“I’m fine.” No. She was limping, and the growing bruise on her knee looked angry.
“Did you fall?” He pointed to her knee.
She shook her head. “I aimed poorly, and kneed Jim’s belt buckle during the fight. I think I pinched a nerve, but it’s fine.”
“Fine.” He arched his brows, wondering if he should just shut up. Nope. “I think you need to rethink what fine means, because you’re never going to see a picture of a person in your shape listed under a definition of the word fine. But…if you say so.” He shook his head. “Fine or not, the sheriff is waiting for your statement. You shouldn’t have left the crime scene. Don’t you watch Law & Order?”
She glanced at him, and he saw a return of her unease. “I wasn’t thinking.”
She’d run from a crime scene and bought a ticket out of town. Seemed pretty clear-headed, if not premeditated to Vincent. “What about Rizzoli & Isles? Or CSI, or CSI New Orleans, or—”
“Really?” She was out of breath from walking so fast. “Are you going to list all the television shows I haven’t seen?”
“How could you not have seen them?”
“No cable,” she mumbled, not slowing down.
“Not even Netflix?”
“No Internet. No computer. I’m a waitress in a small town. Tips aren’t that great.” If she was telling the truth, did that mean “the files” were in paper form? He found that hard to believe. Not in this data age, but no Internet? He found that hard to believe, too. She had to have them on a flash drive, tucked away in her apartment. “I have my iPhone, of course, but who wants to watch a show on a phone?”
“Well, if you had watched those shows, you’d also know ignorance isn’t a defense. Most of the time, anyway. I think if you come quietly,” he said with a smile, “you know, not give me anymore of a hard time than you already have—”
“What?” She gave him a flirty smile. “You pulling out the thumb screws already?”
He laughed. “Just let the EMTs look at you. Don’t make this a big deal. And yeah, you must give a statement, or the sheriff will come looking for you. Come on.” He tilted his head in the direction of the diner. “They’re all back at the crime scene. Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to.” She shuddered and kept up the fast pace. Her reaction read authentic. The diner upset her, and she was having a hard time processing. Now he felt like a jerk for forcing her to go back there, but he couldn’t risk her seeing the task force wire her street for video. Too much time and energy went into this operation. Vincent’s bleeding heart would have to go into storage.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “it’s nonnegotiable.” Even his ears picked up the regret in his tone, probably because it was real. Yup. He was a jerk, but for a good cause.
She stopped walking, glaring at him. “If I give my statement, will you leave me alone?”
No. “Yes.” He indicated the road that would lead them back to the diner, and after a heavy sigh, Avery pivoted and walked in that direction. “Where’d you learn to throw a knife?” he said.
That got her attention. Her annoyance fled, and her eyes widened as she covered the slice at her neck. When her fingers connected with the seeping injury, she winced a little. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. After Jim dropped the knife, I threw it. I didn’t want him using it on me again.”
Bullshit, but informative. She sliced and diced Jim before throwing it at Eric. No one accidentally threw with that accuracy, or with the strength to pin a man’s hand to the stock of a shotgun. Her denial told him she was still invested in her role as Patty, and that meant she still thought there was a chance that Vincent was an unwitting dupe.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you.” He was sorry. Guilty, too. He’d replay what happened in that diner for many years to come, looking to see how he could have done better, ended it quicker. Less dead.
Avery glanced at him, her brows and pursed lips giving him some indication of her annoyance. “I protected myself. I didn’t need you.” Then she squared her shoulders and winced. Her limping grew more pronounced.
“No,” he said. “You did not.”
She stopped, putting her fists on her hips. “What exactly were you thinking, by the way? Putting your weapon on the floor when so many guns were in play? Yours was the only gun we had on our side, and you put it down.”
He scoffed. “I didn’t put it down. I pretended to—”
“Did you pretend to put our lives at their mercy, too? Because you did. Eric could have pulled the trigger at any moment.” She gave herself a little shake and then started walking again. Vincent couldn’t suppress a little annoyance at being called out like that.
“I had a plan. It worked.”
She scoffed. “They were a bunch of drug addicts. Addicts that had already killed a member of their own group, and… They’d killed Sam. You were going to comply, risking our lives in the hopes they’d be merciful.”
She was working herself into a frenzy. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were flashing. Vincent found he preferred her mad rather than upset, and that made him smile. She noticed and narrowed her eyes, glaring at him.
“I wasn’t going to put it down,” he said. “What I did is what we call in the biz a bait and switch.”
She turned her eyes front, shaking her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“That’s okay.” He didn’t believe a word she said either. “Still true.”
“Hmm.” Her grimace was ripe with annoyance, and she stayed that way, even when they’d arrived back at the diner, and when he’d arranged for her to step into the witness line leading to the sheriff and his men. Her annoyance, in fact, seemed to occupy the part of her brain that had been devoted to fear. He was glad of it, because she was so delicate-looking, and he felt like he should have protected her better. One good guilt-trip, and he feared being played like a drum. Women did that to Vincent. It was their superpower, so he was always on the lookout, but Avery didn’t seem interested in his sympathy.
The sheriff and his officers took copious notes, but after a half hour, Avery had told her version of the events, and he had no more excuses to keep her occupied. She’d frequently surveilled the road, and milling crowd, during and after her interview. He could see she was antsy, and got the impression she wanted to be gone so badly that if he’d tried to stop her, she’d have lashed out, so Vincent didn’t insist she see the EMT on site. Benton’s text arrived soon thereafter, declaring the cameras installed, and the team gone. By then, Avery was already heading to her apartment.
He watched her walking away as the white surveillance van parked across the street from the diner. Vincent knew the van contained a socialite, an impatient, beat-up team leader, a bruiser, and a fish. They’d want him to back off, dangle her as bait for Coppola’s contract killers, so the cameras could give them probable cause to rush into her apartment and find the files. But Vincent didn’t have the stomach for that anymore, not after what he and Avery had just been through. She was injured. What if Coppola’s men arrived and they got to her before Vincent and the team could? He couldn’t risk it.
Sure, she was a liar. Sure, she’d filleted Jim and stuck Eric. And yeah, she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t, but he hadn’t expected her to be a Girl Scout. She was the ex-wife of a crime lord. He didn’t trust her, but she had something he wanted, and it was in both their interests to keep her safe.
He followed Avery, instead of crossing the street to get in the now open side door of the van. When he’d walked passed the van, the side door slowly closed again as his iPhone vibrated in his pocket. Benton or Deming, most likely, was attempting to micromanage him. Vincent ignored his phone.
When he reached Avery’s side, she rolled her eyes but remained silent. Then there was no conversation, no eye contact, nothing until they reached her front door. It was directly next to a Chinese re
staurant, whose aromas made his stomach growl, because fucking Eric ate his cheeseburger.
After a fake smile, the kind that said eat shit, Avery extended her beat-up, cut, and swelling hand for a shake. Intending simply to hold it, he extend his hand, but Avery gripped it hard enough to make her rings bite into his palm. Then she pumped his hand up and down once before releasing him.
“Thanks for the walk home,” she said. “It was like having my own bodyguard, and after what happened at the diner, I’m a little shaken up. It was nice not to have to worry.” He didn’t believe a word she’d said. Her tone was right, but this woman fended off a meth-head with a knife. She didn’t need a bodyguard, and her gaze suggested an impatience to see him walk away. Avery Coppola was about to disappear, if she had anything to say about it. “It’s been nice knowing you.” She unlocked the door and was about to leave him on the sidewalk. Vincent stuck his boot out, stopping her from closing the door in his face.
“Invite me in,” he said. She grimaced.
“I’m tired. I’m gross. I know you’re on vacation, but I’m not.” Rubbing her face, she looked every bit as weary as she’d professed to be. “I’ve got things to do.”
“Please.” He did his best to cajole, lifting his brows, donning a hint of a smile. “Invite me in.” He was coming in whether she wanted him to or not, but he’d prefer she want him inside. It would look better on his report if he tripped over some evidence he wanted to use in court. “I could use a cup of coffee and the company of someone that won’t ask me if I’m okay.” Did he attempt to make her feel bad about not once asking if he was alright? Sure. Hopefully, it would work, but he was coming in one way or another.
She sighed, nodded once, and then turned her back on him, taking the stairs up to her apartment. “Just a cup. Then you have to go.” Two steps later, she was wincing in pain.
Vincent couldn’t handle it. Without a word, he lifted her, cradling her in his arms. With a nudge of his foot, he closed the door behind them, shutting out the daylight and leaving them in mostly darkness. Then the stairwell lights flickered on, and he saw Avery had flipped a switch.
Her arms encircled his neck, and she stared into his eyes, looking puzzled. “Who the hell are you, Special Agent Vincent Modena?”
He met her gaze for a moment, and then shrugged before climbing the stairs quickly. He saw her distrust, but that just meant she was smart. “Still figuring that out, Patty. Still figuring that out.”
Chapter 4
Avery found it painful to be taken care of, especially the way Vincent did it. Carrying her relieved the stress on her knee, but his arm pressed on her bruises, and kept the injured knee bent. Ugh. Bending the knee was why climbing the stairs hurt. So she was basically in hell, and couldn’t say anything, because the man was trying to do right by her. Was she stroking his ego by not complaining? Maybe assuaging his obvious guilt by allowing this act of gallantry? Hopefully. It might make him leave quicker.
When they reached the stairwell landing, and were face to face with her faux forsythia wreath hanging from her door, she gave herself a mental pat on the back. So far, she’d managed not to betray her pain—no grunts, no groans—decreasing the chances he’d hustle her to the emergency room.
Digging out her key from her purse, she wiggled. “You can put me down now.”
Vincent didn’t seem like he wanted to, but he did, steadying her as her legs bore her full weight. Blood smears now marred his arms and neck, reminding her that she was covered in the stuff. She quickly unlocked the door and hurried inside, giving the living room a once over. Millie hadn’t trashed it before leaving, so it looked much the same as it did when Avery left for her morning shift. Worn, used furniture, cheap mementos from their lives resting on a few surfaces. A mug from a restaurant here, a cheap vase with a wooden rose there. No pictures. Nothing to indicate who lived here. It was safe to allow a stranger…an FBI Special Agent into her home.
Vincent closed the door behind them, and then put his hands in his jean pockets, looking around, not hiding his interest. “How long have you lived here?”
“Three years. Listen…” She bit her lip. “I really want a shower. Would you mind making your own coffee? It’s in the cupboard over the coffeepot.”
“Sure. You want a cup?”
“No, thank you. Hey, I appreciate the lift up the stairs.” She held his gaze, gave him a nod. “I do.”
“All part of the service.” He adopted a bright smile, teasing.
“Privacy isn’t part of that service?”
He pressed his lips together and averted his gaze. “Not when you could be in shock,” he said. “I’m not leaving your side until I know for sure. What if you slip and fall in the tub? Most accidents occur in the home—”
“I’m fine!”
“Maybe.” He lifted his brows, stepping into the galley kitchen. “You should have let the EMT decide that, but you didn’t, so I’m here.” He opened the cupboard above the coffeepot and pulled down a can of Folgers.
She frowned, folding her arms over her chest. “For how long? You moving in?”
“The time it takes to drink a cup of coffee.” He threw her an easy smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not a long-term kind of guy.”
She could believe it. “More of a love ‘em and leave him, huh?”
He chuckled, filling the coffeepot using the sink. “Take your shower, and then I’ll take you out for lunch. Deal?”
She shook her head. “No. That’s extortion, and I don’t like the idea of—” She shut up, not knowing how to say being naked in the shower with you in my living room unsettles me.
“Of what?” He pulled filters from the cupboard, and stuffed one into the machine’s coffee grounds funnel.
“Forget it.” She pressed her lips together, unwilling to go there.
He glanced at her. “What did I do now?”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re like a dog with a bone? No means no. You get that, right?”
He leaned against the counter. “And when, exactly, did you say no to me?”
Point, set, match. He chuckled when she just stood there, eyes narrowed, then waved down the hall, the only other place to go in her apartment. “You do your thing.” Then he pushed the coffee machine’s button, and left the kitchen. He walked into the living room and sat on her worn, Goodwill-purchased couch. “Go. I don’t mind waiting.”
She glanced at her television directly across from him, the one Millie always complained about. “I told you. I don’t have cable.”
He lifted his iPhone. “I’ll check my mail.”
“No Wi-Fi.” She took a step back from him, having run out of excuses, but still not liking that he was in her apartment. “But then, you probably have plenty of data, being a Fed and all.”
“If not, I’m sure the restaurant will have Wi-Fi.” His smile widened.
Lunch. Hmm. “I am hungry. After lunch, though, I have things to do. It’s good-bye.” He nodded, but she didn’t believe him, and decided to devise a plan to ditch him before she headed back to the Greyhound bus station.
“The shower will make you feel better,” he said.
Vincent was doing a good job of acting as if he were a welcomed guest. It irritated the hell out of her, but it was the sympathy she saw on his face that convinced her she was probably making more of this than necessary. She and Vincent did experience something horrible together. They’d survived. Shared trauma was a powerful bond, and he’d already inferred that he was hiding from his peers’ sympathy.
“Fine.” She turned and hurried into her bedroom, gathering her clothes, and the stuff she’d take with her when she left on the bus. So, basically, her ticket, license, and debit card.
Changing her identity, hiding in a tiny town, keeping her head down, nothing she’d done over the last three years had protected her and Millie as she’d hoped. She should ha
ve known better. A person got to be one of two things in life, and one of them wasn’t a bystander. That left the role of player or victim, neither of which she had any interest in being, not that life ever cared what she’d wanted. Avery and Millie had been steeped in victimhood for so long their fingers were pruned from it, but her choices had kept them alive, so there was hope of a future not dictated by whether Dante Coppola wanted them dead.
Lifting her face to the shower’s spray, she dreamed of the day when she could feed off something other than hope, when scrubbing off the taint of violence wasn’t in vain. There were things she wanted in life, ambitions, for her and Millie. They weren’t big, like being an astronaut, or a rock star, or physicist, though if Millie wanted those things, Avery would do her best to position her to do so. No, Avery’s ambitions were more about walking to the store without having to look over her shoulder, or maybe have a job that allowed her to afford Disneyland. Millie would love to go there. She wanted little things like that, the things that people took for granted, the memories that people looked back on with fondness. For Avery and Millie, memories carried fear, and were the reason they needed to hide. There was no room for happiness to muscle into their lives, and until things changed, all they had was hope. So, hope would have to suffice.
She lingered in the shower mostly because the hot water did ease her aches and was helping with the swelling, though her jaw still clicked when she opened her mouth. Jim’s sucker punch was no joke. By tomorrow, she’d have a colorful bruise to show for it. The water stung as it washed over her abrasions, but it soothed the long ridge of bruising from when Jim slammed her against the counter. By the time she was soaped and rinsed, she’d logged all her injuries and decided she’d live. She was tired, though, and hungry. Real hungry.
The smells from the restaurant below made her mouth water. The bus ride would be long, so best to have a full belly when she embarked. Unfortunately, the food in her cupboards required cooking, so that meant eating out. No way was she going on the run and cooking. Vincent offered lunch, so she’d take him up on it, and then ditch him afterward.
Caught by You Page 4
