She’d had no choice but to leave him for dead aboard his burning yacht and escape with her daughter.
No choice but to send Aggie to her father.
No choice but to run.
But with Roy possibly dead, well . . .
No. She couldn’t call Ham. Because she knew him.
Knew he’d come running.
Shoot. It wasn’t fair what she’d done to him.
Over. And over. And . . .
She picked up her backpack, grabbed her key card, and headed outside to the cafe still lit up across the street. The outside patio was alive with music and patrons drinking beer and coffee and eating piles of French fries that had her mouth watering. Signe slid into one of the rattan chairs at a table along the riverwalk’s edge and read the menu card propped in the middle.
A waitress in black pants and a white oxford approached the table. “Guten abend,” she said.
Signe pointed to the fried potatoes, with bacon and onions. “Die Bratkartoffeln, bitte.” She ordered water in a bottle, with gas—no need to stand out as an American—and sat back to listen to the skinny kid at the mic plucking at his guitar.
Her ear tuned to the German conversation around her but found nothing of interest. Mostly people smoking or listening to the music, and she let herself breathe.
She’d gotten Roy’s name from Felix, had contacted him through email, although she knew how easily those could get hacked, so it didn’t surprise her that it had been hijacked.
She’d pinned way too much hope on a stranger.
“Mama, can I have an ice cream?”
The question, asked in German, came from the voice of a little girl that wheedled through the crowd noise. Signe spotted a family in the corner. A little girl, her blonde hair in two ponytails, sat on her knees on a chair, reaching across the table to grab a fry.
Her mother rescued her cup of tea before it went over. “Achtung, Marie!”
Be careful. The little girl pulled back her hand, and for a second, Signe wanted to get up, the instinct to step in front of the girl nearly rising to possess her limbs.
Then the woman smiled and picked up the plate of fries, handing it to her.
Signe pressed a hand to her gut.
Aggie was safe. It was good to keep reminding herself. Safe with Ham. Who would never beat her, threaten her, or even emotionally abuse her.
Thank you, Ham.
Oh, she hadn’t deserved him.
The singer at the mic finished his song and another person took his place, a woman with full arm tats and a flute. She began to play, something light and airy, and Signe’s fries showed up, along with her water.
She couldn’t seem to pull her gaze away from the family. The little girl was probably two years younger than Aggie, and sudden laughter when her father kissed her on the neck nearly swept tears into Signe’s eyes.
Stop. Spies didn’t cry. Now that Aggie was safe, Signe should just walk away.
She only brought trouble into people’s lives.
Now Zara and Felix were back in her head, and regardless of how hungry she was, she couldn’t possibly eat.
A whimper near her ankle caught her attention. A dog that looked like some kind of terrier mix sat at her feet, eyeing her fries.
“Oh, buddy.” She slid him a fry.
He leaped for it, nearly taking off her hand. Then sat again and whimpered.
“Offer him a Cheeto, Ham.”
She simply couldn’t stop the memory. Nine-year-old Ham, crouched at the end of a drainage pipe, digging into his Cheetos bag. Oh, he was cute even then, with his dark blond hair still summer long, tinted by the sun, and those blue eyes. He wore a T-shirt, cut off at the arms, a pair of jeans, and if she remembered correctly, his mother was still alive. Fading, but still alive.
Water poured out of the culvert after last night’s massive autumn storm. Clogged with trees and leaves and debris, it was half full and she would have never seen the dog except for the whimpering.
The sound found her ears as they were biking home from school. She’d stopped and spotted the dog following her.
That’s when he ran into the culvert.
She’d beckoned Ham back and found the dog, a mixed-breed hound with big brown eyes, tucked into the debris. No collar.
He shivered, and her heart broke in half.
Maybe because she knew how it felt to be alone, scared and needing rescue.
“I’ll climb in,” she’d said after the animal grabbed a Cheeto Ham tossed to him.
“Be careful, Sig.” Getting on her hands and knees, she held out her hand for the dog to sniff. “C’mere, buddy. It’s okay.”
The animal growled, backed away. Snapped at her.
“Sig—”
“It’s okay, Ham. He just needs time to trust me.” She kept her hand out, waiting.
And waiting.
Ham handed her a Cheeto, and she offered it with the other hand.
Slowly the dog eased forward, sniffed the Cheeto, and then began to lick it. She touched his head, began to rub behind his ear. “There you go, pal. You’re safe now.”
She backed out, and the dog followed her. She fed him another Cheeto, then petted him, finally pulling him into her arms.
“He’s hurt, Ham—he’s favoring his leg.”
Ham looked at it with all the wisdom of his youth. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
“I’m taking him home,” Signe said, aware that the dog had slimed her T-shirt and chinos. Her grandmother would kill her.
Maybe she could sneak in after her grandmother fell asleep. Her grandfather wouldn’t care, of course.
“Are you sure?” Ham asked. “I don’t think—”
“She won’t know. I’ll keep him in the barn.”
Even then, Ham had a way of looking at her, worry in his eyes.
“It’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” Ham helped her situate the dog in the basket on the front of her bike, but the animal wouldn’t stay put, so they ended up walking the bikes home. The sun had nearly reached the horizon by the time they settled the animal into the barn. She’d already made up her mind to drag out her ratty Scooby-Doo comforter off her bed to keep the animal warm.
Maybe sleep out here with him.
Ham knew that too. “I don’t like you sleeping out here all by yourself.”
“I won’t be alone. I’ll have Caesar.”
“Caesar?” He raised an eyebrow.
“I just like it.” She rubbed the dog’s ears.
Ham put his hand over hers, also rubbing. “He likes you.”
It was the first time she could remember wondering if Ham might like her too.
Wishing it.
“I gotta get home.” Ham had gotten up. “But I’ll be back first thing in the morning, I promise.”
It was the only promise he’d ever broken.
Because his mother had died that night.
She’d seen him a week later at the funeral, and shoot if he didn’t look at her the same way Caesar had when he was trapped in that tunnel.
She swore that whatever it took, she’d get him out, into the sunlight.
And later amended it to include into her arms.
Her throat tightened now as she slid a couple more fries to the terrier.
“Shoo!” Her waitress came around the table, stomped on the pavement. “Shoo!”
The terrier barked, then turned and ran into the night.