The Witness by Nora Roberts

of eachother over the next weeks. If you need anything, Elizabeth, anything at all, one of the marshals will get it for you, or you can contact me. We want you to be as comfortable as possible.”
    “Thank you.”
    Tension she hadn’t been aware of melted away when he left.
    As Terry had earlier, Griffith sat on the arm of her chair. “He was tough on you because it’s going to be hard. What you’re doing, what the defense team will do to discredit your testimony. It’s not going to be an easy road.”
    “I know. Are you still part of the investigation?”
    “It’s a joint investigation, because Riley and me pushed for it. It’s the feds’ ball, but we’re still on the court. How are you holding up?”
    “I’m all right. Everyone’s been very considerate. Thank you for getting my things.”
    “No problem. Do you need anything else?”
    “I’d like my laptop. I should have asked you before, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
    “You’re not going to be able to e-mail anyone, go into chat rooms, post on boards.”
    “It’s not for that. I want to study, and research. If I could have my computer, some of my books …”
    “I’ll check it out.”
    That had to be good enough.
    When night fell, they put her in a car with John and Terry. Griffith and Riley drove behind; more marshals took the lead.
    As they sped along the expressway, it occurred to her that only twenty-four hours ago she’d put on her new red dress, her high, sparkling shoes.
    And Julie, eyes bright, voice giddy, had sat beside her in a cab. Alive.
    Everything had been so different.
    Now everything was different again.
    They pulled directly into the garage of a simple two-story house with a wide, deep yard. But for the car, the garage stood empty—no tools, no boxes, no debris.
    The door leading to the interior boasted a deadlock.
    The man who opened the door had some gray threaded through his dark brown hair. Though nearly as tall as John, he was more filled out—muscular in jeans and a polo shirt, his weapon holstered at his side.
    He stepped back so they could enter the kitchen—bigger than the one they’d just left. The appliances more modern, the floor a buff-colored tile.
    “Liz, this is Deputy Marshal Cosgrove.”
    “Bill.” He extended a hand and an encouraging smile to Elizabeth. “Welcome home. Deputy Peski—that’s Lynda—is doing a perimeter check. We’ll be keeping you safe tonight.”
    “Oh … But—”
    “We’ll be back in the morning,” John told her. “But we’ll get you settled in before we go.”
    “Why don’t I take you up, show you your room,” Terry suggested, and before Elizabeth could agree or protest, Terry had picked up her suitcase and started out.
    “She looks younger than I figured,” Bill commented.
    “She’s worn out, still a little glazed over. But the kid’s solid. She held up to two hours with Pomeroy without one fumble. A jury’s going to love her.”
    “A teenage girl taking down the Volkovs.” Bill shook his head. “Go figure.”
    S ERGEI V OLKOV WAS IN HIS PRIME, a wealthy man who’d come from wretched poverty. By the age of ten he’d been an accomplished thief who’d known every corner, every rat hole, in his miserable ghetto in Moscow. He’d killed his first man at thirteen, gutting him with anAmerican-made combat knife he’d stolen from a rival. He’d broken the arm of the rival, a wily boy of sixteen.
    He still had the knife.
    He’d risen through the ranks of the Moscow
bratva,
becoming a brigadier before his eighteenth birthday.
    Ambition had driven him higher until, with his brother Mikhail, he’d taken over the
bratva
in a merciless, bloody coup even as the Soviet Union crumbled. It was, in Sergei’s mind, a moment of opportunity and change.
    He married a woman with a lovely face and a taste for finer things. She’d given him two daughters, and he’d been amazed at how deeply he’d loved them from their first breath. He’d wept when he’d held each