“Nice night,” she said. I didn’t speak. She smiled again, seeming slightly awkward now, and I realized belatedly it was from my lack of response.

“Beautiful night,” I said, and I tore my eyes from her with an effort and looked up at the moon, which seemed to hang almost within reach above the palm trees, as if maybe by climbing to the top of the fronds and stretching to your fullest you could pull it down. She followed my eyes and sighed softly.

“The moon’s gorgeous, isn’t it? It seems so different here.”

“So different from where?” I asked, and with that simple question the carefree attitude vanished from Julie Weston. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her shoulders tensed, and she shifted on the whirlpool bench.

“Chicago,” she said, her voice clipped and cold. “I’m from Chicago.”

She hadn’t changed her appearance since she left Cleveland. Her hair wasn’t cut in a different style or dyed to another shade. She’d made no effort to change her complexion with makeup. Maybe that was what surprised me more than anything. She’d vanished from Cleveland more than a week ago, and now she was here, apparently unharmed. If she wanted to hide, why had she not attempted to alter her appearance? Since she hadn’t altered it, how had she avoided being spotted? Her face had been on national news stations. Someone should have recognized her by now.

“Chicago,” I said, and she nodded. “Nice town,” I told her. “I’m from a lake city, myself.”

“Really?” Her bored voice implied a complete lack of interest, and she slid down into the whirlpool and leaned her head back again, closing her eyes. It was forced, though, an act designed to end any questioning.

“Uh-huh,” I said, pretending to be oblivious to her signals. “Similar city but a different lake. I’m from Cleveland.”

She sat so still in the water she seemed not even to breathe. I realized after a few seconds that she actually was holding her breath, whether she was aware of it or not. For a moment I considered joining her in the silence, leaving her with the Cleveland comment lingering in her mind while I thought of a better way to approach her. Then I gave up on that idea. There wasn’t going to be an easy way to approach her. Screw it.

“What are you doing here, Julie?” I said softly.

Her eyelids snapped open like shades pulled down and then released too quickly, and there was terror in her eyes. She pushed herself out of the water and lunged for the purse she’d brought to the edge of the whirlpool. I went after her, the weight of the water slowing my movements. She had her hand inside the purse now, and I dived toward her, aware she was probably reaching for a weapon. My outstretched left arm caught her around the waist as I fell back into the water, pulling her away from the edge and down with me. She had something in her right hand: a small, slim canister I recognized as pepper spray. I chopped at her wrist, harder than I wanted to, but hard enough to ensure she wasn’t going to be able to use the pepper spray against me. She dropped it into the water and turned against me, trying to put her knee into my groin. The weight of the water killed her momentum, though, and the blow glanced harmlessly off my upper thigh. I grabbed her forearms and forced them behind her back, pinning her, as she tried to use the knee again. She opened her mouth to scream, but I got my left hand over her lips, muffling the yell as I held both of her slim wrists in one hand.

“Relax, dammit,” I said, pulling her body against mine to limit her ability to use the knee jabs with success. “I’m not here to hurt you. I work for John Weston. I work for your husband’s father.”

She continued to struggle, but her eyes changed with the words, and she was no longer attempting to scream. She tried to bite my hand, so I removed it from her lips. She didn’t use it as an opportunity to shout for help, though.

“Relax,” I repeated. “If I’d come here to kill you, Mrs. Weston, you’d be dead already.”

I released her and stepped into the center of the whirlpool, rubbing my foot across the tile floor in search of the pepper spray. I found it, bent at the knees, and picked it up, keeping my eyes on her. She backed to the edge of the whirlpool and stood with her arms wrapped around her torso, hugging herself like a small child. Her damp hair hung in her face, and she was breathing heavily, watching me with the wary eyes of an animal that was used to being the prey and not the predator.

“There are a few things you can do now,” I said, returning to the edge of the whirlpool and lifting my body out of the water to sit on the concrete. The moisture on my skin immediately chilled as the breeze caught it. “You can get out of the water and run like hell. But I’ll be right behind you. Not because I want to hurt you, but because it’s my job. You can start screaming like a banshee, and you’ll attract some attention. But do you really want to attract more attention? You’re the woman the world is looking for.” It was a bit of an overstatement, but for a Cleveland resident who had seen Julie Weston on the news every night, it didn’t feel like one. “Or,” I continued, “you can trust me, Mrs. Weston. I’d recommend you take that third option.”

She retreated to the opposite edge of the whirlpool and sat on the concrete as I had done. She was still hugging herself tightly, but I didn’t think it was because of the cool wind. She looked like a woman who felt very vulnerable. A woman who had felt very vulnerable for a while, maybe. She rubbed her hands over her upper arms and stared at me.

“You said John hired you?”

“That’s right.”

“Tell me about him.”

I frowned, but then I realized this was her way of testing me, of seeing if I was who I claimed to be. “He’s a loud, opinionated old soldier,” I said. “And many people probably find him intimidating. He’s a lonely man, and he’s lonelier now than ever.” She winced when I said that.

“He loves his son, he loves his granddaughter, and he loves you,” I continued. “He’s opened his savings account to me and my partner, just in hopes of finding you, or at least finding out what happened to you. That is his reason for living right now. The last time I saw him, he was sitting on the deck behind your house staring at a snowman your daughter built as if it held everything that was left of his soul.”

I hadn’t meant to make her feel guilty or sad. I’d simply described John Weston with the first images that came to my mind. By the time I mentioned the snowman, though, Julie Weston was crying softly. She kept her hands clutched against her arms, and the tears slid along her nose and down her cheeks before falling in fat drops to her thighs. I sat across from her, motionless. I wanted to cross the whirlpool, put my arms around her, and tell her everything would be all right. But I knew she wouldn’t want me to, and I didn’t know if everything would be all right.

She cried for a few minutes, and I kept my mouth shut. If she was going to trust me, she’d have to do it on her own. If she didn’t, I was going to have to call Cody and have him send a group of agents out to scoop her up and take her back to Cleveland. That was what I should do. My job had been to find her, and now I’d done that. It was time to turn it over to the feds now and let them have their fun with the rest of it. I didn’t move, though. I wanted to hear what she had to say. Eventually, she stopped crying and took a long, shaky breath. Then she lifted her head and looked at me again, the shadows and her damp hair hiding most of her face. Her eyes were visible, though, and they caught me and held me, seeming to look right through me, as if she were searching my soul before determining how to deal with me. When she spoke, her voice was as soft as the rustle of the palm fronds in the breeze above us.

“I need help,” she said.

I waited for more, but nothing else came. I nodded. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I showed up.”