Fatal Series 00 - Fatal Destiny

had found himself obsessing even more than usual about her safety. Peter Gibson had affixed crude bombs to both their cars, injuring them when the device attached to Sam’s car exploded in late December. A glitch with evidence collection had been Peter’s ticket out of jail, and the stress of waiting for him to come at Sam again had Nick as tightly wound as he’d ever been.
    She’d be furious if she knew about the private investigator he’d hired to keep tabs on Gibson. Or he supposed she would. Truth was, she hadn’t been herself since the miscarriage she suffered just after Valentine’s Day, and more than a month later, Nick was left with nagging doubts about whether she still planned to marry him one week from today.
    The signs of something amiss were hard to ignore—rather than spend time together, she’d cleaned up her mess of an office at work and devoted hours she’d normally spend with him organizing the closet he’d had built for her in their new home. The Sam he knew and loved— his Sam—would rather be hung upside down by her toes than clean or organize anything. But that was only one sign of trouble. That they hadn’t made love since the miscarriage was another hard-to-miss sign of impending doom.
    It was his own fault—he’d been so caught up in work as the Senate wound down to the Easter recess with heated budget debates, a flurry of legislation and the relentless pace of his campaign. By the time he’d resurfaced from four of the busiest weeks of his life, Sam had drifted so far from him he had no idea how to bring her back.
    He sucked in a sharp deep breath as he finally acknowledged his greatest fear, thoughts he hadn’t allowed himself to have before she failed to show up for their shower. Did she still want to marry him? Had he made a huge mistake by pushing for a short engagement? And what would he do if she decided she didn’t want to marry him after all? How was he supposed to live without her after the bliss of being with her these last few months?
    His queasiness increased as each question added to his overwhelming anxiety. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
    “Nicky?” The touch of his father’s hand on his shoulder roused Nick out of the pensive state he’d slipped into but didn’t erase the sense of panic that grew with every minute Sam failed to appear. “You okay?”
    He turned to his father. “I can’t imagine where Sam is.”
    “Probably got hung up at work,” Leo said.
    Nick glanced over his father’s shoulder to where Sam’s partner Freddie Cruz talked with fellow detective, Tommy “Gonzo” Gonzales, as well as Gonzo’s fiancée and Nick’s chief of staff, Christina Billings. If something were going on at work, wouldn’t Freddie and Gonzo be at HQ too?
    “I’m sure that’s all it is,” Nick said to his father. “Excuse me for a minute, Dad.”
    “Of course,” Leo said. Just fifteen years older than his son, Leo looked more like Nick’s older brother than his father. But Nick was grateful to have the father who’d been absent for so much of his childhood by his side for what he hoped would be the most important week of his life—that is if the bride hadn’t changed her mind.
    On his way to Freddie, Sam’s older sisters Tracy and Angela waylaid him.
    “ Where is she? ” Tracy asked through gritted teeth.
    “Not sure.” Nick gestured for Freddie to follow him into the kitchen.
    “What’s up?” Freddie asked.
    Nick noticed that Freddie looked tired. He’d taken the recent breakup with his girlfriend Elin hard. “Have you heard from Sam?”
    Freddie stole a canapé off a tray and popped it into his mouth. “Not since earlier. Why? Where is she?”
    “I was hoping you could tell me.”
    Freddie stopped chewing, his eyes widening. “You don’t know where she is?”
    “I have no idea,” Nick said.
    “The last I talked her she said she’d see me tonight. That was around four.”
    “That’s about when I last talked to her too.”
    Freddie glanced around to make sure no one could hear him. “You don’t think…”
    Knowing where Freddie’s thoughts were heading, Nick’s chest tightened with a new wave of anxiety. He withdrew his BlackBerry from his pocket and pressed the speed dial number he’d assigned to the guy watching Gibson. With every passing moment, he wished he’d hired someone to follow her too, but he hadn’t done that knowing what she would think of it when—not if—she figured it out. At least by