Page 11 of Shadow

She knew those windows. Knew that staircase. Knew the exact temperature of that marble because she’d sat on it for three hours during a memorial service when she was sixteen years old.

“It’s in Renegade,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” Caroline said.

No wonder she’d pulled in the past. “What do you need?”

“I need you. Here.”

No. The word rushed at her, a hammer.

Not on her life.

“Did you hear me?” Caroline said.

“It’s in Renegade.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Renegade, Caroline. Sheesh⁠—”

“I get it. But listen, the witnesses are Roger and Destiny Rousseau. Star testimony in our RICO case against the Shadow Syndicate. If they die, Draven Frost walks.”

“I haven’t been back for fifteen years.”

“I know. I remember the story about your dad. Officer Daniel Cross. Renegade PD. Killed in the line of duty when you were sixteen.”

Daphne’s hand tightened on the phone. “Mom and I left three days after the funeral. I’ve never been back.”

“I know.”

“Then you understand why I’m not taking this case.”

“I understand you became a US marshal to honor him,” Caroline said. “And I know you left the Marshals Service, but that core is still inside you.”

“So is the reason I left the Marshals. Corruption.”

“Exactly. Roger and Destiny Rousseau need someone who understands that corruption,” Caroline said. “Someone who doesn’t trust the system. Someone who’ll protect them even when federal agencies can’t.”

“Low blow, Caroline.”

“And yet true.”

Shoot.

Daphne looked at the crime scene photo again. Another man stood not far away, looking shell-shocked, hands bloody.

Probably one of the marshals supposed to protect her.

“They need someone who isn’t emotionally compromised.”

“They need someone who’s never lost a witness,” Caroline said softly. “I’m caught up on your record. Thirty-two protection details. Zero losses. Are you willing to let Roger and Destiny Rousseau become your first failure because you don’t want to face your hometown?”

Daphne’s jaw locked.

She walked to her bedroom and pulled clothes from the dresser. Jeans. Long-sleeve shirt. “If I do this”—her voice came out flat—“I do it my way. Complete operational autonomy.”

“The FBI doesn’t⁠—”