Page 2 of Echo, the Sniper (Men of PSI #2)

“Mr. Echols, my husband is dead.”

He looked at me impassively. “I’m aware of that.”

“Dane died six months ago.”

“That’s what the death certificate says.”

How shockingly breezy he sounded about it all. “He was shot by a sniper, right in front of me and some client he was trying to woo.”

“I know.”

“So you see, there’s no way Dane could have hired you, six months out from his very violent, very public, very unsolved murder. That just doesn’t make sense.”

“By now you know your husband was involved in some shady dealings with his import-export business—”

Again I had to laugh, which kicked off another bout of coughing.

“My husband,” I croaked after a moment, “was under indictment for importing fake cancer drugs from China, while exporting to China the latest and greatest microchips the US has to offer, all of which was profoundly illegal. Everything—the cars he had, the artwork he’d collected, the jewelry he’d given me—all of it has been confiscated by the government as evidence, because most of it had been given to him by his Chinese handlers.

Whatever I did have that was mine and of value is going up in smoke while I stand here in the only clothes I now own, a nightgown and a pair of Uggs.

The household bank account, the only one that hasn’t been seized by the government, has less than five grand in it, which is weird since I inherited about ten million after my father’s death, yet it’s now vanished.

And while Dane had life insurance, the insurance company refuses to pay until his murder has been resolved to their satisfaction, whatever that means, so they haven’t paid that out, either.

I don’t know how my dead husband would have paid you to look after me, and I have no money to pay you with, so I don’t believe a word you’re saying.

” That wasn’t entirely true about the money.

It was only a couple months after I’d married Dane that I’d realized I made a terrible mistake, so I’d turned to my mother for help.

Though she’d been at the end stage of her battle with lymphoma, she’d still made a bank account for me, then made sure her life insurance was up to date and had me as her sole beneficiary.

She’d also given me her mother’s five-strand pearl necklace and diamond earrings, and told me to hide their existence from Dane, just in case I needed them for a rainy day.

It had been raining for months now. This bizarre house fire was just the cherry on top.

The man, Ethan Echols, watched me without blinking, with an air of relentless patience that was alien to me. When I finally ran out of words, he tilted his head. “Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant, Rory. I have a job to do, which is to ensure your safety.”

“Safety from what?” Another laugh rocked out of me, and even I had to admit it didn’t sound... okay. More like a shriek that had a staccato cadence to it. “Tonight I’ve lost whatever I had left in this world, Mr. Echols. Nothing more can happen to me.”

“You could lose your life.”

“I don’t care if I do.” The words were just out there without any memory of me wanting to say them, but they weren’t wrong. If I somehow keeled over dead right now from smoke inhalation, I would consider it a mercy and just let go.

At least I’d see my parents again.

His pale gaze flicked toward the inferno that had been my late husband’s picture-perfect home. “I know things look bad right now, but this fire—this tragedy—won’t last. No matter how dark things seem at this moment, not even darkness lasts forever.”

“I beg to differ.” Pulling myself up to my full height—all five and a half feet of me—I lifted my chin in a stance my mother laughingly called my battle stance.

“You think this fire is a cause for despair? It’s just the latest gut-punch.

My husband was murdered right in front of me six months ago.

In turn, that opened up a whole can of worms filled with super-fun things, like his crimes and deceit and lost honor, something I knew nothing about but everyone in this neighborhood assumes otherwise.

I’m a pariah everywhere I go, which means I’m now fair game to every jerk in the world who wants to stick it to the widow of a traitorous crook.

Two weeks ago the Bentley I inherited from my father was torn apart.

I don’t have the money to fix it, and the insurance company won’t pay since its vandalism was ‘suspicious’.

Twice now I’ve had to take the bus to job interviews, but come to find out there are very few people hiring penniless heiresses whose only skills are making the perfect bed and getting a hot dinner on the table at precisely 6:30.

I can’t even ride the bus without getting my pocket picked—”

“You had your pocket picked?”

“Yes, though they had to have been disappointed with what they got, since I had my ID and money in my phone case that day. Now my entire house is going up in flames along with every picture and keepsake I’ve accumulated throughout the twenty-three years I’ve been alive.

You might say I’m having a bad year, and there’s no end to this misery in sight. ”

Those mirror-like eyes narrowed as if he’d suddenly shut out the rest of the world and could only see me as his target. “That’s one helluva lot of bad things to happen in such a short time.”

“No kidding.” I looked back to my house in time to see one of the shutters fall off from a second-story window. Bye-bye, shutters . “If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

“It’s possible it isn’t luck. Someone could be targeting you.”

It took a second for his words to penetrate. When they did, I had a heck of a time swallowing another round of hysterical laughter. “Targeting me? Me ? The most uninteresting person in the world?”

“I didn’t say that, Ro—”

“I don’t even leave the house except to look for a job, or go to the grocery store to buy food I can’t afford.

Whatever social life I had was through my husband, which means it died when he did.

No one on earth knows or even cares that I exist, so I really doubt there’s anyone out there targeting me. ”

Again something indefinable slipped across his expression. “I’m sure there are people who care about you. What about friends from school?”

“They’re gone.” Dane had made sure my isolation was complete.

He frowned and seemed on the verge of saying something more before those pale eyes of his flickered past me to a point over my shoulder. Automatically I turned to find a beefy, middle-aged fireman with some sort of badge on his hat heading our way.

“Aurora Grant? I’m Chief William Sims, head of the arson division for the Cherrywood Creek Fire Department. I need to ask if you’re a smoker or a vaper?”

“What? No. Dane doesn’t—didn’t allow that sort of thing in his house.”

“In his house?” Ethan Echols murmured, shooting me a curious glance. “Wasn’t it your house too?”

I ignored him, because it had never been my house, just like my life had ceased to be solely mine the moment I married Dane. “Also, I don’t like the smell of cigarette smoke.”

Chief Sims nodded briefly. “It’s January, ma’am. When was the last time you personally cut the grass or used a chainsaw to cut down any trees or tree limbs?”

What in the world ... “I don’t do anything like that.

I maintain my roses, of course, I’m known for that, but that’s all.

My husband had a crew take care of the landscaping, a crew I had to let go, since it’s wintertime and their services weren’t required.

” Not to mention I no longer had any money to pay them with.

“So, are you saying you never had an opportunity to fuel up a lawnmower or chainsaw?”

“What? No, I’ve never—”

“Rory, don’t say another word.” The man, Ethan Echols, stepped in front of me, like he thought the fire chief might pull a gun and start blasting. “What’s this about?”

The fire chief narrowed his weathered, creased eyes. “Who are you?”

“Personal security for Aurora Grant.” A card appeared in his hand. “Private Security International. Please feel free to check my credentials.”

“I’ve dealt with PSI before.” The chief didn’t take his eyes off Ethan Echols, as if he worried the younger man might suddenly morph into a venom-spitting cobra.

“Here’s the thing, Mr. Echols of PSI. It seems your client is involved in a fire that started both in the three-car garage, and in the swanky chef’s kitchen with an accelerant that smells an awful lot like gasoline.

Gasoline that could have been spilled if she was using a lawnmower or chainsaw. .. or pouring it all over the place.”

I gasped, then coughed when the smoke tickled in my throat.

Sparing me an unimpressed glance, the chief refocused on Ethan Echols.

“We’ll have to wait for the fire to be out before we can run tests and inspect the damaged areas, but this looks like a clear-cut case of arson.

Tell me, Mrs. Grant, how much insurance do you happen to have on this house of yours? ”

“You’re wrong.” Something cringed in me at contradicting him.

Dane hated to be contradicted or corrected, especially in public.

But he wasn’t here anymore, and I wasn’t going to just stand there and do nothing while being accused of a freaking crime .

“The fire didn’t start downstairs. It started right outside my bedroom door, and that’s on the other side of the house on the second floor. ”

Both men went still. Then Echo turned to look at me with that hyper-focused look, like spotting an all-important target.

“What are you talking about, Rory?”

“I told you.”

“So tell me again.”

“I had to jump from the second floor, because I couldn’t get out through my bedroom door.

I tried the doorknob, but it was so hot I couldn’t really get the door open.

” Slowly, with that surreal-like movement, I rearranged my hold on the Mylar blanket around me to one hand, so I could hold out the other, palm up.

Even in the light of the fire I could see the bloody, blistered redness of my palm and fingers.

“I kicked the door shut, ran to the window, opened it, dangled myself out of it and just... let go.” I coughed again and stared at my hand.

How weird that I didn’t recognize it as my own. “I think I might be hurt, actually.”

“We’ve got an ambulance on-scene.” Suddenly all business, the fire chief waved an arm down the street. “They’ll take care of her. My questions can wait.”

“You actually have questions after that?” Ethan Echols’s voice sounded colder than the bitter winter wind around us as he began pulling me down the sidewalk. “Ever try listening to your gut, Chief?”

“My gut tells me this lady is damn lucky to have a PSI man looking out for her. Though who knows how good you actually are at your job, Mr. Echols, considering this whole place is burning down to the ground.”

The man named Ethan Echols cursed under his breath, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the chief as he tugged me toward the awaiting ambulance.