“Last night, sometime around nine PM.” Her confusion had him second-guessing himself. “I saw someone in my driveway and thought it was you. No?” Her expression grew stricken.
“Charlie…I don’t remember.”
“I’m sorry.” He gave her a comforting squeeze, and then became distracted by her curves, and how they pressed against his length. He shut that down real quick. Had to, or he wouldn’t be capable of much thought. “I heard something outside last night, looked out the window, and thought I saw you.” He adjusted his stance to subtly put distance between their bodies…just a bit, enough to prevent himself from embarrassing either one of them. “When I stepped onto the porch to check, you were gone and my car trunk was ajar. That’s when I found the duct tape, zip ties, and brown cloth.”
“Huh?” She searched his expression. “You found them in your trunk?”
He nodded. “Then you called at ten. I thought you were calling to explain, but then the line disconnected. When you didn’t answer your phone, I became worried and headed over to your apartment. I’ve been here since eleven last night.”
“Show me the stuff I put in your car.” She stepped out of his arms completely, and Charlie had to stop himself from reaching for her again. What was wrong with him? He clenched his fists, blaming his behavior on his unease. Circumstances were out of control, and instinct told him to hold on, to control Cynthia.
“It’s still in my car.” He led the way through her living room and then out of her apartment to his black Charger, parked at the curb. Popping the trunk, he indicated the items in question with a tilt of his head. Cynthia went over to the driver’s side, reached inside, and unclipped a pen from one of his notepads. She used its tip to lift one of the cloth pieces. Two-ply, a foot square, he noted three of its edges were sewn together, creating a pouch of sorts.
“Charlie, these are—” She dropped everything back into the trunk, pressing her palm against her chest. He looked at the cloth more closely and then immediately saw what had upset her. Yup. They were hoods. “And I put these here?” she said.
“You don’t remember.” It implied brain trauma. He looked more closely at her pupils, and was relieved to see they weren’t dilated. “Like I said, last night around nine, nine-thirty maybe, I saw… I thought it was you.” She turned from him, looking down the street, but he’d have been surprised if she saw anything, because her eyes were unfocused. Cynthia seemed on the verge of a full-on panic attack. “Come on.” He didn’t want her losing it in a public place. He closed the trunk and led her back inside. Soon he had her back on her dark leather couch, frozen peas on her head, clutching one of her fringed green throw pillows.
“I don’t remember, Charlie, and this is upsetting me. I can’t even remember going to the gym,” she said. “Though I know I did. My gym clothes were still damp this morning. What if—” She compressed her lips, seeming on the cusp of crying.
He hovered, trying to catch her gaze. “Let’s go to the hospital.” She needed an x-ray, maybe a CAT scan.
“This is crazy,” she said. “If I was at your house last night, I wouldn’t have broken into your trunk and put evidence inside.” She squeezed the pillow tighter to her chest. “Not without talking to you first.” Maybe. Cynthia was forgetting her recent and dogged attempts to cut Charlie from her life. Because of that damn kiss.
He sat next to her, but was careful not to touch her again. Lately, when she was near, everything had a way of being about what happened after she’d kissed him. The kiss was never far from either of their thoughts, apparently, but for very different reasons. She regretted it, and he couldn’t seem to stop reliving it in detail: how she’d felt in his arms, how she’d smelled, and… Right now, those memories were counterproductive. Charlie needed to focus, and to do that he needed to maintain a physical and emotional distance from Cynthia. Not that he knew how to do that. Not with Cynthia, anyway. He’d never learned.
“All I know is I saw a blond woman,” he said. Of her size and coloring, who looked a hell of a lot like Cynthia, but now he couldn’t be certain. They both knew there was no such thing as witness infallibility. He’d assumed it was Cynthia when he saw the blond hair, so his imagination could have filled in the blanks with what he’d supposed should be there. Her expression settled into a scowl, directed at him, and he had no idea what he’d done to deserve it.
“How many blondes do you know?” she asked. When he didn’t immediately answer, she swung the pillow at him, as if he’d done something wrong. It bounced off his chest and fell to the floor. “I mean, blond women who come to your house?” He retrieved the pillow and returned it to her. By then, Cynthia’s eyes had widened, her outrage stoked, as if he’d compounded a sin. What sin? “Charlie!”
“Do you want me to list them?” It wouldn’t take long. It was her and his mother.
Cynthia’s scowl hardened as she sunk deeper into the couch cushions. “Forget it.”
Her behavior confused him. After months of being ghosted, Charlie hadn’t taken Cynthia’s unexpected call lightly last night. In truth, he’d hoped the call had meant she’d finally moved beyond her embarrassment, and that she’d called him because she knew their friendship mattered more. Now, he didn’t know what to think.
“Two blondes. You and my mom,” he said.
“I said forget it.”
“Listen, you called me at least a half an hour after I saw the blonde in my driveway, and then you hung up. Why wouldn’t I assume the blonde had been you? It was an assumption. Shoot me. All that matters is that I have no idea who she is, or why those items are in my trunk.” She narrowed her eyes, as if he were talking around an issue. It told him she wanted to continue arguing about blondes. Charlie had other plans. He stood, using a tilt of his head to indicate the door. “Shower first, or go to the ER now. You choose.”
He feared her blackout was symptomatic of traumatic brain injury, something that contributed to about thirty percent of all injury deaths in the United States. Her confusion seemed normal given the circumstances, and other than lost time, her cognitive abilities hadn’t suffered. That didn’t mean she was safe. A cerebral hematoma could build slowly. Even as they spoke, Cynthia could be bleeding out, blood exerting pressure on brain tissue, killing cells. She needed an x-ray, or, better yet, the more informative CAT scan.
Cynthia lowered her face to the pillow, ignoring his concern. “Leave me alone. I’m fine.” Her words were muffled by the pillow, and she was clearly not fine.
“You can’t remember,” he said, staring down at her. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Cynthia lifted her head, and seemed on the verge of crying. “Why can’t I remember?” she asked in a little voice.
“Let’s talk about it on our way to the ER,” he said, holding out his hand to help her up. She shook her head, dismissing his hand. “Please, Cynthia.”
“Last night. Did you see my car, or me driving off? Because my Lexus was parked across the street from the safe house when I woke this morning.”
Frustration urged him to act the caveman and drag her ass to the car, but he didn’t want to instigate a fight, because Cynthia would fight back, and probably reinjure herself. He needed to think of some other way to convince her to seek medical attention. He sat next to her again, grimacing.
“When I walked out to the porch last night, your car was gone.” He stopped himself, regretting his words. “Sorry. I mean, whoever it was in my driveway was gone.” He silently replayed what he’d said, and wasn’t sure he’d been clear. “I mean, when I looked, the person was gone and there was no indication your car was, or had been, in the area. I don’t know if it was you….” He shrugged. “Basically.” Clear as mud. He wondered if he should give explaining another shot, but Cynthia looked as if she’d moved on already.
“And you didn’t think that was odd? Me, showing up and not coming in?”
No. Charlie schooled his
features to give nothing away. In fact, he shifted his body on the couch, so she only had access to his profile. She was touching the third rail here, inching closer to broaching the topic of their kiss again, and Charlie knew if that happened, somehow, she’d find a way to make it his fault. She nudged his arm, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze, suspecting the question was a trap.
“Charlie? Didn’t you think my behavior was odd?”
Her behavior was more of the same, continuing fallout for a drunken kiss she gave him, one more frustration layered on the rest. But how to tell that to Cynthia? Not possible. She didn’t want to hear it.
“A bit,” he temporized. “But then you called, and I figured…” Trap, his mind asserted. Dropping truth bombs now would be a mistake. “I don’t know what I thought.”
“You thought I was in trouble and came to the rescue, but I was nowhere to be found.” Cynthia slumped back as she moved her crumbled suit jacket behind her head again to protect the couch leather.
To Charlie, her gloomy attitude contradicted her words. Wasn’t being rescued a good thing? And he’d hunted her down despite her ghosting him ever since she’d kissed him. That should have earned him points. Why didn’t it? Nothing about that night, or what happened since, made sense to Charlie. He’d resisted Cynthia’s kiss because she’d been drunk. He was supposed to resist.
And he had, at first, anyway. Was that what bothered her? That he’d been weak, and gave into pleasure? Circumstances had long ago dictated he take on the role of big brother, and with her two tequila shots past sober, stopping their kiss had been the right thing to do. Her reaction was proof positive of that, because apparently, his briefly kissing her back had put their friendship on the rocks.
“You’d do the same for me,” he said, and was relieved to see her nod.
She’d rescue him, because they were best friends, had history. He’d be damned if he allowed his moment of weakness to take that from them. He just hadn’t found the right way to muscle through the awkwardness, and suspected it was because the moment still felt so raw. It’d happened months ago, but his instant arousal at her touch was fresh in his mind: her hands roaming his body, clutching his ass, and her lips on his. The kiss had hit him with the speed and effect of a mule kick, so there was no wonder why the memory refused to fade.
He blamed her moan. It had triggered his breakdown of reason, and had him ignoring the booze in her bloodstream, and the surety that she’d never have kissed him sober. It had him ignoring their friendship, and his obligation to protect her. That night, months ago, Charlie had ignored everything but his need to kiss Cynthia back.
Truth was, he couldn’t help himself.
He’d lingered, and drunk her arousal as if it were intended for him, not caring about anything but finally tasting her, feeding his hunger. When he couldn’t stop, his helplessness had hit him like a cold bath of reason, clearing his mind enough to thrust Cynthia away and end their kiss, if not his panic. He’d lost control, and knew his desire for Cynthia wasn’t going away. Willpower in tatters, was it any wonder he feared revealing his feelings? She’d cut him from her life with surgical precision over a kiss she’d instigated. She’d called it a “disaster,” and said she “didn’t like it.”
Telling her he loved her would be insane.
“Let’s go to the ER,” he said, shifting to face her more squarely on the couch. “You could have a concussion.”
“That would be the least of my problems.” She gave no indication she was willing to move from her slumped position on the couch. “I’m in a ton of trouble, and I don’t know what to do.”
He told himself to be patient, to reason with her. “I’m a doctor giving you sound medical advice. Let’s go.” He nudged her shoulder, but she just rolled her eyes and slapped his hand away.
“You work with dead people. When I’m dead, I’ll listen.”
As a forensic pathologist, Charlie had a medical degree, was qualified to determine the time, manner, and cause of a death, perform autopsies, and collect medical and trace evidence from bodies for analysis. He was also trained in toxicology, firearms and ballistics, trace evidence, blood analysis, DNA technology, and procedures regarding evidence collection to coordinate with law enforcement operations. A beating heart didn’t disqualify him from understanding the medical implications of a knock to the head. She was not being reasonable.
He narrowed his eyes. “Do you really want me working on your dead, naked body? Taking pictures?”
Cynthia gave him a sidelong glance. “Perv.”
“Stop arguing. We need to go.”
Cynthia pulled her gun from its holster and held it out to him grip side forward. “I think… I think there is a chance I’m the shooter, Charlie, and you should take my gun and run tests on it.” He studied her eyes and saw she was totally serious. His shock rendered him silent. “I remember the vics alive, and now they’re dead, but I have no idea who they are, or why I’d kill them.” She dropped her gaze to the gun, still holding it out to him. Charlie refused to take it, because he understood taking it fed this wackadoodle fantasy. “We need to test it against any shell casings found at the scene.” Charlie folded his arms over his chest, shaking his head. No way he was taking that damn gun.
“Cynthia, if you shot someone it would be in self-defense or in defense of another. Lost time doesn’t change a person’s character. My team has been in contact with me twice since they arrived on scene. Those men were executed. You didn’t do it.”
“Things happen. You can’t know.” Her tone was fierce, but her expression betrayed her hesitancy. “Take the gun. Evidence doesn’t lie,” she said. “The safe house video doesn’t lie. I put hoods, duct tape, and zip ties in your trunk prior to the murders. We both know that reeks of premeditation.” She took a deep breath, then released it slowly, struggling to regain her composure. “Take the gun, Charlie.” Her eyes narrowed, daring him to deny her.
“No.” He reassessed his caveman plan and decided kicking and screaming might do her some good. “We’re going to the ER now,” he said.
“Fine.” Openly rebellious, she nonetheless followed him, shrugging into her destroyed suit jacket. “I’m telling you, I’m… I’m remembering.” Clearly upset, Cynthia’s face crumbled as she paused in the hallway, as if hit by a wave of emotion. “The hooded victims.” She pressed her hand against the wall, leaning. “Their screams. They were on their knees, bound, all lined up. I was there, Charlie. What if…” A hitch in her breath stopped her words. “What if…” Charlie couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled her into his embrace, not knowing what to expect. Would she fight his touch? Sob? Crap, he hoped not.
Cynthia’s fingers clutched his shirt’s collar, then she did something she’d never done before. Standing on tiptoes, she pressed her face to his neck, burrowing close. Charlie froze, super aware of her warm lips against his skin. It took a moment, or two, to move past the shock and relax his body, to act as if it were one of their usual, brotherly hugs, though it was something new.
“It’s the same memories on a loop.” Her lips brushed his neck as she spoke, sending tingles clear down to his thighs. She clung to him as he held her close, admonishing himself to focus on her needs, rather than how she was making him feel. “Then nothing,” she said, shuddering, as if a chill assaulted her. “I woke this morning at the safe house, and I’ve been struggling to remember since.” She tilted her head back, sniffing, searching his eyes. “There’s no denying my gun was fired six times, and six people are dead.”
“But they were alive when you last saw them. That’s important. Maybe the most important thing.” He felt gutted by her fear, and it convinced him that she truly didn’t know she was innocent. “You didn’t kill them. Trust me on this, okay? We’ll figure this out.” He blamed her reaction on her head injury, and told himself not to worry about her behavior, but then she wiped a stray tear and brought his attention to her bloodst
ained fingertips.
He was beyond worried. He was afraid for her.
“Benton needs to know,” she said, lowering her head to his chest, releasing a short groan. “Why didn’t I call him last night?” she whispered. “Or any one of the team?”
“You called me.” He gave her a little squeeze, prompting her to look at him again.
“You’re right.” She forced a little smile. “And you’re practically an honorary FBI agent. You’re definitely one of the team.” When he shook his head, dismissing her words, her expression grew earnest. “No, really, Charlie. You’ve helped the task force for nearly a year now. You might not be FBI, but without you, we wouldn’t have taken down the Coppola syndicate. Dante Coppola, arguably the most powerful crime lord on the east coast, is now behind bars because of your willingness to step up and be our forensic expert witness.” She was referring to the time Dante Coppola’s attorneys were granted a change of venue for his racketeering trial, and it was moved from New Jersey to Boston. She sighed, threading her fingers through her hair and grimacing. “I’m a mess.”
“It doesn’t matter. We need to get you checked out,” he said. “Take a shower after we run the tests.”
Cynthia stepped out of his arms, smoothing her suit jacket with little success. “I said I would. Didn’t I? I really need to call Benton, first, though. He’ll be worried.” She gingerly dabbed at the back of her head with her fingers, and then pivoted back to the living room. “As far as he’s concerned, you’re not involved, though. Okay?”
No. It was not okay. He turned to argue and knocked a photo off the wall, catching it before it hit the floor. Suddenly, he was staring at a picture of Cynthia’s long-dead childhood cat, Darth Vader. He replaced it on its nail, and then hurried after her. He caught up with her in the living room, reaching for her phone attached to the wall charger.
“You’re not thinking straight.” He grabbed her, tossed her over his shoulder, and she landed with a whoosh as air left her lungs. She didn’t regain her breath until he was back in the hall, walking to the front door again. “We’re going to the ER. Benton can wait, and I am involved, Cynthia. There’s evidence in my trunk that links me to these murders.”
Deadly Past Page 3
