Page 22 of Midnight Secrets

Joe put to one side the news reports on Isabel and continued studying the attack itself. He got up to make himself a pot of coffee and ate the last of the beef stew, then attacked the rest of the files with a notepad at his side. He took copious notes. There was a lot of stuff that made no sense to him.

Part of that might have been the journalists who got things wrong. Part of it was also likely classified as top secret, since this was the biggest terrorist attack on US soil since 9/11. So he made notes regarding what he thought would require further study and moved on.

He read every news report he could find, and read newspapers from around the world on the day of the Massacre and for a few days after that, putting everything through an AI translation program. It was enough to get a feeling for which countries were truly sorrowful and which thought that the US had somehow brought this attack down on itself. After exhausting journalists’ articles, he went on to those forensic reports that were publicly available.

Then he moved on to the blogs, all across the political spectrum. About 90 percent of what was written was speculative bullshit, but he waded through everything. What wasn’t bullshit were the opinions of several SpecOps blog sites he had read regularly before being blown apart himself. They had a lot of questions about what actually went down during the Massacre.

It was midnight and he’d been reading steadily for six hours. He stood, stretched, thought about another beer when his heart nearly stopped.

Isabel, screaming.

* * *

Joe’s friendFelicity had been interesting. First of all, she’d made it clear that she was Joe’s friend but not hisfriendfriend. That would be her fiancé Sean O’Brien, known as Metal. One of the endless number of former soldiers and current security guys who trooped in and out of Joe’s house on a regular basis. He’d treated her knee when she’d hurt it and he’d been kind and very efficient. He visited Joe often.

God, her own home was so barren in comparison.

There had always been guests at the Delvauxs’, open house. People coming and going, always guests at mealtimes. Her parents had had the gift of hospitality and friendship. Isabel remembered thinking her first week in the college dorm that her house had been more fun.

Now look at her.

Felicity, however, hadn’t seemed to notice anything. She’d brought over the clean pot, sat down without asking and started chatting. It wasn’t until well into the conversation that Isabel paused and realized she’d entertained her first guest, except for Joe. And Joe came over to help her with stuff.

When she’d paused, Felicity had looked at her kindly and said, “You’re Isabel Delvaux, aren’t you?”

Yes.

Such a relief! She changed her name because she’d felt attacked by the attention of others. Some wanted to smother her in commiseration, watching her face with sick fascination, when the last thing she needed was to be reminded of her loss. And others wanted her to get “past it” and come out and play.

For some reason, all her friends simply disappeared. Gone, into thin air. Maybe because they didn’t know how to deal with her losing her entire family, being wounded, whatever. The fact was, no friends came around. So her only human communication was with people who wanted to feed off her grief or get bragging rights because they’d talked to the notorious Isabel Delvaux.

Going away and changing her name had been her only recourse.

But Felicity had been so friendly, face so open and candid, that she couldn’t take offense.

And they’d talked. And talked. And talked.

“You know,” Felicity had said thoughtfully, “you’re lucky to have a neighbor like Joe. Joe is a real good guy.”

“I know,” she’d answered. That he was a good guy was apparent from the moment they met. He’d done nothing but help her. But Isabel would die before she admitted that she also found him wildly attractive.

“Of course,” Felicity added, watching her carefully, “the fact that he’s hot doesn’t hurt.”

And Isabel had turned bright beet red, the curse of the fair-skinned.

Felicity’d laughed and changed the subject.

They never spoke of the Massacre. Somehow, in some unspoken way, Isabel got it that Felicity had known tragedy in her life, too.

It wasn’t until Felicity stood up and put on her coat to go back to Joe’s that the kicker came.

“You might know that Joe hosts poker games,” she said casually.

“I know. I can hear them. Sounds like fun.” She’d tried to keep a wistful note from entering her voice.

“It is fun. Though I don’t know what the guys see in it, really, because Joe always wins.”

Isabel’s eyes widened. “He does?”

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