sparring. The quick exchanges of ideas and plans. The compromising and the challenging. It all felt as natural as breathing.
That was the only excuse Wren could find for allowing him to walk toward the perpetrators while she sat in the Jeep and waited.
His plan had made sense.
He’d presented his argument, and she’d agreed because he’d been right. She wasn’t in the position to win a skirmish let alone the battle she thought might be coming.
But sitting idle?
It wasn’t something she did well.
She scooted closer to the door, legs out of the Jeep, feet on the muddy ground. Her tennis shoes were already soaked through, the cuffs of her jeans damp. If she’d had use of her hands, she’d have rolled them up, removed her shoes and climbed the steep hill that led to the road. She’d done it dozens of times as a teen, returning home with dirty feet and mud-caked clothes and listening to Abigail’s good-humored grumbling about her tomboyish ways.
Sirens screamed, the sound echoing through the forest and pulsing behind her eyes. She’d been exhausted before this, pulled in too many directions by too many people. Work. Friends. Abigail. She’d hoped that the two weeks she’d taken off to help her foster mother move her belongings into the retirement home she planned to move into when she was released from rehab would clear her mind and renew her flagging spirit. She hadn’t expected this kind of trouble. Not in a place like Hidden Cove.
But she should have been prepared for it.
A year ago, she would have been.
Life had been wearing her down. Fatigue had caused her to make a rookie mistake. Instead of carrying her service revolver, she’d left it in the gun safe at Abigail’s. Ryan might have paid for her mistake with his life.
Might have?
No matter how much she kept trying to deny it, she knew the truth.
She blinked back hot tears. Crying did no good. What she needed was razor-sharp focus because she planned to catch his killers, and she planned to throw them in jail and toss away the key.
An engine revved. A door slammed.
She expected a volley of shots to be fired.
Expected to have to duck for cover and worry that Titus was in the line of fire. He’d quit the Boston Police Department several years after she’d joined the FBI. She’d heard it through the law enforcement grapevine. She’d wanted to call and ask him why. He’d been a great cop and a fantastic homicide detective. He’d been on his way to a great and fulfilling career.
But by the time she’d heard he’d quit, the silence between them had seemed too deep, the distance too great to overcome.
She wondered what he’d been doing since he’d left the force. He still acted like a cop. Still moved like one. She could see him crouched behind brush halfway up the hill, gun in hand and at the ready.
She wanted to call out and tell him to be careful, but that would bring bullets flying in her direction.
Or maybe not.
The car sped away. Lights still off.
She stepped out of the Jeep.
“Stay where you are!” Titus shouted, and she realized she’d made another mistake. She’d assumed both perps had left the area. One might have stayed behind.
She froze, waiting for gunshots.
All she heard was the pulsing siren of the approaching emergency vehicle and the rapid beat of her heart.
“It’s clear, I think,” she finally responded, stepping out of the muddy creek bed.
“I’d rather we both know,” he muttered, jogging toward her.
Strobe lights flashed on the street above them.
Help had finally arrived.
She wanted to feel relieved and victorious, but all she felt was grief. Ryan was gone. They hadn’t ever been close, but they’d always had each other’s backs. She’d bailed him out of jail when he was a young punk kid with more attitude than brains. She’d helped him with college expenses, encouraged him to keep his nose clean and lectured him when he’d needed it.
He’d always called her on her birthday and on holidays. Always sent funny cards reminding her not to take life too seriously. Always called her “sis.”
“You okay?” Titus asked as he reached her side.
“Do I look it?” she responded.
His gaze dropped from her face to her blood-splattered T-shirt.
“No.” He shrugged out of his flannel shirt and dropped it around her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to find the person who did this.”
“People,” she corrected. “Two men.”
“We’ll find the people who did this. But, first, I need to get you out of these cuffs.” He touched her uninjured wrist. “This one is fine, but the other one is so swollen, the cuff is digging in. Can you feel it?”
“It hurts,” she responded, her gaze on the road and the flashing lights. “I need to speak with the police.”
She headed uphill, her feet slipping, her arms useless for balance.
“How about I help?” Titus muttered, sliding his arm around her waist, careful not to jar her injured wrist.
If it had been any other day, if he’d been any other man, she’d have told him she could manage on her own, because she could manage. She hadn’t gotten where she was in her career by relying on other people to get her through the tough times. It might take more time and more effort, but if she’d had to, she’d have crawled to the road.
However, Titus was an old friend. They’d parted ways under unhappy circumstances, but she still cared about him. She’d like to believe he still cared about her. For right now, she would believe it, because as much as she hated to admit it, she felt too weak to climb the hill on her own.
They were nearly to the top when a uniformed officer stepped into sight, the beam of his light illuminating them. “Sheriff’s department! Freeze! Both of you! Hands where I can see them!”
“Her hands are cuffed,” Titus responded.
“Facedown! On your bellies. Now!”
Titus tried to help her, but the deputy shouted again. “I said get down! Now.”
Titus dropped to his stomach.
She did the same, her eyes tearing as the sudden movement jarred her injured wrist.
Seconds later, they were surrounded. She counted shoes as she was patted down. Five sets. That was a lot of manpower for a small-town sheriff’s department to send out.
“Wren Santino?” one
