took her hand, but her friend didn’t answer.
Fear speared him as Brenda’s head lolled to the side. She wasn’t conscious.
“Why won’t she wake up?” Isabel asked, her gaze bouncing from an EMT to Dutch.
His fear spread. If Brenda didn’t make it, the loss would crush Isabel.
The EMT put an oxygen mask on Brenda. “We’ve got to get her to the hospital now.” He closed the rear doors and the ambulance pulled away.
Life wasn’t cutting Isabel any slack. It had been one horrible thing after another. No matter how strong a person was, everyone had a limit. A breaking point.
Dutch didn’t think Isabel could take much more before she reached hers.
Even though she was justifiably ticked off at him, he hoped she’d let him be there for her to help her get through all this. She needed someone to lean on now more than ever.
He whipped out his phone and dialed Draper, updating him quickly so Isabel would be protected at the hospital.
“Sir,” a police officer said, approaching him with two others, as Dutch hung up, “we’re going to need to know exactly what happened here.”
The cops didn’t give Dutch a chance to catch his breath before they launched in with their questions.
* * *
“HORATIO HAAS IS definitely a US marshal,” the new PI said to Chad. “First, they went to the US Marshals Service building earlier and now he’s flashing a badge to every cop he speaks to about the shooting.”
That explained why the police hadn’t arrested him, giving Chad’s attorney the runaround and flimsy excuses. But why would the Marshals be watching Isabel?
She wasn’t into anything illegal and neither was her best friend, Brenda. But the Marshals had definitely been set up across the street from the gallery for a reason.
“Are you sure Isabel is okay?”
“Yes, she’s fine. She got into the ambulance with the other woman.”
Good. Chad didn’t want anything to happen to his Isabel unless he determined that she deserved it. And even then, Chad would be the one to dispense punishment. Him and no one else.
“Find out why the Marshals are interested in Isabel.”
“That means pulling my surveillance on Haas.”
“Understood.” On that front, the PI had served his purpose, and Chad could track Isabel from her phone. “This is more important.”
“I still have a few contacts in the FBI. They might be able to find out something, but it’ll cost you.”
Tell Chad something new. He was used to paying to get what he wanted. “I need to know what the Marshals have on her. The cost doesn’t concern me. I want answers ASAP.”
* * *
ISABEL SAT IN the waiting room, wringing her hands, while Brenda was in surgery.
The two marshals she’d met earlier sat across from her, giving her breathing room. She didn’t want to see or talk to either of them right now. If they hadn’t insisted that their presence was necessary to ensure her safety, she would’ve thrown them out.
The nightmare kept getting worse, spiraling, growing bigger, darker, consuming every good thing in her life.
Brenda. What if her best friend died because of her?
Her bloody hands were shaking so badly she didn’t know what to do with them.
Dutch shoved through the double doors, carrying the purse she’d forgotten. Her eyes fluttered shut on an overwhelming wave of relief. Then it morphed slowly with each step he took toward her, changing into an indescribable need to be held. By him.
She stood, dizzy, aching from head to toe, and reached for him. He pulled her into his arms. It was all too much being thrown at her, life forcing her to drink from a firehose of crap on full blast. She was drowning. She needed his comfort and was too weak to turn it down.
The other two marshals stood and headed for the door. “Dutch, give me a call when you get a chance,” his boss said.
“Sure.”
Once they left, Isabel let fresh tears fall.
“This is my fault,” she said. “Brenda got shot because of me. Oh, God, she could die.”
“No, sweetheart.” Dutch stroked her hair, his voice calm and steady. “This is your uncle’s fault. His and no one else’s.”
The realization hit her that if Dutch hadn’t been there, if that stolen database hadn’t brought him into her life—even by duplicitous means—she and Brenda would both be dead. Victims of her uncle’s turf war.
Her knees gave out.
Dutch caught her and helped her sit in a chair. “Give me a minute.” He got up to leave.
“Don’t go.” She clutched his arm, something in her chest unraveling like