got out of the car. She was slender, her hair chin length, cut in a careless bob showing under the knit cap. The same blue eyes as her sister. She looked older and more tired than he’d seen her the last time at LeeAnn’s funeral, the lines more pronounced around her mouth. At least, he thought they were more pronounced. Blink as he would, her face blurred in his vision. He heard her speak as if from far away.
“Who are you?” she said.
I’m the man who let Tucker Rivendale kill your sister, his mind said.
She hugged herself, waiting for him to respond.
Mick struggled to speak. Get back in the car and drive before he comes back. Don’t let him hurt you like he did LeeAnn. But his mouth remained stubbornly closed. “I think I know you. Tell me who you are,” she demanded again.
“Mick,” he said aloud, or maybe it was only in his mind as his sight bled off into darkness and his knees buckled under him.
Spider.
He swam back into consciousness, staring up at a ceiling upon which sat a fat black spider, motionless on the cracked plaster. Then he was assaulted by memories of Tucker and his own body impacting the front of a Jeep. A vulnerable woman’s face, eyes round with shock, materialized in his memory. Keeley. He jerked upright, head spinning, sliding a little on the sheet draped over the couch.
Keeley stood, motion arrested midstride, in the middle of the room, a roll of gauze in one hand and a phone in the other.
“The police are on their way,” she said. “Ambulance, too.”
He planted both feet on the floor, willing it to stop moving. “Don’t need an ambulance. Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I was the one driving, remember? You’re the guy who got run over.”
He felt his lips curling into a painful grin against the scratches on his face. “Yeah. Why did you do that anyway? Women usually need to get to know me better before they want to run me over.”
She shrugged, unsmiling. “Adrenaline.” She set the gauze on the fruit crate that served as a coffee table. “Your arm is bleeding. Sorry to ask, but could you try not to drip on the couch? It’s thirdhand, but it’s the nicest piece of furniture I own.”
He dutifully wrapped his wound as best he could. She did not offer to help, and that was just fine with Mick. His stomach knotted now that he was here in the same room with her, the woman who had circled the edges of his mind for almost two years. The place smelled of toasted bread. Warm, cozy, worn furniture and a bookshelf crammed with photography magazines and old VHS tapes. On the tiny kitchen table was a stack of multihued paper and three pairs of scissors in varying sizes.
“I remember who you are,” she said softly. “I looked through your wallet. You’re Mick Hudson. Tucker Rivendale’s parole officer.”
He swallowed. “I was, yes. I don’t do that job anymore.” He felt the pain of a deeper injury throbbing. And what should he say now? “I’m sorry” seemed a little thin. “I made a terrible mistake” came off even weaker.
“You met with my sister often.”
Each word cut a fresh wound. “Yes. When she and Tucker began dating again, I got to know her on some of my visits. She...she was a great lady.” Great lady. Was that all he could offer?
“Yes.” She stared at him and the moment stretched long and taut, like the anchor line holding tight to a storm-tossed boat.
A slight smile quirked her lips. “I thought you would be uglier when I first met you at LeeAnn’s that one time.”
He blinked. “What?”
“LeeAnn only spoke of Mick the parole officer. I pictured you as a gorilla type, with a broken nose and slicked-back hair. And younger. I thought you’d be younger than you turned out to be.”
He shifted. He’d only seen Keeley a handful of times when he supervised Tucker, and usually it was only for a brief moment. “I suppose the ugly part is relative, but I’m forty.” Forty going on ancient. He searched her face, unable to read below the calm that he imagined was a front. She was thirty-four, he knew, like he also knew where she and her sister had been born. And that they had a mother living in a retirement home in Colorado and a father deceased, thanks to the ravages of lung cancer when the girls were young. A head full of information that lingered along with the memories.
“I...” He cleared his throat. “Did you see which direction Tucker went?” Lame, but at least it filled up the silence.
“No. I stopped paying attention when I lugged you into the Jeep and brought you here.”
He started to say something, some rough thank-you or another, but she cut him off. A good thing. Saved him from saying something stupid.
“You probably have a concussion. Should see to that, and maybe you need stitches.” She pointed. “Your bandage is oozing.”
He swathed himself in more gauze, mindful of the couch.
The sounds of sirens drifted through the night. A fist pounded on the door and Keeley jumped, fear crowding her fine cerulean eyes.
Too soon for cops. He put a finger to his lips and went to the window, moving the curtain slightly. Guy on the porch wasn’t Tucker. A tall, lean man dressed in running gear, sweat-damp hair curling around his ears.
“Keeley? It’s John.” More pounding. “Open the door.”
Keeley sighed and, against Mick’s better judgment, she unlocked the bolt and let John in, leaving the door ajar.
John enveloped her in a strong embrace, Keeley’s chin barely reaching his shoulder. “Are you all right? I just got back from my run and turned on the police radio channel. You called in. An attacker?” His eyes shifted suddenly as he caught sight of Mick. He pushed her away and tensed, fists ready. “Who are you?”
Mick sighed, holding up his palms. “Mick Hudson. I was trying to assist Keeley when she was attacked. Rivendale got away, but he’s probably not far.”
“Rivendale?” John’s eyes narrowed, face gone pale. “I never thought he’d come back. He’s a nervy psycho, isn’t he?”
In Mick’s experience most psychos had plenty of nerve, and they looked exactly like normal people.
“And you are?”
“John Bender.”
The sirens were deafening now as the police pulled up to the house.
John moved toward the door.
“Stay still,” Mick said. “Cops are tense when they respond code three. Don’t give them more reason to be nervous.”
John shot him a look filled with venom. “I don’t think you can count yourself as a law enforcement expert anymore, can you, Mr. Hudson? Didn’t you
