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Oliver tapped the screen on his phone to re-watch the recorded feed from his surveillance camera. Frowning, he stopped the video and pinched the image to increase the size.
And what is he doing? Taking pictures?
Oliver narrowed his eyes.
I may have to talk with that man.
Even though he had not crossed the line. Not yet. Then again, taking pictures of someone without their permission was a crime. Oliver clicked his tongue. Following an agent on duty? Maybe it was a time to take him in.
Does he know I work for the bureau?
Oliver resumed the video recording. What was Robert planning to do with the pictures?
* * *
It was justpast five o’clock in the morning when Oliver’s eyes flew open. His mind was mulling over yesterday’s events—and her. He lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, wondering what the best way would be to come clean with her. For some reason, he felt he owed her the truth.
He looked at his phone. It was too early to drive to her place, but he could review the surveillance footage one more time. Oliver got up, walked to the kitchen, and made himself coffee. His mother’s room was upstairs, so he didn’t need to worry about waking her up.
Oliver sat in the living room and opened his laptop. He sipped his coffee while he waited for the video to load. Inspecting it on a larger screen might reveal something he hadn’t noticed before. He set his cup down and leaned closer. Was that a second car on the opposite side of the square? Also taking pictures of the area? This looked very much like a small recon operation. He needed to send this to the office. A tech team could isolate some images and perhaps identify who was sitting in the second vehicle. A few taps on the screen and the information was forwarded to his boss. Another copy went to Yarda, his partner. Oliver glanced at the clock on the bottom of his screen. There was enough time to type and file his reports. Writing out all the details usually helped him to consider what he had seen from several different angles. Once he sent his report to each appropriate department, he got up and carried his mug to the kitchen sink. It was time to drive to Meghan’s place and take her to the grocery store.
* * *
A pingagainst a windowpane woke her up. Meghan sat up as a second pebble hit the glass.
“What the?—”
Had she slept on the sofa all night? She pushed the blanket aside and walked to the window.
Oliver stood on the sidewalk, ready to toss another stone.
She waved at him. His face lit up with a smile. This guy was seriously cute. What were the chances he was single? But she couldn’t go there. Meghan patted her pocket for the phone. Empty. She looked around, locating her cell on the coffee table. One look at the screen confirmed that the sound was off.
Give me 5 minutes
OK
The luggage stood by the front door just as she had left it the night before. Wheeling it to the coffee table, Meghan wondered what to wear. She glanced out the window. It was cloudy, and there was no sign of the sun. Would it rain again?
She hoisted the suitcase on top of the coffee table and unzipped it. With her cosmetic bag in hand, Meghan rushed to the small bathroom and checked her reflection in the mirror. Did she care what he thought if she wore yesterday’s clothes? Everything else was wrinkled, and there was no time to search the apartment for an iron. Meghan brushed her teeth and glanced up. She could use a bit of makeup, but that would keep him waiting even longer. With a practiced motion, she pulled the elastic out of her hair and ran her fingers through it. Hoodie, in one hand, her cross-over bag in the other, she slipped on her shoes and walked briskly toward the door.
God, please keep me safe. Give me wisdom and guidance, especially when it comes to him.
CHAPTERFOUR
Northern Moravia, 1942
“Fred!”Father’s voice jolted him out of sleep. “Fred!”
He puffed out a frustrated breath. How could he have slept in like this? The plan was to be at the barn before Father. Fred got to his feet. The door flew open.
“You come to me when I call you, boy!” Father’s face was red, and his gray hair was stuck in all directions—a horsewhip in his hand.
“I’m—”
Swish.
The first blow always stung the worst.