Run to Ground(2)

The woman watched him, her blue eyes getting wider and wider, until he stopped in front of her. They stared at each other for several moments. She was even prettier and looked even more scared up close. There were dark shadows smudged beneath her eyes, and her face had a drawn, tight look. Her throat moved as she swallowed, and her eyes darted to the side. Theo tensed, his cop instincts urging him to chase her if she ran.

When she ran.

“Theo,” Megan barked as she passed, “go sit down. You’re being creepy.”

He shot her a frown, but most of his attention was still on the new server. “What’s your name?”

She swallowed again and tried to force a smile, but it quickly fell away. “Jules. Um…for Julie.” Even in those few words, her Southern drawl was obvious.

“Last name?”

“Uh…Jackson.” Her gaze jumped toward the door.

“Where are you from?” He couldn’t stop asking questions. It was partly his ingrained curiosity, and partly a personal interest he couldn’t seem to smother.

“Arkansas.”

Theo called bullshit on that. While she’d said her last name too slowly, this had come quickly, as if she’d practiced her answer. He could see the tension vibrating through her, her body projecting the urge to flee. What was she running from? An abusive husband? The consequences of a crime she’d committed? “What brings you to Colorado?”

“It’s…a nice state?” Her eyes squeezed closed for a second, as if she was mentally reprimanding herself.

Every glance at the door, every stifled flinch, every half-assed response made Theo more suspicious. “You move here by yourself?”

“I…um…” Her hunted gaze fixed on Megan’s back, but the other server was occupied helping a little boy get ketchup out of a recalcitrant bottle and didn’t see her silent plea. “I should get back to work.”

“Wait.” Without thinking, he reached for her arm.

“Theo.” Hugh stood right behind him, and Theo’s jaw tightened as his hand dropped to his side. Why did they feel a need to watch him like he was a ticking bomb? “Food’ll be here soon.”

Theo didn’t want to return to the table, didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to talk about Sherry or anything else. What he did want was to find out more about the new, pretty, squirrelly waitress whose name may—but more likely may not—be Julie Jackson.

Jules.

He was tempted to send Hugh back to the table without him, but what was the point? All she would do was keep lying…badly. Later, in the squad car, he’d run her name, although “Julie Jackson” from Arkansas would produce enough hits to keep him busy for months.

He’d give it time. They were at the diner every morning. He’d have plenty of opportunities to try to get information.

Assuming she didn’t skip town first.

Ignoring his screaming instincts—his curiosity—his interest—he gave a short, reluctant nod and returned to the table. He could wait.

Still, it was hard not looking back.





Chapter 2


One Week Earlier

“Mr. Espina…” Jules’s voice cracked on the last syllable. Clearing her throat, she forced her fist to release the crumpled handful of skirt and tried again. “Mr. Espina, I need your help.”

Mateo Espina didn’t say a word. In fact, he didn’t even twitch a muscle. It was a struggle not to stare at him. He was just so different than his brother that it was hard to believe the two were related. For over three years, Jules had worked for Luis Espina, and she’d never, ever been this nervous. Luis was a chatterbox who wore a constant, beaming, contagious smile on his round face. His brother, on the other hand, was all hard lines and angles, glaring eyes, and stubble. Even the tattoos peeking from his shirt collar and rolled-up cuffs looked angry.

Jules realized she’d been silent for much too long, and she had to hide her cringe. It had been almost impossible to set up this meeting with Mr. Espina, and she was crashing and burning not even five minutes and ten words in. As she opened her mouth to say who knew what, a bored voice interrupted.

“What can I get you two?”

Although Mr. Espina ordered a beer from the server, Jules stuck to water. The meeting would be hard enough with all of her wits about her. Besides, the sad fact was that she was broke. Drinks were the last thing on her stuff-I-need-to-buy list. Lawyers were number one. Good lawyers. Miracle-working lawyers.

“I was hoping,” she said, “that you could give me a reference.”

There was a reaction to that. It wasn’t much of one—just the slightest lift of his eyebrow and twitch of a small muscle in his cheek.