Flashback

a cartoon of two very hungry-looking vultures on a branch, waiting for something to die so they could eat it. The caption showed one bird saying, “Patience, hell! I’m going out and killing something!”
It had been funny, and it still held a place of honor on her kitchen wall, standing out among all the flowery plates her grandmother had favored. But she understood the feeling all too well. She still did. She hadn’t grown out of it in the years since. She was used to making things happen, not waiting. And waiting. And more waiting.
And when it came to the welfare of those she loved, her patience was in even shorter supply.
A strand of her hair caught, as it had several times already, on the collar of her shirt. She went to the bathroom, yanked a heavy-duty hair clip out of her bag of toiletries, gathered up the curly red mass and clipped it tightly to the back of her head.
A tiny uneven spot in the insole of her shoe made her yank it off and poke and dig at it until a fleck of something that looked like excess glue came off. She put the shoe back on and tested it.
That fixed, she then focused on the rough spot on the side of a fingernail that dragged annoyingly across everything she touched. Ten seconds with an emery board took care of that.
She cleaned her sunglasses. Grabbed a diet soda from the minibar, opened it, took a sip, and didn’t want the rest. Tried some crackers, hated the taste. Brushed her teeth to get rid of it.
And through every movement, every busy-work item, she fought not to stare at the clock. And at her phone on the dresser, willing it to ring.
She knew she was losing her cool.
Some highly trained professional you are, she chastised herself.
But she knew this was different. Working cases was different, because she wasn’t personally involved. Her life didn’t hang in the balance, literally. So she was able to give her work the cool, dispassionate logic and intelligence required to do the best job possible.
But this was her grandfather, and all bets were off.
The longer it took, the more rationality fled and the more hideous the pictures her imagination painted became. If nothing was wrong, all Justin would need was one peek and a quiet spot to make the call. If he hadn’t called yet, something must be wrong. Something awful had happened, G.C. was hurt or worse, and it was all her—
The ring of her cell made her leap for the dresser.
Justin.
She flipped it open and breathlessly said hello.
“He’s all right.”
Weak-kneed with relief, she sank down on the end of the bed. Bless him for understanding that was what she needed to hear first. She wasn’t sure what she said aloud, but it must have been some sort of thank-you, because of his response.
“You’re welcome, honey. It would have been sooner, but they had some kind of group on a tour at Hoover, and it took twice as long as it should have to get out of there.”
“That’s fine,” she said, still a bit giddy with relief. “As long as he’s okay, nothing else matters.”
“Alex,” he said, then hesitated.
“What?”
“I should tell him.”
“I don’t want him to worry,” she said.
“I don’t want him to get caught off guard.”
She hadn’t thought of it that way. Her first instinct had been protection, but she hadn’t really thought of the possibility that insulation wasn’t the best way to accomplish that.
“He’s as tough as he has to be, Alex,” Justin said softly when she didn’t respond. “But he should be warned, so he’ll be on alert. He can handle it, but he has the right to know what he’s up against.”
She sighed. “You’re right.”
She knew it in her gut. That Justin had realized it when she hadn’t added yet another layer to what was rapidly becoming a more complex situation than she’d ever faced in her personal life. Even her relationship with her mother, tangled and confused as it was, was easier. And her relationship with Emerson looked downright simple by comparison.
But then, it had been. They’d never delved beneath the surface much. And things would never, ever be like that with Justin. That was, she admitted now, part of what scared her, what held her off.
“I’ll hang around until he’s done,” Justin said. “I’ll have him call you, and then he and I can…discuss courses of action.”
She felt a tug of anxiety. This was G.C.; she should be taking care of this; she should be there; she—
“Trust me, Alex. He matters to me, too. I’ll take care of him.”
His voice was low, soft, confident and supportive. As a declaration of his feelings for her, and his understanding of her feelings for her grandfather, it would be hard to top. She knew he was saying much more than his words, that he was letting her know that trusting him with the man she loved more than her own life would be an irrevocable step in the direction he wanted to go.
And suddenly she wanted it, too.
“I know you will,” she said. “I’ll wait for the call.”
There was a pause during which she thought she heard him sigh. “Thank you,” he finally said, and after they’d disconnected, she knew that the flood of revelations that had hit her had been exactly on the nose.
With the feeling of one who had just taken a huge step, she set the phone down beside her. But she barely had time to absorb what had happened before a knock on the door had her on her feet again.
Instinctively she removed the Glock from its hidden holster in her bag and tucked it in the small of her back before she walked over to peer through the security lens in the door.
Lynn, still looking anxious, and with a large white envelope in her hand. Alex undid the dead bolt and the chain—she used the latter for the slow-down factor rather than in any hope it would