Truman stood and circled the desk, leaning his hip on the edge, staring directly at her. A nonthreatening posture, but one that showed interest, closing in on her. Nice psych trick. But she knew those little mind games. She’d played some of them. She wouldn’t believe Detective Truman gave a rat’s tail about her as anything but a witness.
“The victim’s in critical condition at St. Luke’s Medical Center. It’s important you share everything you remember.”
“I didn’t see anything,” she said, feeling as though she’d spoken those words a hundred times in the past few hours. She’d told Reilly the same thing at the scene and again on the drive to the police station.
He ignored her and pressed on. “The M.O. matches the pattern of several other cases we’re working.”
A tremor of fear coursed over her and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “What other cases?”
“I’m not permitted to discuss specifics at this time,” he said, his eyes holding a cold, distant expression.
Pieces and clips fell into place in a rush. The news programs warning the city. The knife and the alley. The time of night. He was talking about the case that had captured the attention of the police force, the mayor and the entire city. She had trouble taking a full breath as the impact of the realization socked her in the gut. “You’re talking about the Vagabond Killer. You think I fought the Vagabond Killer.”
Chapter 2
The Vagabond Killer had held the city of Denver and the surrounding towns in his grip of terror for months. No one had survived his attacks and no witnesses had come forward. People traveled in groups or stayed off the streets when they could, especially at night, his preferred time to attack.
Carey struggled for composure. If the attacker in the alley was the Vagabond Killer, was she in danger? Had he seen her face? She’d blasted him point-blank with pepper spray, but she wasn’t certain how long it impaired someone’s vision.
“At this time, we haven’t determined if the cases are related,” Detective Truman said.
Carey absently rubbed her finger over the bandage on her arm. If the Vagabond Killer had seen her, she was as good as dead. Staying off the grid was a struggle before the incident in the alley. Now she had two killers after her. She fought the urge to either laugh or cry, to release some of the terror mounting in her chest.
“You saw his face,” Detective Truman said. It wasn’t a question or an accusation. He spoke it as fact.
“I, um, I sprayed him with pepper spray.” She didn’t want to admit she’d seen his face. If it leaked to the media that a witness had survived and could identify him, it was the same as painting a bull’s-eye over her heart. “Did the man in the alley see him?”
“We don’t know. He isn’t up to talking. Why were you there?”
She shouldn’t answer his questions. Her sleep-deprived mind was only half functioning. She’d already revealed too much, and if she wasn’t careful, she would make a mistake and give him some way to identify her. “I don’t know.” It was a dunce answer, but the best she could come up with under the increasing haze of exhaustion and fear that clouded her mind.
An amused look crossed his face. “You don’t know? Maybe you have memory loss from your injuries and we should take you to the nearest hospital.”
Her chin shot up. She wasn’t going to the hospital. She was fine, and even if she wasn’t, she didn’t have valid identification or medical insurance. Those places asked too many questions and maybe someone would figure out who she was. If he was trying to mess with her emotions and throw her off kilter, he was doing a good job.
She mustered her courage and squared her shoulders. She was too smart to fall for his games. “I was walking home from work.” Keep the story simple. Don’t give away too much.
He loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. “Where do you work?”
No record of her working at Tidy Joe’s would exist. She was paid under the table, in cash, and her boss would deny she worked for him. He didn’t want trouble from the Department of Labor. The answers to Detective Truman’s questions sank her deeper into trouble. Silence was best.
Detective Truman set his hand on her shoulder and her body temperature elevated. “Look, Carey. I can help you. But you have to level with me.”
His hand felt heavy on her shoulder, comforting in an odd way. The man was built like a solid rock, with intelligent, knowing eyes. Carey stared at him, weighing her options. The compulsion to tell him the truth was strong, but at the same time alarm bells shrieked in her mind. What was it about him that made her want to give away too much? She wouldn’t be taken in by a handsome man. This wasn’t about the Vagabond Killer or how much she was drawn to Detective Truman. This was about her personal safety.
He let his hand drop and she muffled a protest. She was clearly starved for affection when she craved a hand on her shoulder. It was the most physical human contact she’d had in months. Well, besides the Vagabond Killer tossing her around that alley, and that wasn’t anything to take comfort in.
She wrapped her arms around her stomach. She knew he wasn’t letting her leave until she told her side of the story. What difference did it make if she told him the truth now? She had to get out of Denver anyway. Once she was released, she’d go home, grab the emergency bag she kept locked in her closet, and be outside the city limits before the sun set on another day.
The fastest way out was the truth. “I work for Tidy Joe’s, the Laundromat about ten blocks from the alley.” She looked up at him to gauge his reaction. He had folded his hands on his knee and his face was consumed with interest, as if what she was telling him was the most fascinating information he’d heard that day. “I was walking home from work and I heard a noise. When I saw what was going on, I ran into the alley and sprayed the guy in the face.” It had happened fast and the exact sequence was blurred in her mind. “He tossed me around and I fought back. He ran when he heard the police sirens.”
“Tossed you around?”
Was it concern in his eyes? No, she wouldn’t believe it. “He cut my arm and I hit my head on the pavement.” Among other things. But if Detective Truman used medical attention as an excuse to delay her, the situation grew riskier. She had to make tracks.
Detective Truman stood and walked behind her. “Show me.”
In the short time she’d known him, she’d learned he didn’t give up. The man was relentless when he wanted something. Carey pushed back the hood of the DPD sweatshirt and touched her head, wincing at the sting. She couldn’t see the damage, but the pain told her it wasn’t good.
His fingers brushed her hair away from the injury. “Why didn’t you have the EMT treat you?” His voice was less stern than it had been a few minutes before.
“I forgot about my head,” she muttered. The burn in her arm and ribs had taken precedence over what she was sure would be classified as a nasty bump.
“Wait here,” he grumbled and left the room, returning with a first aid kit and a glass of water. He held up a packet of alcohol wipes. “May I?”
She
