rug. And all the blood….” She dropped her gaze to his desk and studied the wood grain for a full minute. Crossing her arms, she rubbed her hands over them as if she was cold. She looked like that little girl in search of a father figure she’d talked about. Desperate, vulnerable, yet determined to go it on her own.
An ache settled in John’s shoulders. He shouldn’t care about her vulnerability. He shouldn’t care that her husband had used threats of violence to keep her in line. He shouldn’t care at all about her bizarre tale. He should merely do his job and go home to that recliner and stiff drink. “Have you told the police you witnessed a murder?”
She swallowed hard and met his gaze. “I tried.”
“But?”
“I called the Green Valley police station last night, but all the officers were out on a call. I told Ruthie, the woman who answers the phone, the things I remembered and that I was driving in. I didn’t want to stay in that house one more second.” She paused as if hesitant to go on.
“And?”
“On my way a black pickup truck ran me off the road. My car is at the bottom of the Green Valley quarry.”
He crooked a brow. “That old quarry is full of water.”
“Good thing. Otherwise I would have crashed and died. As it was, I only had to worry about drowning.”
Yet another surprise. That old quarry was deep as hell itself. And this time of year it would be bonecold as well. Somehow this petite woman had managed to free herself from certain death. She must be a lot stronger—and even more determined—than she looked.
He took hold of the stirrings of admiration. He couldn’t go there, couldn’t start weaving her into some sort of heroine in his mind. Or some sort of victim in need of his protection. Not unless he wanted to give reality an opening to bite him in the ass like a snarling dog. He reached for the phone. “I’ll call the Green Valley police right now. They can investigate your claims and we’ll see what we can do.”
Her eyes sprang wide. She lunged for his hand. Her fingers clamped down hard, preventing him from lifting the phone out of its cradle. “No police. Please.”
“That’s how cases like this are handled, Mrs. Kirkland. The police investigate the crime. I prosecute the offender.”
Her gaze landed on her hand gripping his. She yanked her hand back as if afraid he would bite. But she didn’t sit back in her chair. She stood at the edge of his desk, every muscle in her body rigid. “You can’t call the Green Valley police.”
He pulled his hand from the phone, leaving the receiver in the cradle. “You’d better give me a good reason.”
“The police were the only ones who knew I remembered what happened to Win. I called the station, then suddenly this truck showed up and tried to kill me.”
“And you think someone in the police department was in that truck?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
She had him there. But where did that leave him? If he couldn’t call the police and have them check out her story, what was he going to do with this woman?
He glanced at his watch. Almost six o’clock. Except for a few assistant district attorneys preparing for court tomorrow morning, the office would be empty. That ruled out foisting this woman off on a junior ADA. “Do you have any family you can stay with until we can figure out what’s going on here?”
“Win has a sister, but we aren’t exactly close.”
“How about friends?”
She shook her head.
The weight dragged him down like a two-ton barbell. Every instinct he had screamed for him to stay as far away from this case—and as far away from this woman—as possible. He’d been through this grind before. A beautiful woman witness to a crime. A sad story. A need for his help. And him racing in on his white steed only to be bucked off. He’d be a fool to subject himself to that kind of torture again.
A fool or a masochist.
As if she could see the path his mind was traveling, she thrust her chin forward. “Listen, I can take care of myself. Just find out who murdered Win. We may not have had much of a relationship, but he was my husband. He deserves justice.”
John pushed back from his desk and rose to his feet. The recliner and belt of Jack would have to wait because it didn’t look like he was going home any time soon. “I’ll look into it. But I’ll need your permission to search the house. I want to bring in the county sheriff and a crime scene unit.”
“Anything. I’ll call Marcella, our housekeeper. She can let you in and give you any help you need.”
“Good.” The ache in his shoulders eased slightly. The evidence. All he had to do was trust the evidence. Trust the facts and leave feeling out of this. “I suggest you check into a hotel. At least until I can figure out what’s going on.”
Her head bobbed in a tight little nod. She was scared. Of that he was sure. And if someone had run her car into the Green Valley quarry as she claimed, she had damn good reason.
“If you let me know where you’re staying, I’ll ask the Madison police to keep an eye out.” He gave her his best attempt at a reassuring smile. “You’ll be okay.”
ANDREA SLID the deadbolt home and followed it with the security chain. She’d been afraid a lot in her twenty-four years, but never as afraid as she was now.
She crossed the no-frills hotel room and lowered herself onto the bed. “Everything is going to be okay,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll survive this. I always do.”
She’d faced the streets of Chicago alone at fifteen years old. She’d faced Wingate’s temper alone. She’d faced the decision to leave him, even if she hadn’t gotten the chance. She’d faced all of it and she’d survived. So far. But she’d never had someone trying to kill her. And worse yet, she’d never faced the loss of her memory—her very mind.
She glanced at the phone sitting on the nightstand. She wasn’t totally alone. At least not as alone as she had been in that car last night. John Cohen had agreed to look into her story. He’d asked the Madison police to drive by the hotel and check on her. He’d promised to call as soon as he found anything.
When she’d first entered his office, she’d thought she was sunk. His dark intense eyes had seemed to drill right through her. His narrow face had seemed to harden against her, icy with cynicism. But as she told her story, she’d seen a transformation in him. Although he might still be skeptical, he’d listened. And when she’d finished explaining the unexplainable, he’d even seemed concerned. Far more than she’d gotten from another person in longer than she could remember.
And she still didn’t know what to make of it.
She slipped her legs under the sheets and blanket and pulled the covers up to her shoulders, hoping the warmth would still the shaking in her bones. She had to keep her wits about her. She had to be strong. Because although John Cohen had offered to help, she knew better than to rely on him. Or anyone. And if an enemy of Wingate’s had now set his sights on her, she might be up against more than she could handle
