In the Blood

8 IN THE SHADOWS

Portland, OR

March 22

HIS DAUGHTER WAS PROTECTING a vampire.

James Wallace poured hot water into a mug and over the tea bag nestled inside. As the tea steeped, the faint odor of blueberries steamed into the air. He carried the mug into his office and set it on the small cup warmer plugged into the wall. He sank into his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He rubbed his hands back and forth over his head, his bristle-cut hair soft beneath his fingers.

Heather’s reaction to his comment about Prejean saving her life told him everything he needed to know. She’d lied during her debriefing and in her official statement. Was still lying. She was protecting Dante Prejean, protecting a goddamned bloodsucking vampire.

He didn’t know which was worse, that or her investigation into Shannon’s death.

On his drive home, several questions had circled endlessly through his mind: How could he protect his reputation and his stubborn daughter? What had been so important that Rutgers’s assistant had felt compelled to interrupt the conference, even briefly? What the hell had Dante Prejean done to Heather?

First thing he’d done when he’d walked in through the front door was get in touch with one of his contacts in D.C.

Keep this to yourself, Jim, but Caterina Cortini was here, paid Rutgers a visit, then left. Rutgers left shortly afterward too—looking pissed as hell.

That news had shaken James. Cortini answered only to the Shadow Branch—the arm of the federal government that’d been formed some time ago by a former vice president; a consortium rumored to be composed of CIA, DOD, FBI, and Homeland Security members, a branch that answered to no one and didn’t exist officially.

Cortini was rumored to be one of the Shadow Branch’s top wetwork experts, or problem solvers—for the more politically correct, one who permanently tied up loose ends.

Given the subject of his meeting with Rutgers and Rodriguez, James couldn’t help but think that the subject of Cortini’s meeting was the same: the possible exposure of Bad Seed and containment.

Containment would include Heather.

Scooping up his cell phone from the desk, James pulled up Heather’s number and hit SEND. When her voice mail clicked on, he figured she’d IDed his call and was refusing to answer.

James quietly closed the cell. He’d try again later. He picked up his mug and took a sip of tea. He considered calling Annie. She should be at Heather’s by now, provided she’d followed his instructions. With Annie, he never knew. She swung hot, then cold. Just like her mother.

Ask her to stop, Annie. Your mother never gave a damn about you kids.

Neither did you. You were always gone. Heather was always there for us.

I was trying to keep a roof over our heads. Food in your tummies.

What if she won’t quit?

Then we’ll never be a family again. Do whatever you need to—I’ll back you up.

The fucking doctor wants to change my meds. He wants me to stay longer.

I’ll take care of all that, sweetie. You don’t need meds. You’re my good girl.

Annie’s face had lit for a moment, hope burning distrust from her expression like sunshine through mist, and he’d felt cold and ill, felt like he’d stood in the shadows far too long.

James studied the framed photo on his desk of him and Heather—both in white lab coats, grinning and holding microscopes. Heather was thirteen, skinny and just filling out, her long, red hair in a thick braid to her waist, her smile wide and happy, uninhibited.

Another photo showed him and Heather in grease-stained jeans and tees, posing in front of the classic Mustang they’d rebuilt together. Tendrils of dark red hair fluttered in front of Heather’s smudged face as she squinted in the sunshine, her smile, at fifteen, a little more reserved.

Indebted to her father’s quick thinking, a grateful daughter just might put aside an investigation into a cold case best left undisturbed.

Of course, if Prejean had transformed Heather into someone other than the girl in the photos on his desk, someone no longer 100 percent human, then the merciful thing, and the thing Heather herself would want, would be to remain silent and allow nature in the form of Caterina Cortini to take its course.

But before that happened, he needed to find out the truth. And there was one person who would know—if anyone did—what Prejean might’ve done to Heather while saving her life.

Placing the mug back on the warmer, James swiveled in his seat and turned on the computer. While the Dell ran through its startup, he composed in his mind the message he would send.

Has my daughter’s humanity been compromised?