Her eyes had still been swollen from crying. Her nose still pink.
Damn it, she should have been exhausted, and instead, she'd used his exhaustion to sneak out on him. In fact … had that been her plan all along? Had she insisted on the excesses just to wear him out?
Or maybe to get her fill before leaving him?
"Jesus." Her departure could only mean one thing: trouble. He snatched up his cell phone from the end table and punched in her number-but he didn't get an answer, and he wasn't surprised by that. He tried her other number. Still nothing.
Throwing off the sheet, he left the bed with his mind whirling as he tried to decide what to do first. Look the house over for clues? Call Jackson? Wait for her? What?
He yanked on his jeans and cursed again, all too aware of the yawning dread that threatened to take over. Maybe Jackson could trace her cell if she had it on. Or maybe Jackson even knew of her whereabouts.
But what if he didn't?
The knock on his front door got his feet moving, and he bolted into the living room.
He threw open the door-and came face-to-face with Marla. Impatience boiled over. "Marla." Regulating his voice wasn't easy. He ran a hand through his hair and started to turn away. "I don't have time right now-"
"It's Arizona."
He snapped his gaze back to her. "Tell me."
"I'm sorry, Spencer. I didn't know. But yesterday she asked me if I'd be here this morning. She told me she might have to leave … bounce, I believe she said … earlier than she'd anticipated. She asked if I truly cared for you, if I could be trusted-"
"Where is she?"
Marla flinched.
Damn it. He held out his hands, soothing her. "I'm sorry." It took a great effort, but he calmed his tone as he drew Marla inside. "She's gone, and that isn't a good thing. She has a knack for getting into dangerous situations. The sooner I can go after her, the better, so if you know anything-"
"That's why I'm here. Arizona said she should be back by lunch, but … " Marla thrust a note toward him. "She gave me this. She said if she didn't make it back, I was to give it to you then, but I … I admit I opened it."
Spencer took it from her hand and unfolded it. Arizona's handwriting was big and bold, but perfectly spaced, neat and legible.
Marla grabbed his wrist. "She didn't want me to show it to you yet, but after reading it, even though I don't understand it all, well, I didn't think I should wait."
He nearly crumpled the note. Rage chased away the despondency. When he got hold of her, and he would, he'd … "Thank you. You did the right thing."
Marla stopped him as he again started to turn away. "Spencer?"
"What?"
"You and I … we were never going to happen, were we?"
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but no."
She accepted that. "Arizona said as much." She drew a breath. "You're in love with her?"
Oh, God. He drew a breath. "Yes."
"She doesn't know that."
"No." He'd been such a stupid fool. But given her note, he had a little time to fix things.
"You should probably tell her." And then in a censuring tone, "Women need to know these things."
And Arizona needed to know it more than most. "I've been an ass." He needed to call Jackson, and he needed to get on the road.
Marla nodded in agreement. "Is there anything I can do?"
He started to shake his head, then thought to say, "Call me if she shows up here."
"Okay." She forced a smile. "I hope it works out, Spencer. I mean that."
"Thanks." Damn, she really was an okay person. Arizona knew it, but then, she was a good judge of people.
Was her judgment enough to see her through the trap this morning? He prayed so.
But he'd do what he could on his end, and he'd see that the others were there, as well.
Arizona wasn't alone anymore.
One way or another, he'd get her to understand that.
* * *
AN EARLY-MORNING SUN, blazing red, pierced the sky, turning hazy clouds pink and mauve and reflecting off the pavement. It'd be a scorcher, hot and humid and typical for this time of year. She wouldn't complain. She liked hot weather better than cold.
Too many layers hindered her ability.
Arriving at the site early, Arizona drove slowly down the street, looking around for a possible ambush. She spotted Quin right away, sitting on a bench in front of "Harry's Hocks" pawn shop. Though someone wanted her to think otherwise, she knew that Harry's was shut down, had been shut down for a while.
So why the sign in the window stating he'd open at noon?
One possible setup.
To the right of that building, a drive-thru convenience store with a multi-locked front door and an iron grate on the one remaining window boasted bright, graffiti-covered bricks. The drive-thru window, layered in bulletproof glass, had a sliding metal tray for taking money and handing out products. But that was on the opposite side of the building, near a corner street.
To the left was an abandoned florist shop, the lot overgrown with weeds, the front sign hanging crookedly, the once-ornate script faded to near invisibility.
Beside that was a pay-at-the-pump gas station that had seen better days. Then an auto parts store, a cigarette shop, and a place that cashed checks. All were run-down, all looked disreputable.
So early in the morning, few people were out and about. Only sluggish traffic moved past, and they weren't travelers who'd give a damn about crimes committed, petty or otherwise.
They were the "see nothing" crowd, the "mind my own business" denizens who either didn't care, or knew better than to get involved for fear of retaliation.
On other buildings, some of them used as homes, cardboard and plywood covered the windows. Porches barely remained intact to structures. Refuse had gathered in every nook and corner.
Quin sat slumped on a bus bench in dirty clothes, his hair matted, his legs pulled up so that his face rested on his knees. Massive oak trees, their roots breaking through the buckled sidewalks, separated him from an empty parking lot, no longer used thanks to broken glass. It looked as though he'd slept there, seeking the shelter of the trees.
Had he been homeless in the recent storms?
Trying to find relief from the unrelenting sun and heat of the day?
He'd somehow escaped Dare's net when the police closed in at the Green Goose. Maybe Quin had something to hide, something in his past that made him wary of the law, even when it tried to rescue him.
Or maybe someone else had gotten to him first.
She circled the block, then parked her car well away from the area, about half a mile down, closer to a grocery store. After locking it tight, she strolled back to where she'd seen Quin. That morning, in the dark at Spencer's house, without making a single sound, she'd dressed in worn jeans, unlaced sneakers and a big loose T-shirt. To keep it out of her way, she'd contained her hair in a high ponytail.
The sun baked down on her head, bringing perspiration to the back of her neck, down her spine.
All along the way, she marveled at the trees. Despite the devastation of the area, there were so many of them, big and healthy and beautiful. At some point in time, the area had probably been really pretty.
Like her, time and abuse had forever changed it; it would never be the same.
Quin didn't hear or see her approach-which made Arizona doubt any willing complicity on his part. Anyone versed in criminal activity would have picked her out several blocks away, since she didn't bother with stealth. Shoot, trying to slide in and out of the neighborhood would mean utilizing alleyways and darkened doorways, and that'd be more dangerous than coming down the middle of the street.
After scrubbing his hands over his face, Quin pushed up from the bench to pace. Arms folded around his middle, shoulders hunched, limping slightly, he made his way nervously out to the curb, back again.
What are you up to, Quinto?
Her jeans hid the gun at her ankle. Snug against the small of her back, she felt the sheath for her knife digging in with each step she took. Not the knife Chris had just given her. No, she wouldn't risk losing it. It was too precious to her.
She'd left it, and all the other gifts, in Spencer's truck.
When, if Spencer started looking for her, would he understand the significance of that? Would he see it as a sign that she wanted to come back?
To him. With him?
No, she hadn't taken her new knife. But various other weapons filled her pockets, some obvious, some less so.
At the moment, her best weapon was rage.
When she got close enough, she hid it all with a smile. "Hey, Quin."