right?” Some woman in a uniform was talking to her, but someone else was screaming too loud, so she couldn’t hear. Too loud. Shrieking and . . . Her throat was raw and she realized it was her own voice that she heard. She was shaking, her hands covered in blood, splatters on her nightgown.
“Come with me. Come on, honey.”
“She can’t leave.” A male voice. Deep. Concerned. From a tall man with dark skin and gray stubble for his hair.
“Like hell.” The woman, with short brown hair and freckles, picked her up. “She’s a child. I’m Detective Lorna Davis. You hear me? Lorna.”
Suddenly mute, Lucy couldn’t answer. Her throat was raw. Her heart pounding. Her mind swirling with horrifying images. And she was sticky with blood. His blood. Mama’s blood. Maybe her own blood.
“Lucy, honey, I’m with the police. And I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.” The woman hiked her upward on her hip, Lucy’s long legs dangling beneath her nightgown.
“But—” the man said.
“A child, Tony!” the woman said, cradling Lucy as best she could. “And that’s her mother.”
“Noooooo!” Lucy let out a cry as she saw the men hurrying Mama away on a stretcher. Mama wasn’t moving, her skin an ugly shade of gray, blood soaking through her nightgown.
“Shhh. Honey. Shhh,” Lorna whispered, and Lucy was reduced to sobs and hiccups. “There ya go. It’ll be okay.”
“Move it,” one of the men carrying the stretcher said, and they hurried off, out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Lucy heard the heavy tread of their fast-moving footsteps.
“Where are the others?” Lorna asked, still holding Lucy. “The teenagers?”
The man answered, “The son’s in the living room. Daughter’s in the kitchen. We split them up to check out their stories, see if there’s any discrepancies.”
“And the boyfriend?”
“Not here.”
“Shit! He was here. That’s what the neighbor said, the one who called it in. They saw his car in the drive.”
“He took off.” The man was worried, deep lines creasing his cheeks and fanning from his eyes. “We’ll get him.”
