herself. She was the one who had asked him for help. Just because her eyelids drooped and her brain called for a rest, didn’t mean she had to give in to them. “I live off of Fifth.” She quickly gave him directions to her town house.
“I’m not far. I’ll be there in about five minutes.”
She looked down at her jeans, one leg split to the top of the gray brace, and faded blue T-shirt. She wasn’t sure she could muster the energy required to change clothes, so she looked around for a sweater or something to pull over the old shirt. Finally she grabbed her crutches from where they rested against the head of the couch. Pulling herself carefully to one foot, she moved slowly across the room to her bedroom. A black pullover sweater lay on the foot of the bed, and she leaned against the mattress to pull it on.
Just as she finished adjusting it, loud thuds landed on her front door.
“Coming.” Heather’s voice sounded on the other side of the door as Jeremy tapped his foot on the cement step. There were only a handful of steps, but he wondered how she had managed to make it up them. Moreover, how was she going to make it back down?
For about the hundredth time, he questioned his decision to bring her in on the investigation. Yes, he sympathized with her loss, with her sense of helpless-ness—sympathized more than she knew—but was she really up for this.
“You okay in there?” he asked.
“Yes,” she yelped, as she swung the door open. Her blue eyes eclipsed her pale face, and wild, yellow curls broke loose from her ponytail, framing her cheeks. Then she turned and looked at the kitchen counter on the other side of the living room. “I forgot my keys.” She made a move to go for them, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Let me.” He crossed the room, snatched the small key ring from the counter and handed them to her as he stepped back outside. “Ready?”
She followed him out the door, then turned to lock it. He watched as she took the first clattering step, analyzing her movements. Given the way her arms maneuvered the metal supports, he’d bet that normally she was pretty graceful, but the enormous brace and crutches made every motion awkward. It was entertaining to see her mulish determination to master the steps…but on the other hand, they were on a tight schedule.
Glancing down at his watch, he said, “The morgue closes in thirty minutes.”
“I’m hurrying.”
He chuckled to himself before jogging back up the steps, tucking his arm around her waist and swinging her crutches over his forearm. “Hang on,” he said, as he scooped her up. Her arm immediately wrapped around his neck, like she was trying to choke him. “Maybe not quite so tight.”
She blushed, moving her arm to his shoulder, as he maneuvered them back to the street and the cruiser parked at the curb.
“Be glad all you got was an arm around the neck.” Her tone was only half joking, and he took the hint. He wasn’t going to be able to push her around.
Her body stayed rigid until he set her gently on one foot as he opened the back door. “I think you’ll have to sit in the back. I doubt your leg will fit in the front seat.”
“You’re probably right.” She sighed, as he helped her scoot across the seat, keeping her injured leg elevated.
As he pulled out into traffic, he glanced in his rearview mirror. “How are you feeling today?”
“Fine, I guess.” She slumped against the back of the seat with her shoulder, and her nose crinkled in distaste. “It smells bad back here.”
“Sorry about that. I guess I’ve had some unruly guys back there lately.”
“Is that what you normally do? Lock up the bad guys in the back of your car?”
He laughed loudly, resting one arm on the center console. “I am a sheriff’s deputy. It pretty much comes with the job.”
She seemed content to ignore his last comment and stared out the window as they moved from residential neighborhoods to a more commercial area. She crossed her arms over her chest, and he could almost see the barrier she pulled around herself. He knew that pose, that need to put up a shield so no one else could see the pain. He’d been there. Pulled his own shields so close he’d nearly cut everyone else out of his life.
He hadn’t lost his sister, but he knew what it was like to lose a loved one—a fiancée. Only in his case, it had been his own fault.
As he pulled past the police station and into the parking lot reserved for cops, he shot up a quick prayer for the woman in the backseat. Heavenly Father, would You please comfort Heather? I don’t know how much help I can be, but if there’s something I should say, give me the words.
He turned off the car and jumped out from behind the wheel. When he swung the back door open, he leaned one arm on the roof and ducked his head into the car. “You ready for this?”
She wiggled along the seat, always keeping her leg carefully protected. “Of course.”
She reached the edge of the seat before he remembered that he’d picked up a present for her. “I almost forgot! Sit tight.” He jogged to the trunk of the car and popped it open.
“What is it?” she called.
He put the wheels on the ground, closed the trunk and ran back to stand in front of her. “Your chariot, madam.” He offered an awful British accent and some silly hand flourishes to present the old wheelchair that he’d borrowed from the sheriff’s office.
He wasn’t sure if it was the chair or his strange behavior that made her smile, but he took an uncanny joy in watching her face change and her lips curve upward. Her eyes softened, and she held out one hand. He clasped her wrist and pulled her to her feet, helping her spin on one foot and settle into the creaking leather seat.
After propping her foot on the leg rest, he pushed her toward the small building next to the police department and held the door open for her as she rolled into the office. Flashing his badge at the man behind the front desk, he said, “Deputy Latham with the sheriff’s office. The medical examiner is expecting us.”
The bald man nodded toward a clipboard on the counter, waited until Jeremy signed it and turned back to his computer without a word.
Jeremy returned to Heather, pushing the wheelchair down a long hallway. They stopped at a large set of double silver doors, and Jeremy pushed one open, poking his head in.
“Rob?” He stepped farther into the bright room that broke every stereotype for a morgue. “You in here?”
“In the back. I’ll be right there.” The voice came from the other side of a mostly closed door, which probably led to a storage closet. Sure enough, just as he wheeled Heather through the door, Dr. Robertson walked into the room carrying several boxes. His white eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead when his eyes landed on Heather, but he didn’t say anything.
Jeremy offered quick introductions. “Heather this is Dr. Robertson, M. E.—Rob, this is FBI Special Agent Heather Sloan.”
Heather shot Jeremy an annoyed glance, but offered Rob a gentle smile as she held out her hand. “Rob Robertson?”
“Nope.”
