Dangerous Christmas Memories. Sarah Hamaker
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days later, here he was again, outside her place of employment. Fairfax, Virginia, wasn’t that big a city that she could attribute the sightings to mere coincidence.
Fishing her phone from her apron pocket, she surreptitiously snapped several photos of the man as he sipped from a cup while gazing down at his smartphone.
Heart pounding, Priscilla moved away from the window and through the salon toward the small break room next to the back door. With her next appointment in fifteen minutes, she had time to call Mac.
“Everything okay?” US Marshal James “Mac” MacIntire’s voice had a sharp edge to it that Priscilla hadn’t heard before. The married marshal had become like an older brother to her since becoming her point of contact three years ago.
“I think someone’s following me.” Priscilla paced the length of the empty room.
“Tell me more.”
She relayed a description of the man. “The first time I noticed him, he was jogging by my apartment building. Last night, he was behind me in the checkout line at the grocery store. Now today he’s outside the salon at the coffee shop next door. Perfectly legitimate actions but something tells me it’s not accidental, that he meant to be in those places because I was there. I managed to take a couple of photos of him, but it was through a window, so it might not be clear. I texted them to you before I called.”
“Let me pull them up.”
Waiting while Mac accessed the photos, Priscilla concentrated on taking deep, controlled breaths to slow her racing heart. No sense in hyperventilating over what might be a coincidence. Her gut screamed that there was no way this guy just happened to show up exactly where she was at least three times in under a week.
“I emailed them to our tech guys to see what they can do to enhance them and trace his identity. He hasn’t tried to approach you?”
“No.” She kneaded the tight muscles in the back of her neck. “He’s been kind of lurking in the background.” She blew out a breath. “You know I don’t see danger behind every bush. He’s following me—that much I’m sure of.”
“Do you think he’s connected with our friend?” Mac voiced the very question that had occurred to Priscilla.
“If he is, I don’t know why I’m still alive.” She blinked back sudden tears at how comfortable she had been in her life here, that for a while, she’d managed to live like a normal person. If you called normal not being able to date or have close friends. If she stayed in witness protection much longer, she was afraid she’d never be comfortable getting close to anyone, given how superficial she had to keep all her relationships. With the very real potential of having to relocate at a moment’s notice, she had grown used to her own company. But with the trial coming up, she’d begun to let herself think of what life could hold beyond witness protection, and that had heightened her sense of loneliness. “I can’t believe I let my guard down enough to not notice someone was following me.”
“Priscilla, don’t beat yourself up. It happens to most people in the witness protection program.” Mac’s gentle tone soothed her. “We see it all the time in those who have been in WITSEC for more than a few years. And you’ve been in for seven.”
She centered her thoughts back on the problem at hand, grateful for his reassurance. “What should I do?”
“For now, nothing. You know the best way to stay alive is to not panic, and any deviation from your normal routine could tip him off that you’re onto him. Until we know what his agenda is, take extra precautions, have your go-bag ready and wait to hear from me. I’m headed into a briefing about our friend in five minutes, but then I’ll come get you.”
“Okay. I have clients scheduled through six today. I only hope I won’t mess up their haircuts because of my nerves.”
“I know I don’t have to say this, but please, be careful.” The seriousness of the way Mac delivered the platitude alerted Priscilla to just how shaken her handler was about the danger to her.
“I will.” Priscilla said goodbye just as a bell tone on her phone’s alarm rang to let her know she had a few minutes before her two o’clock appointment. She ducked into the single-stall restroom and locked the door. She needed to calm her inner turmoil or she’d never get through the rest of her shift.
Washing her hands, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. It had been just over seven years since she witnessed the shootings that had thrown her into the US Federal Witness Protection Program. She had worked hard to change her appearance and her mannerisms. No longer did she bite her nails when nervous. Her formerly blond hair lay hidden underneath a rich brown hair coloring that she recently streaked with purple and turquoise. Her hair, which she used to keep short and spiky, now hung past her shoulders. Today she’d twisted it up into two side buns higher on the crown of her head than the typical “Princess Leia” hairstyle.
She looked nothing like the terrified cocktail waitress who’d hidden underneath a skirted serving cart in the kitchen of the Las Vegas Last Chance Hotel and Casino and seen through a slit in the fabric a man with a gun and silencer shoot three people in the head. The events of that night still had a hazy film on them, meaning that she had trouble recalling her exact movements or why she ended up hiding in the kitchen, but the memories of the shooting itself had been seared into her memory. The news that the hit man, Mason Culvert, had escaped custody while in the hospital after an emergency appendectomy had shaken her to the core. With Culvert’s trial scheduled to begin just before Christmas, Priscilla feared the blond man could be connected to Culvert.
Leaving the bathroom, she walked toward the front of the store, passing three other stylists in various stages of cutting or styling their clients’ hair. The blond man stood by the register, talking to the owner, Sandra Yu. Priscilla froze. Her pulse kicked into high gear. Before she could slip out the back door and contact Mac again, Sandra turned and spotted her.
“Priscilla?”
Priscilla considered ignoring the summons and bolting, but the blond man had had numerous opportunities to hurt her if he’d wanted to do so. That lessened her fear enough to allow her curiosity to pique as to why he had been following her—and what he was doing in the salon.
“Yes, Sandra?” Priscilla pasted a smile on her face and joined them.
“This is Mr. Long, your two o’clock.” Sandra smiled at Mr. Long. “Priscilla’s one of our best stylists.”
“I’ve heard.” His voice triggered a hidden awareness. She’d heard him speak before, but before the memory could resurface fully, the impression vanished.
Instead, Priscilla took a deep breath and gestured toward her station. “Right this way, Mr. Long.” Cutting his hair would give her the perfect opportunity to question him under the guise of small talk—and wielding sharp scissors would offer some protection if his intentions weren’t on the up-and-up. With another prayer for God’s protection, she settled her client in the salon chair.
Lucas Benedict Langsdale III ran a hand through his shaggy hair. There had been a flicker of recognition in Priscilla’s eyes when he spoke. Clearly, his voice had jarred a memory from their shared past, but other than that brief pause, she acted as if she didn’t know him.
With effort, he kept his expression impassive. He’d play along with her game for a while, but soon enough he’d get the answers to questions he’d been waiting seven years to ask.
“Wash and cut?” Priscilla tapped the back of his chair.
“Both, please.” At least that would buy Luc more time with her to see if she was pretending not to know him. A bride who skipped out on her husband mere hours after their wedding had a lot of explaining to do. Not that her explanation would make him change his mind about officially dissolving their short union.
She draped a cape around him, her fingers