makes the police think Reilly is tied up in this? Because he was first on the scene? Wasn’t his partner there?” Brady asked, worry for his brother mingling with concern for Susan. Brady wanted to go to her, to see if she was okay, to talk to her and comfort her. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he squashed it. He was the last man she’d want to see or speak to. His presence would only make it worse for her.
“Reilly was first on the scene and when he realized it was Susan involved, he called for another team to investigate. He waited with Susan on the dock, while his partner waited at the marina for backup to arrive. He and Susan’s friendship survived your relationship and she still does freelance sketch work for the department, so they’ve kept in touch.”
Brady had met Susan through Reilly at a party. The image of Susan the first time he’d seen her snapped to mind. Her beautiful, shy smile had caught his attention. He’d approached her and found she was easy to talk with and eager to see the best in people and situations. Her positive attitude had been refreshing.
Harris continued, breaking through Brady’s thoughts. “Once it got out that Reilly was first on the scene, Lieutenant General Ambrose talked to the media and his pal, the mayor, and connected them through you and painted the picture like something unseemly had occurred. The media loves tidbits about Reilly. He’s a pseudo-celebrity after the cases he’s solved for the city.”
Not shocking. The media twisting a story into a lurid and seedy tale was common and nauseating. Brady was surprised anyone reacted to the sensationalism and irrationality of the story. The public could be riled into a frenzy with the right words, the right pictures and the right people pushing their buttons. Why didn’t anyone stop to think about the idea of a detective—a decorated detective—leaving Susan, the alleged killer, at the scene of the crime with blood on her hands? If Reilly had wanted to cover up anything, he would have dealt with that first. The accusations were ridiculous.
How could he help? Susan wouldn’t want to see him and Reilly was capable of defending himself. Sleuthing wasn’t his area of expertise. However, if they needed someone to bungle the investigation at a critical moment, Brady had some experience with that. “I’m not a detective and I’m impaired at the moment. What do you want me to do?” Brady rubbed his knee.
Harris snorted. “Cut the crap and quit acting like a sissy stewing in your own tears. Your knee is fine. Get off your lazy rear end and talk to Susan. Work with her to find out what happened the night Justin was killed. Her memories might come back, but the stress she’s under could be concealing something important.”
Susan wouldn’t withhold information if she had it. “Why can’t you talk to Susan?” Harris was the one trained in FBI interview and profiling tactics.
“Two reasons. My career gives me a few more boundaries. I’m working an operation at the moment and I can’t bail out or juggle both. Too much is at stake. Second reason, and more importantly, you know Susan better than I do. You can help her remember.”
It had taken Brady time to earn Susan’s trust and when they’d broken up, he was sure that trust had been demolished. “What makes you think Susan will talk to me about the murder?” Brady hadn’t told his family the details of why their relationship had ended or about her visit to the hospital when he’d been a world-class jerk to her.
“You’re a Truman. Your brother needs you. You’ll do whatever is necessary to help Reilly.”
Harris was right. The Trumans stood by each other. It was how they’d been raised. Integrity, honor and loyalty defined their family. This situation had to be killing Reilly and putting a strain on his marriage to Haley. They were a strong family and Brady felt like the weak link. Could he be useful in his current state? What if he made it worse for Susan and Reilly?
“Anything else?” Brady asked, shoving aside his self-pity. The idea of his brother suffering and having done nothing wrong had spurred him to act.
Harris hesitated. “There is one more thing. Reilly is worried about Susan. We don’t know why she wasn’t also a victim and why she didn’t sustain physical injuries the night Justin died. Since the police have decided to focus on Susan as a suspect, they’re not interested in providing her with police protection. Reilly believes there’s more going on and Susan’s not out of danger yet. While you’re helping her sort this out, you need to look out for her.”
Spending time with Susan had convoluted mess written all over it. He wasn’t the soldier he’d been before his accident. His body was damaged and weakened, his confidence shaken. Was he capable of protecting her from a killer? What if she was attacked? Would he respond and protect her or hesitate and get her killed?
Then again, what choice did he have? His brothers needed him. So did Susan. Despite the ugly history, he would talk to her and do what he could to help.
* * *
The constant gnawing dread never let up. Susan Prescott clocked out of work, sliding her employee badge through the gallery’s timekeeping system. It had been another horrendous day. She was leaving via the side entrance, hoping the reporters waiting to speak with her would remain in the front. She altered her route every day to avoid a confrontation.
Susan didn’t have answers to the questions they asked. Why had she killed Justin? Where had she put the body? Why wouldn’t she give closure to his family?
How did someone answer those questions? They were meant to bait her into saying something she’d regret. She didn’t know anything about Justin’s murder. She hadn’t been involved. At least, she didn’t think she had. Frustration worked at her. Why couldn’t she remember?
Susan pushed open the side door. Reporters and cameramen snapped to attention and began shouting at her. A jolt of anxiety ripped through her. Susan focused on her car parked a few yards away, blinking back the tears that sprung to her eyes, a combination of sadness, humiliation and grief. Anything she said would make it worse, but she wanted to shout the only answer she knew, which was she didn’t know anything.
A hand grasped her elbow and Susan pulled her arm free, spinning and coming face-to-face with Brady Truman. The last man she’d have expected outside the gallery. He looked disheveled and tired, not that she was in any position to judge. She was sure she looked worse. The aggravating thing about Brady was that even exhausted and unkempt, his charisma and good looks were undeniable. Every part of him tempted her.
It wasn’t the time to fixate on Brady’s tremendous appeal. Extending one muscular arm in front of them, he led her through the crowd, forming a path to her car. He took her keys from her hand, unlocked the doors and helped her into the passenger side. He climbed in the driver’s seat, fastened his seat belt, held down the horn in warning to the media to move and drove them away from the gallery and the crowd.
Susan shook off her shock and confusion. “What are you doing here? You told me to leave you alone.” She had tried to talk to him in the hospital. He hadn’t been interested in hearing what she had to say.
“I need to talk to you.”
Being this close to Brady, her heart raced and her skin tingled. He still had that effect on her. “About what?” The answer snapped to mind as the words left her mouth. “Look, if this is about Reilly, I’m sorry. I know he was placed on admin leave because he was at the scene. He’s my friend, and he and Haley have been wonderful to me. I never meant for that—”
Brady shook his head. “I’m not here to blame you. I’m here to talk. I know you, Susan. I know you’re a good, honest person. I want
