Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) by Karen Rose

            His attack on Gideon last week had done this. You’re a goddamn fool, Belmont. He’d shot at Gideon and now Daisy was being guarded, her location kept secret.

            Hands shaking with rage, he backed out of his parking space and drove past the fire truck speeding toward the station. Getting the second package to the Sokolovs was even more important now, but he’d have to be smarter. They’d be on their guard.

            He had to think of another way to get the second package into the Sokolov home. “Fuck.”




WALNUT CREEK, CALIFORNIA

            MONDAY, MAY 29, 9:30 A.M.

            The Kitson home was nice. Not as big as the Sokolovs’ house, but fancier. “What if she slams the door in our faces?” Liza asked, nervous now that they were here. She’d driven while he’d continued to monitor the Sunnyside communications he could see.

            “We’ll get a subpoena to get her to tell us about Pastor’s banker.” Tom took her hand, giving it a squeeze as they walked to the door. “Let me talk for now,” he murmured before he knocked.

            The door was opened by the woman who’d worn the evening gown in the photo. Marcia Travis—a.k.a. Marcia Hampton, a.k.a. Margo Kitson née Holly—smiled at them politely. “This neighborhood has an ordinance against soliciting.” She started to close the door.

            “I’m Special Agent Tom Hunter, FBI.” He showed her his badge and the woman’s face froze. “This is my associate, Miss Barkley. We’d like to talk to you.”

            After her initial shock, Marcia’s eyes flickered with fear, then shame. “I . . .” She looked at her very expensive shoes. When she looked up, she was resigned. “I’ve been expecting you.”

            Liza hadn’t been expecting that, but Tom was relaxed. “May we come in, ma’am?”

            Marcia drew a breath and stepped back so that they could enter. “Please. Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee or tea?”

            “No, ma’am,” Tom said. “Can we sit and talk?”

            “Of course.” Marcia clasped her hands together as she led them into a sitting room.

            Liza sat on a small sofa next to Tom while Marcia took the closest wingback chair.

            “How did you find me?” she asked.

            “Through a reporter who rejected your offer of reparations.”

            “Mr. Hickman,” Marcia murmured. “I hope he’s well.”

            Not responding to that, Tom studied her for so long that the woman began to shift uncomfortably. “How would you prefer to be addressed, ma’am? We have a number of names.”

            “Margo Kitson is who I’ve been for fourteen years. Or who I aspire to be. Call me Margo.”

            “All right, Margo.” Tom looked around the room, his gaze pointedly pausing on the framed photographs lining the mantel over the fireplace. “Your daughter?”

            “Yes. Tracy.” Margo rose, retrieving a family photograph and handing it to Tom.

            Margo and her husband Hugh stood with a younger blond woman. Bernice, Liza thought. Bo was missing from the family portrait, having killed himself.

            A boy and a girl, both about eight years old, stood in front of Margo and Hugh. Two older children stood in front of Bernice and another man. They looked to be middle-school-aged.

            Tom pointed to the children. “Your grandchildren?”

            “The two oldest. They’re Tracy’s children. Chris is twelve and Robin is eleven.”

            “When you say Tracy, you mean Bernice,” Tom said and she winced.

            “Yes, but she no longer answers to that name. The younger children are mine, with Hugh.”

            Wow, Liza thought, busily doing the math. Margo had been thirty-three when she’d escaped L.A. and gone to Eden, thirty-eight when she’d escaped Eden and gone to Benicia. If those kids were eight years old, then Margo had conceived at age fifty-four.

            Margo chuckled dryly. “I can see you figuring numbers in your head, Miss Barkley.”