Fatal Exposure - By Gail Barrett Page 0,60
her away from the office and back down the corridor, an urgent feeling quickening his steps.
“Walk faster.” He steered her to the nearest stairwell.
Brynn shot him a glance. “You think she’s going to report us to Hoffman?”
“She’s probably on the phone right now. We need to get out of here before he tells her to alert the guards.”
They reached the stairwell a moment later and raced to the bottom floor. Then they walked as fast as they dared through the lobby toward the tall glass doors.
A guard stepped into their path. Several more guards appeared out of nowhere, fanning across the room. His heart thundering, Parker grabbed Brynn’s arm and steered her into a crowd of businessmen converging on the door. Then he shuffled with her through the exit, hoping the guards wouldn’t notice them amid the men.
What a disaster. He hadn’t proven Hoffman’s guilt. He hadn’t unearthed a single detail that would help them save their skins. Instead, he’d tipped off the chief of staff—who was now putting the D.C. cops on their trail—endangering Brynn even more.
They reached the sidewalk a second later, and the businessmen began to disperse. A sudden shout came from behind them. “Go!” he urged.
They broke into a run.
* * *
Brynn’s pulse still hadn’t returned to normal as they exited the Metro several blocks from Haley’s shelter and headed up the street. Thankfully, it appeared they’d escaped the police. The last thing she wanted was to bring more danger to Haley or her pregnant teens. But their luck couldn’t last, not with both the Baltimore and D.C. cops now on their trail—not to mention that deadly gang.
Still skittish, she shot another glance behind her, then surveyed the quiet street. Haley’s shelter was in a transitional section of D.C. Newly refurbished row houses were interspersed with derelict buildings still bearing the call signs of local gangs.
“So tell me about your friend,” Parker said.
She lifted her gaze to his. “What do you want to know?”
“Where you met, where she’s from, what her father’s like.”
Brynn hesitated, the instinct to protect Haley’s identity ingrained after years on the run. But it was ridiculous to doubt Parker given their current plight.
“We met on the streets in Baltimore,” she said. “That’s where she’s from. Her family comes from money. Old money. They live in Guilford, have a summer home at Saint Michaels—the whole nine yards.”
“High society.”
“The highest. They’re even listed in the Blue Book.” The Baltimore Society Visiting List, better known as the Blue Book, was an elite social registry that dated back nearly a century, listing Baltimore’s upper crust.
“Interesting profile for a runaway,” Parker said.
“Not really. You’d be surprised at what goes on behind closed doors, even in respectable families.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.
“I’m a cop, Brynn. I’ve seen some pretty bad stuff.”
Not the horror she’d endured.
She frowned at the cracked sidewalk, wondering how he’d react if he knew her past. Would he recoil in disgust? Blame her for the abuse? Most men would race for the exits if she even hinted at the revolting truth.
She slipped him a sideways glance, surprised that she even cared. But his opinion mattered to her. Somehow in the past few days Parker had penetrated the decades-old buffer she’d built around her heart. And once again, she was so incredibly tempted to tell him the details, to reveal her nightmarish past.
But this wasn’t the time. They had too much else on their minds. And what if he didn’t believe her? Could she survive that humiliation again?
Pushing aside that disturbing thought, she skirted a pile of construction debris, then glanced at a carpenter working in a weed-filled yard, sawing a pile of boards. She raised her voice above the noise. “Anyhow, Haley got pregnant and ran away.”
“And now she runs a shelter for runaway pregnant girls.”
Brynn’s mouth ticked up, pride welling for her best friend. “She’s always been a rescuer—stray cats, stray dogs, stray people.” A woman with a nurturing heart. “In any case, I can’t imagine her father belonging to a gang. He’s more the country-club type.”
“Like you said, you never know. He might use drugs or have some other connection to them.”
True enough. She just hoped they found out something on this visit that would incriminate her stepfather and end the danger before more innocent people got hurt.
Several houses later, they reached the shelter, a tidy, Federal-style row house with freshly painted black shutters and yellow bricks. Brynn climbed the steps and pushed the bell. A small bronze plaque