"I am, and running late." I shot him an apologetic smile and paused at the top of the stairs.
"I won't keep you. Let's hang out tonight. It's been a while. I'll pick up Chinese or something."
I hesitated. Trevor was Person Number Two I was friendly with in Charleston, but he could also be uncomfortably flirtatious. "I'll let you know, 'kay?" I shot him a smile, and hitching my purse over my shoulder, ran to my car.
My late arrival at work didn't go unnoticed. As I was storing my purse in a drawer Linda rang. "Ms. Elliott," she said in her prim tone. "You're a half hour late."
Her silence told me she was waiting for an answer but explaining that my tardiness was due to the stress of witnessing a murder and self-medicating with too much wine didn't seem like the right response.
"My fault, Linda. I'll be sure to call you next time."
"Let's make sure there isn't a next time," she chided. "Mr. Williams has a popup at the courthouse today and needs help with some research. Ms. Anderson's depositions must be typed before noon. I left everything on your desk 30 minutes ago." I sighed.
Linda piled on report after report, and it was all I could do to keep up. As long as I got my work completed on time, she left me alone. To make up for the half hour I missed this morning, I kept my head down, skipped lunch and turned in my projects on time.
Typing depositions and case research shifted my mind away from the murder and kept me from checking my phone for any updates from the police station. It had been three days.
My stiff neck and clock on the wall told me it was five o'clock. I tidied my desk, shut down my computer and packed up my things. My opera playlist, pajama pants and paints were waiting for me and I couldn't wait to get home.
I headed toward the elevator and parking garage thinking about the empty ache and muscle fatigue that followed eight hours of typing. While I would be sore after a day spent hunched over canvases painting on the floor of my apartment, that discomfort also brought an undeniable creative satisfaction. Still, this was the arrangement. I had to pay my bills and have enough time and energy to paint in my free time. The defeating part of this was I would be working these eight hour days until something changed in my art career.
I was lost in thought as I gripped my keys and purse, walking to my car in the back of the parking garage. I never saw it coming. A searing pain shot through my head and my vision went black momentarily before blurring and becoming clear again. I fell to the concrete floor of the garage. Adrenaline and instinct took over. I scrambled up, moving to run, but my attacker threw me against the car.
Easily twice my size, the man towered over me, and despite the crisp temperatures, his bare arms were bare and covered in tattoos. His face was concealed behind a wiry beard, and his eyes were small, menacing slits. One hand held my arm in a death grip and the other hand was squeezing my neck. The stench of sweat, smoke and body odor was suffocating.
"This is a friendly reminder, sweetheart."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I gasped as I tried unsuccessfully to get away.
"Make sure you don't speak to the police, understood?" he said and tightened his grip.
I shook my head frantically in another desperate attempt to escape and seconds seemed like an eternity. Using all the strength I could muster, I grabbed his shoulders with both hands, slammed my knee into his crotch and broke free.
Running through the maze of parked cars, a gunshot rang out as a bullet bounced off the concrete walls. It was just after five, and more people would be leaving soon. Although I had the advantage of a full garage, my car was unfortunately at the far end. I ducked between a large Suburban and truck. I waited, my ears ringing with the silence that followed the gunshot. I heard his footsteps moving closer, then pausing.
Should I roll under the car? What if he looked underneath? Crouching, I peeked under the cars and spotted his feet one row away. My heart was pounding in my chest. I slipped out of my shoes, hugged my purse to my body so as not to make any noise and tossed my heels in the opposite direction.
Street noise pulsed in the distance, but the silence in the garage was deafening.
Peering under the cars again, I realized he hadn't moved. I waited as my mind raced. Do I stay put or move?
Finally, I heard footsteps heading in my direction. I quietly moved to another row only to realize that this forced me further from the building. I hid behind a truck, listening, and then scurried to the next car, then the next, and the one after as I continued to search for cover.
It felt like forever. Three more cars and I could make it to the back entrance of the building. I crept quietly through the grid of cars, alert to any sound or movement. The lobby doors burst open with a clang, making me jump in surprise. Voices followed from the people heading to their cars. My stomach dropped.
Please no. Please don't shoot.
I inched closer. Last car and I'd have to run for it. When I heard the sound of car doors slamming closed and engines turning over, I sprinted the last thirty yards to the doors, anticipating a bullet in my back at any moment.
The lobby was empty when I flew through the doors and ran down a back hallway toward the janitor's closet. I sank to the floor with heaving breaths as I dug through my purse to find my phone.
I speed-dialed the contact that had been programmed in only a few days ago.
"Agent Jackson." The curt, smooth baritone answered crisply.
"Agent Jackson? It's Emma Elliott? I need help." My own voice sounded strange, high-pitched and it was like having an out of body experience. I stilled myself and told him where I was. He said he would be there in five minutes.
The police station was just down the block. Because it was so close, I wondered if he'd drive or walk, but then reality reared its ugly head and I remembered my attacker was still in the garage!
I dialed Caty. Was she still in the building?
"Where are you? I've been--"
Caty cut me off. "Emma. Listen, I'm in the middle of something. Can I call you back?"
"What?!?" I wanted to explode but kept my composure. "Caty, I just need a second--"
"Emma, seriously. I've got research due in a half hour, and a meeting after that," she said curtly. "I'll call you later."
Stunned, I stared at my phone. Caty was friendly—even gregarious—when it suited her but could also quickly turn on her closest friends.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. My attacker's narrowed eyes and grizzly beard came to mind and I willed away the image.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Terrified I might be going into shock, I slowed down my breath, sank to the floor and braced against the shelf behind me, drawing my knees close.
The janitor's closet was brightly lit. Cleaning equipment lined the shelves. I was barefoot and the pantyhose I begrudgingly wore for work had a nasty run in one leg. A gash ran down my other leg, but it didn't seem to be bleeding too badly. My skinned knees from Friday night were reopened and bleeding. My blouse had come untucked from my skirt. I put my face down and hugged my knees, breathing deeply.
You're okay, you made it, you got away. You're okay. The silence pierced the janitor's closet and I waited tensely, any moment the door would fly open and it would be either Agent Jackson or my attacker.
Holy shit, that man tried to kill me. Holy shit.
My throat squeezed and I inhaled a huge gulp of air. My chest was tight. I was having a heart attack and I would die after just escaping my would-be murderer.
I hadn't experienced a panic attack in ages, but the tightening in my chest and forced respiration signaled one was coming. My hands were trembling, and I gripped my legs tightly, willing the shaking to stop. I couldn't catch my breath. I knew what was happening and still, I couldn't calm down. I gripped the sides of my legs and gulped down the air but it wasn't enough. My heart slammed into my chest.
It seemed like an eternity in that closet, waiting for Agent Jackson to get there. Perhaps something had h
appened to him while he was trying to get to me. He fell off a motorcycle. He got food poisoning. Did he even drive a motorcycle? I didn’t know but all the possibilities were hitting me. I checked my phone and realized only three minutes had passed.
Minutes later, true to his word, Agent Jackson eased the door open and slipped inside. His gun was drawn, and he crouched in front of me, concern creased in his brows. "Emma? What happened?”
I took a few deep breaths, and opened my mouth, but no words came. He reached out and placed both hands on my shoulders, steadying me, squeezing my shoulders lightly.
"Emma?"
I was aware of Agent Jackson crouched in front of me, but my eyes were squeezed shut, searching for my breath, my sense of control.
"You're okay. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth," he ordered.
I followed his instructions, my ragged breaths hiccupping in and out.
"There you go, breathe in. Slow. Out through your mouth."
His hands weighted my shoulders and kept my head on my knees. My breaths shuddered in and out of my shaking body, but they gradually were slowing down, control coming back to me.
"Like that. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. You've got this. Calm down. You're okay and you're safe. Do you hear me?" He settled on the floor next to me, taking my hands in his. "Take your time and breathe, Alabama," he murmured as he rubbed my back in heavy strokes that grounded me and helped to calm my shaking body. The unfamiliar warmth and touch of another human being, and soft reassurances, calmed me. We sat like that until my pulse returned to normal and my hands stopped shaking.
I nodded and lifted my head to look up at him, breathing slow and steady. Golden amber hued eyes studied me shrewdly, concern and something else I couldn't name.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled. Now that my mind had cleared, I was flooded with embarrassment. I hated panic attacks, and despite its legitimacy, it was no less humiliating knowing I'd lost control – in front of Agent Jackson.
"Tell me what happened," he coaxed.
"Someone was in the garage. He tried to kill me but I got away."
"Are you hurt anywhere? Did he--" his voice trailed off he looked for signs of injury.
I shook my head. "He just hit me." I touched the back of my head and started at the blood on my hand. "I'm fine. Just a little blood I think."
"Let's get you out of here," he said as he attempted to help me up.
"No!" My eyes widened at him. "It's not safe." I shook my head emphatically.
"Emma. There are police crawling the building and the garage. I'm getting you out of here."
I stared at him silently, disbelieving. Shock and the panic held me and I couldn't move.
Agent Jackson gripped my hand, helping me stand. In my stockinged feet, I barely reached his chin. He touched my shoulder softly encouraging me to move, and I flinched, at the painful reminder of where the attacker had grabbed me.
Shielding me, his gun drawn, we left the closet. Agent Jackson wrapped his left arm around me and tucked me into his side as we walked quickly toward the building's side entrance. Checking the doorway, he helped me into the Suburban and jogged around to the driver's side.
"Talk to me about what happened," he said finally, once we were driving away from the building.
I took a deep breath and relayed the events that nearly cost me my life.
Seven
Fifteen minutes later, Agent Jackson was turning the Suburban onto a quiet, tree lined street. Houses perched neatly behind trimmed shrubs and sidewalks. This was exactly the picturesque neighborhood I had once envisioned when I was younger and hoping to be adopted by a family, when I was still naïve enough to believe in the foster care system. Before T.R. happened.
"Where are we?" I peered at the charming white Southern colonial, adorned with black shutters and white siding.
He navigated into the garage before responding. "The safest place I can find." He was jumping out and opening the passenger door before my hand was on the door handle. He led me inside the house, punching a code on a security panel as we entered. We were in the kitchen, which opened into a small living room. The furnishings and decor were completed in whites and neutral tones. Despite the lack of personal belongings, there was just enough to look furnished and complete. French doors on the other side of the living room gave way to a garden, though it was too dark at this point to see anything.
I turned to him. "What is this place?"
Agent Jackson shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "My house."
"Oh."
"Let's get you cleaned up. I have a first aid kit." I followed him to a short hallway leading to a bathroom.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My dress and shirt were filthy, hose torn and legs bleeding and hair loose around my face. Spots of blood and dirt marred my cheek.
"I'll give you a minute to take off the pantyhose," he told me, gesturing towards my legs. After peeling them off, I tossed what was left of my pantyhose in the wastebasket and opened the bathroom door.
I sat on the counter, hands folded tightly in my lap and watched him set out the first aid kit and wet a washcloth. "Let's bandage your leg first. It looks worse than it probably is." With me sitting and him standing, we were nearly eye to eye. The bathroom suddenly felt smaller and warmer than it had before. I was all too aware of his proximity to me, the gentle brush of his fingers wrapped around my knee, propping my foot on his thigh while he cleaned the blood away.
I watched him work. His hands were large and strong, gentle in their ministrations. His brow furrowed in concentration and I found this cute considering cleaning a cut wasn't serious work. The gash was only a few inches long and fortunately not too deep.
"Almost done, I know this probably stings. Best to clean it out now."
"I'm fine, I can take it." It did sting, but no way was I letting him know. I'd had years of practice of gritting my teeth through the pain of countless fights with other kids in the numerous foster homes and a brief stay drunken foster dad prone to hitting anyone in his way. A little stinging from a cut was nothing.
"What is it?"
"Hmm?" I looked up from his thighs to see him staring at me.
"Does it hurt?"
"Oh, no it's okay." I shifted my attention from the pressure on my leg to the wall as he cleaned away loose asphalt from my knees. I didn't know where to look. Up close, Agent Jackson was huge. Taller than me and his arms were massive. All bicep and forearms and hair. Those hands, that were ever so gently dabbing at my bare leg. The shirt he wore did little to hide the planes of his chest.
Long fingers wrapped around my calf, and the other hand began gently cleaning my knee. A shiver made its way down my spine, with goosebumps breaking out everywhere, despite the heat of his hands on my skin.
He glanced up, noticing this, but didn't say anything. He held my gaze for a moment, then returned to his ministrations.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and forced myself to ignore the thickened air in the bathroom.
He finished cleaning the injury and secured a butterfly bandage over it. "Done. Let's take a look at your head." He lowered my leg and motioned to the edge of the tub. "Sit here, where I can get a good look."
I obliged, and he stood over me, gentle fingers moving my hair and probing the wound, then gently cleaning it with water. I was eye level with his waist. His musky, woodsy scent teased me, and I wanted to lean closer and breathe him in.
Great, I was trying to not look at his crotch, and here I was staring. I could see the outline...Deep breath and don't look!
"No goose egg and you won't need stitches."
"Agent Jackson?"
"It's Connor. Call me Connor."
"Does this happen a lot in your line of work? Administering first aid?"
"Comes with the territory, I guess," he replied.
"What about your witnesses? Do you apply first aid too?"
He paused and looked down at me, his gaze s
lamming into my own. "No, I don't. Just you."
In the intimacy of the small bathroom, the air thickened. I gripped the sides of the tub and let out a slow breath.
After cleaning my head, Connor knelt before me and stared into my face. His gaze was dark and unreadable leaving me frozen in place, forever or for two short seconds. Connor broke away first, dabbing lightly at my cheek with the washcloth and said, "Any blurriness, dizziness, headache or nausea?"
"No."
"Then you're all set."
I didn't get a chance to thank him before he was gone from the stifling bathroom.
I did my best to dampen my hair to remove as much blood as possible and went into the living room where Connor sat on the sofa, furiously typing into his phone.
What just happened in the bathroom? Did I imagine it?
"Here, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?" His professional persona had returned: cool tone, controlled demeanor and gun stiffly holstered at his side. Though his Southern drawl infused the question with charm, the Connor I saw in the bathroom was gone and Agent Jackson had taken his place.
"Just water, please." I finger combed my hair and attempted to smooth the errant strands.
He returned moments later with water glasses and sat on the ottoman across from me. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine, I think. Just a little shaken up." And I was. The panic attack was gone, and I was breathing normally but my hands weren't done shaking. "To be honest, I'm still thinking about it. What if I hadn't gotten away?"
"But you did," he responded. "You're smart and used your instincts to save your life."
I nodded and reached for my water glass.
"Let's go through this again; I can just take your statement here rather than going into the station. Anything else you remember about your attacker?"
"He had a tattoo on his neck. A dragon or a snake, maybe."
Connor nodded, waiting for me to continue.
"Who are they? And why me?"
The Art of Murder Page 5
