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have an accent.’ Reaching behind him, Marcus pulled a dark baseball cap from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘You can judge for yourself. I recorded the conversation.’ A hesitant pause, followed by a shrug. ‘I recorded every interaction after that first night.’
    Scarlett stared at the cap, then up at his face. ‘You have a microphone in your hat?’
    ‘A camera, actually. It’s hidden on the edge of the bill.’
    Deacon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
    Marcus’s jaw set. ‘I wanted to be able to protect myself in case I was being set up.’
    Deacon took the cap, his eyes narrowing further. ‘And exactly who would be setting you up, Marcus?’ he asked softly.
    Marcus’s spine straightened, his face taking on the stony expression of a soldier preparing for an interrogation. ‘I don’t know.’
    There was frustration in his tone, she thought. And honesty. Or maybe that was just what she wanted to hear. ‘The same people that made you promise your mother you’d wear Kevlar?’

Two
     
    Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 3.50 A.M.
     
    T he same people that made you promise your mother you’d wear Kevlar?
    Startled, Marcus stiffened, then one side of his mouth quirked up as he glanced down at her, grudging respect in his eyes. Scarlett Bishop didn’t miss a detail. So tread carefully here. For her sake as well as his own. ‘Maybe. And before you ask – no, I don’t know who “they” are.’
    ‘But “they” are threatening you?’ Deacon asked. ‘Why?’
    The Fed didn’t miss much either. Over the months, Marcus had come to respect the sharp eye and quick mind of his cousin Faith’s fiancé. As a team, Scarlett and Deacon were scary-good investigators. Which was one of the reasons Marcus had consciously and consistently avoided them both whenever possible. ‘I don’t know,’ he said again.
    ‘Who else knew you would be here tonight?’ Deacon asked.
    Marcus frowned, startled once again. ‘You think I was the target?’
    ‘You were wearing Kevlar and a camera,’ Deacon pointed out dryly. ‘You tell me.’
    Marcus hadn’t even considered it, but he did now. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time someone had taken a shot at him. That the bullets he’d taken last November were the first to actually require a hospital stay was pretty damn close to a miracle. He had a few projects brewing, but none were at a flashpoint, none hot enough to warrant such a physical retaliation. Past projects . . . It was possible. He’d stepped on an awful lot of toes.
    ‘I’m a newspaper publisher,’ he finally said carefully. ‘My staff break stories that make people unhappy. Sometimes there are threats. Most of them are nothing to worry about. I can’t think of anything right now that especially would be. I don’t think I was the target tonight.’
    ‘Unfortunately, we’re going to have to be the judges of that,’ Scarlett said, the softness gone from her tone. She was a cop again, her jaw hard, her eyes sharp. ‘A girl is dead. If one of your “threats” is responsible, we need to know. And don’t even consider telling me that you won’t reveal your sources,’ she snapped, interrupting him before he could do exactly that. ‘You called me because you knew I’d help that girl. Don’t stand in my way now.’
    She was right, he had to admit. He had called her. He had involved her. ‘I’ll have it to you within the hour.’
    ‘What will I get?’ she asked warily.
    ‘A list of the threats I’ve received.’ Those he was willing to share, anyway. Some of the threats were not credible. Others had already been dealt with. Others would be far too revealing, especially to this pair of investigators. He’d pick and choose the ones that would do him no damage. ‘How far back do you want me to go? Six months? A year? Five years?’
    She blinked once. ‘You keep a list?’
    ‘My office manager does. Just in case.’
    She glanced at Deacon. ‘How far back do you think? Three years?’
    Deacon