Survive the Night. Vicki Hinze

was going to tell you. I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. My caseload has been a bear, and then there was the open house—it’s just been kind of crazy.”

      “You’re still making excuses. Please don’t.” She opened her mouth, but he lifted a finger. “You figure Dawson is out and knows where you are because...?”

      She clamped her jaw and stared at the box on the porch. Anything she said would upset Paul more and she didn’t want to do that.

      “Della, I know something has happened. Just Dawson’s release wouldn’t put you in the panic you were in when you saw Gracie. Stop making me pull teeth, woman, and tell me what’s going on.”

      “The truth is, I’m not sure yet.” She summoned her courage and headed toward the box.

      From the edge of the porch, she studied the label and felt the blood drain from her face. “But we need to call the police.”

      He walked over to where she stood. “Why?”

      “Because—” she spared him a glance “—it says it’s from Tennessee.”

      His frown faded and his face brightened. “Maybe Jeff’s finally sent you the pictures of Danny.”

      She’d asked her ex for a photo of her son every month for three years and had gotten nothing. No photo, no response whatsoever. “Highly doubtful—no.” She more closely examined the box. “This isn’t from Jeff, and I don’t know anyone else in Tennessee anymore.”

      “How do you know it’s not from him? If there’s no one else—”

      Having the benefit of insights he did not, she pointed but didn’t touch the package. “See this code on the shipping label?”

      Paul read it and then looked over at her, his expression grave. “It’s a Florida zip code.”

      “Walton County.” Della nodded. “But someone clearly wanted me to think the box was from Tennessee.” The return address had been written in black marker.

      “That’s more than enough for me.” Paul pulled out his cell and dialed.

      “Who are you calling?” Della asked.

      Paul lifted a wait-a-second finger. “Major Beech, it’s Paul Mason. Fine. Yeah, a good turnout.” He moved to put himself between the box and Della. “I’ve got a suspicious package over at Della Jackson’s cottage.”

      Major Harrison Beech. Why was Paul calling the base and not the local police? Della grimaced. “It could be nothing.” She said it, but it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like a huge something.

      “Thanks, Beech.” Paul hung up and guided Della away from the package. “He’s coming out with some friends.”

      A team of professionals. His hand on her arm was firm, leading her back toward the sidewalk. “Why did you call him?”

      “He’s an explosives specialist.”

      “But we don’t know that there are explosives in the box, Paul.”

      “Which is why it’s best to be prudent.” He stopped. “We do know the package was delivered under suspicious circumstances.”

      “But Beech?” The military reminded her of her active duty days when she’d been stationed at the base here, and of all she’d lost while serving in Afghanistan. Things she’d worked hard to forget but failed, and now worked hard to accept. “Couldn’t the police handle it?” Actually, she didn’t want them called, either. She didn’t need the police.

      Now that she’d absorbed the shock of seeing Gracie on the porch holding that box, she wanted to check it out herself. It could be a prank, related to one of her cases. Could be a practical joke of some sort, or anything other than something dangerous. She was a professional investigator, for pity’s sake. If the local police considered her a hysterical woman, her professional effectiveness would be hampered on every case she worked from now on.

      Yet Paul’s reason for calling Major Beech intrigued her. Why had he done that? Oh, she’d heard what he’d said. But she knew him, and his reasons would never be that simple. There was definitely more to it.

      “The local police are not explosives specialists, and they’re tied up with the festival. They’d have to get a unit from Walton County to come in and, frankly, Walton would probably just call the base for assistance anyway. Calling Beech direct saves time.” Paul led her down the sidewalk toward his SUV. “Let’s wait in the car.”

      All true, but still not everything. What more was there? “You’ve got a bad feeling about this, don’t you?” Della sensed it in him, just as she felt it in the pit of her stomach. Maybe it was their military training. Paul had served in special operations. Della had served in the intelligence realm as a computer specialist. Both positions required skill sets that included honed instincts.

      Or maybe it wasn’t their common military experience but the personal bond connecting them that put them on a kindred wavelength. Whatever the reason, they both had a feeling about this, and it wasn’t good.

      “Yeah, I do, Della.” He wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder. “A real bad feeling.”

      She shivered and he pulled her closer.

      * * *

      Crouching low, he hid in the darkness between two fat bushes and watched them walk to the black SUV and get inside. He’d chosen this spot across the street because it was void of light; she’d never spot him, yet he could see every move she made.

      Why didn’t you just open the box? Frustrated, he cast an agitated glare at her neighbor’s house, the cottage next door. It was that stupid kid’s fault. If she hadn’t interfered, Della would have found the package. He’d have seen her open it. There’s no way she would have walked away without opening it. He’d have seen her panic and felt her fear.

      He thrived on her fear.

      For six weeks, the anticipation had been building, clawing at his stomach, urging him to rush. Temptation burned so strong but he’d strained mightily against it and fortunately his leash had held—at least, thus far. Discipline, man. To win requires discipline.

      It did. Enormous discipline. Della Jackson was not a fool. Yet neither was he. Each step had to be weighed, considered, calculated, the consequences determined from all sides. He’d planned down to the minutest detail. Created a backup contingency plan. Monitored and measured each act, each response, every possible reaction, and it was a good thing he had.

      She’d picked up on him following her right away—amazingly fast, actually. He begrudgingly gave her props for that. The woman had skills and the instincts to make her as good an investigator as she had been with computers. Those instincts made her dangerous.

      But his instincts and skills were stronger, more seasoned, perfected over two decades in a series of trials by fire. Soon she’d discover just how much superiority that gave him. Soon he’d see—

      Three cars whipped around the corner and slid to a stop at the curb in front of her cottage.

      So they weren’t cutting and running. Mason had stuck in his nose and called for backup. No cops. Military backup. A shudder rippled through his body, pressed his stomach into the cool dirt. Well, well. Interesting if mildly disappointing yet not wholly unexpected. He could deal with it. So he wouldn’t get to see her face when she saw what was inside the box. He could imagine her reaction easily enough.

      Horror and then rage. Helpless and hopeless and then finally, finally...Della Jackson eaten alive with fear.

      Inescapable, merciless, unrelenting fear.

      He could wait. Not tonight, but before this was done he would see all those things in her and more. And when she was emotionally drained dry and wrung out with nothing left and too weak to run, then...

      Then?

      Then he would