“Nola . . . ?” Zig whispered, not even realizing he was saying the name. He’d known her since she was little. The woman who once saved his daughter’s life. “What the hell’re you doing here?”
4
Nola.
That was definitely Nola.
At the sight of her, Zig’s windpipe clenched. Earlier, he’d been thinking about her saving Maggie’s life . . . but two years ago, on that case at Dover . . . she’d saved Zig’s life, too. Swallowing hard, he could taste that bitter coppery tang. Blood. He’d never forget the taste of his own blood.
On that night, Zig was beaten with a metal crowbar. Broken ulna, two black eyes, a severe orbital rim fracture, and fourteen stitches between his forehead and chin. It was this woman—Sergeant First Class Nola Brown—who saved him . . . they saved each other actually . . . from Royall—Nola’s foster dad—who had tracked her down, trying to murder her.
It’d been two years since Zig had last seen her.
As she made her way toward the bleachers, she moved like she always did—slow, determined, with unmistakable presence and power for someone in her late twenties. Nola didn’t walk; she lurked, like a hunter, her willful lips pursed, her chin tucked into her chest, like she was forever trying to avoid being seen.
It wasn’t working. Behind her, hidden by an honor guard holding an American flag and an Army one, Flat Nose glanced her way, then lifted his wrist to his mouth. Handheld mic. Like the Secret Service. He was calling it in. This whole time, that’s who he was waiting for. Nola.
“Amen,” the crowd said at one of those prompts where everyone knows what to say.
For a moment, Nola stood there, studying the mourners who packed the bleachers, scanning them, her eyes sliding left to ri—
She glanced back over her shoulder, turning toward the honor guard. Even from here, Zig could tell—something was wrong. Her eyes narrowed. He’d seen that look before—that uncomfortable mental tug when someone feels like they’re being watched.
Flat Nose looked away, shrinking back behind the flags.
If Nola noticed, she wasn’t reacting. She continued her search, eyeing the coffin, the chaplain, the flowers—then quickly turning her attention to Zig’s side of the gym.
Zig stepped backward, out of the doorway. Did Nola see him? Not a chance. He was too fast and she was too far.
But then Zig remembered . . . Nola saw everything.
Peering back across the threshold, Zig spotted her leaving, rushing out. Yet as she reached the door, Nola glanced back over her shoulder. Like she’d known he was there the entire time.
Their eyes locked.
Contact.
Zig stood there frozen, and then, like a child, raised his hand and . . . waved. Oh, God, did I just wave at her?
Nola’s black eyes narrowed. Stay away, she warned with a dark glare.
Then she ran, dashing out into the hallway, a few people turning, but most barely noticing.
Before the door slammed, Flat Nose was moving, weaving his way through the honor guard, whispering something into his handheld mic while striding after her. As Flat Nose darted through the doorway, Zig noticed that the bulge in his jacket was gone. He’d pulled his gun.
Nola . . . ! Zig wanted to call out. It wouldn’t help. She was already out the door, with no idea what was coming.
Don’t jump to conclusions, Zig told himself. For all you know, Flat Nose is one of the good guys and Nola did something wrong.
But across the gym, as the door slammed shut, Zig was replaying that moment two years ago when the metal crowbar collided with his throat. A burst of blood had flooded forward. He couldn’t breathe. He thought it had crushed his larynx. Nola’s foster dad—Royall—wound up again. This was it. Curled on the ground, Zig closed his eyes and muttered a final prayer . . . until Nola rushed in and fired three quick shots. She’d come back—putting her own life at risk to save Zig. How the hell can I leave her now?