Bodyguard Reunion. Beverly Long

to get out of here before Bobby comes back.”

      “Who’s Bobby?” JC asked, already knowing the answer. The investigator that she’d hired had unearthed the name of the man she was living with. But she couldn’t let Charity know that. She looked over the girl’s shoulder. She was at least three inches shorter than JC’s own five foot six.

      Charity tossed her hair. “Just this guy. He can be a real jerk sometimes.”

      She turned and that’s when JC saw the open suitcase on the couch. Wadded-up clothes were hanging over the edges of the inexpensive luggage. Two pairs of gladiator sandals, one black, one brown, seemed to be taking up most of the room.

      “You said you were in trouble,” JC said. “The kind of trouble where you need to leave?”

      “The kind of trouble where I think it’s possible that I’m going to be that poor girl on the ten o’clock news,” Charity said, her voice low. “Bobby’s got some anger issues and I don’t feel safe. It was probably a mistake for me to move in here.”

      In the information that had been gathered about Charity, there’d been no mention of violence involving her and Bobby. “How long have the two of you been together?”

      Charity ran a hand through her long hair. “Not that long. A few months.”

      “Where were you planning to go?”

      Charity shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve got a couple hundred bucks. Should get me a place to stay for a week or so until I figure things out.”

      Not a nice place. But they could have that discussion once she was safely out of the apartment. “Maybe you better finish packing,” JC said. She looked around. The apartment was very sparsely furnished with just a couch and two folding chairs. A flat-screen television was perched on top of two stacked red plastic crates. A counter separated the kitchen from the living room and it was loaded with dirty dishes, potato chip bags and empty ice-cream-sandwich boxes. There was a big orange cat lying on the far end, its head lifted, perhaps interested in the visitor but not quite enough to be concerned.

      Charity wasn’t moving. Just standing there, watching JC.

      “Can I...help you with anything?” JC asked.

      It took Charity a minute to answer. “I guess I’ll need Hogi’s food,” she said finally, her head moving in the cat’s direction. She walked toward her suitcase.

      JC had no idea whether or not the Periwinkle allowed cats. But if not, she suspected that a special damage deposit might take care of the problem. “Do you have a cage for him?”

      Charity looked at her as if she might be stupid and used her elbow to point at the top of the fridge.

      Well, of course. JC set her teeth. Now wasn’t the time to get into an argument. She wanted to get out of there before Bobby decided to come back.

      She found the cat’s food in a bag near a filthy litter box that caused her to breathe through her mouth. She grabbed the small bag of food and backed away. Then she reached for the cat cage on top of the refrigerator.

      The cat turned his head, saw what she was doing and, showing more energy than she’d expected, bolted off the counter and down the hallway.

      “Oh, my God,” Charity screamed. “Don’t let Hogi see that. He’ll think he’s going to the vet.”

      “I’ll get him,” JC said.

      Charity held up her hand. “Just wait here. He’ll be under the bed. You’re a stranger. He’ll never come to you.” She picked up a photo album that had been wedged behind the suitcase. “I had these pictures. I thought you might want to see them. Since my mom is in them, you know.”

      “Thank you,” she said. She took the album.

      Charity ran down the hall, leaving JC alone in the squalid little living room. The cover of the photo album was a brown padded vinyl. JC flipped it open. Inside were ten or twelve plastic sheets, most of the four-by-six slots filled.

      Baby pictures. They had to be of Charity. The eyes gave it away. Unable to resist, she flipped a couple pages, looking for the woman who had been Charity’s mother.

      There. Holding Charity.

      Pretty, with long blond hair. Not as thin as Charity but still slender. She was slumped in a chair, like she might be exhausted.

      Had she already realized by that time that she’d be raising Charity alone? Or had she known that from the minute she’d gotten pregnant?

      So many questions.

      But maybe now she was finally close to getting answers. She could hear Charity calling to the cat. “Come on, Hogi. Come out right now.”

      Her sister had a hint of the South in her voice. JC was so intent upon listening to it that it surprised the heck out of her when the apartment door suddenly swung open.

      A man, his gut hanging over his belt, wearing a black tank top and gray cargo shorts, stared at her. His hair, long and pulled back into a ponytail, was a dirty blond. He was maybe thirty. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

      When she didn’t answer immediately, he looked beyond her. “Charity,” he yelled.

      JC stepped forward. “You must be Bobby. I’m JC.” Instinctively, she extended her hand.

      He ignored it. He was staring at the suitcase and she could see red spread up his neck. He turned.

      JC moved fast and got in front of him, blocking his way to the hallway. “Hey,” she said, “let’s talk—”

      He pushed her and she stumbled backward. But years of staying upright on a soccer field had her quickly back in his face. She kicked his shin, right above the ankle joint, right where she knew it would hurt most.

      “You little bitch,” he said, punctuating his remarks with a right hook.

      JC managed to duck the first punch. “Help,” she screamed. “Somebody help us.”

      But help wasn’t coming. And when he grabbed her and shoved her back, knocking her head against the cheap drywall, she knew she was in terrible trouble.

      She kicked and twisted but he was strong enough to fight off her attempts with one hand and keep his other hand around her neck, anchoring her to the wall. And his hand was squeezing, closing her airway.

      And she knew that she was going to die.

      Far away, she heard Charity yelling. “Stop it. Stop it, Bobby. You’re going to kill her.”

      She was right.

      “Run,” JC managed.

      But Charity didn’t. Instead, she pounded on the man’s back, yanking at his hair, scratching his skin.

      But still he hung on.

      Until suddenly, his hands were gone. And she sank to the floor, gasping in air. There was a terrific buzzing in her ears and it took her seconds to realize that the sound she heard was someone’s fist pounding into flesh.

      If she wasn’t mistaken, Royce intended to beat Bobby to death. “Royce,” she said weakly. She staggered to her feet. Another punch. She lurched toward Royce. “Stop,” she said.

      But he didn’t until she fell into him. He turned and caught her before her face hit the floor. Which was good because if not, both she and Bobby would have been out cold.

      “Jules,” Royce said, his eyes wild. “Damn, honey. Are you—”

      “Las Vegas Police Department. Open up.”

      Before they could do that, however, two Vegas cops burst through the door, guns drawn.

      Royce kept one arm around her and raised his other. “I’m Royce Morgan of Wingman Security. This is my client Juliana Cambridge, and that—” he looked at Bobby, who was just coming