by Jana DeLeon
Glancing down at Ginny’s pale expression and inert body, he said a silent prayer that she would be okay.
GINNY LOOKED UP AT Sheriff Blackwell from her bed at the emergency clinic. He stared down at her, frowning as he finished taking notes on her story.
“Can you give me a description?” Sheriff Blackwell asked.
“No. He was wearing a mask, in navy knit. It looked homemade.”
“Eye color?”
“I didn’t get close enough to see,” Ginny said, frustrated that she could provide so little information.
“Did he touch anything besides the knife and the door?”
“I don’t think so, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. He was wearing leather gloves.”
“And you have no idea how he got into the house?”
“No. I heard the noise outside, but I had no idea he’d gotten inside until he was right behind me.” She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered at the memory.
Sheriff Blackwell blew out a breath, clearly as frustrated with the situation as Ginny. “I am really sorry this happened to you. I imagine it took a couple years off your life and your mother’s. One of my deputies is working the house now for forensic evidence.”
The sheriff turned his attention to Paul. “How is it you came to rescue Ginny?”
“I was on my way back from New Orleans and called her as she was fleeing the house. She managed to tell me where she was and that she was being pursued before she crashed. I had just pulled into Johnson’s Bayou and was close to the turnoff for her mother’s place, so I drove as fast as I could over there.”
The sheriff studied Paul while he told his story and stared at him for a couple of seconds when he’d finished. He must have decided it sounded reasonable, because he finally nodded and continued questioning him. “You said the car was at the ninety-degree bend in the road, right? Where was the other guy?”
“He was up the road about forty feet, off to the north side. He shot at me as soon as I got out of the truck. I jumped into the ditch and fired back over the embankment.”
Sheriff Blackwell narrowed his eyes at Paul. “You always run around with a pistol in your waistband?”
“I do when I call someone and they tell me someone’s after them. Otherwise, it’s locked in my glove box. I have my permit.”
Sheriff Blackwell waved a hand in dismissal. “You’re not the one in question here. Besides, half the people in the parish carry guns.” The sheriff blew out a breath. “I gotta tell you, there’s not a lot to go on here. Unless the deputy comes up with something at your mom’s house, there’s not going to be a lot I can do by way of investigating.”
“One of my shots hit metal,” Paul said. “You can identify the ATV by the bullet hole. How many people in Johnson’s Bayou own ATVs?” Paul asked.
“Half the male population, maybe more, and a good portion of females. Besides, I’ve gotten four reports of stolen ATVs today alone. Happens once or twice a year all on the same day. A real professional job. The ATVs are all stolen within the same twenty-four-hour period, usually during the festival or something else that’s got the townsfolk distracted. By the time they realize the ATVs are gone, the guy who stole them is long gone.”
“If he was only stealing ATVs, why go to my mother’s house?” Ginny asked. “She doesn’t own an ATV.”
The sheriff shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe he knew Madelaine owned the café and thought she kept cash in the house. He might have thought it was an easy score.”
“Mom would never keep cash from the café in her house. She drops it off at the bank lockbox every day.”
“You and I know that, but someone who doesn’t know Madelaine wouldn’t. Like I said, they may have just been looking for an easy score.”
“I stabbed him,” Ginny reminded the sheriff. “He took the knife, but there should be blood on the kitchen floor. You can check it, right?”
“I’m afraid not. He must have gone back to your mom’s house and cleaned up. My deputy said the kitchen smelled like bleach and the floor had been scrubbed with it.”
“If he wanted to clean up, why did he chase me? He could have just let me go, cleaned up the kitchen and waltzed right back out of town, if he’s really the professional you think he is.”
A bit of red crept up Sheriff Blackwell’s neck. “Now, look here—I’m not saying for certain what happened. I’m just telling you the most logical conclusion based on years of doing this job. Maybe he thought you’d be able to recognize him. Maybe he panicked. You’ve got it in your mind that he was trying to kill you, but I’m guessing a male criminal may have taken a good look at you and gotten another idea.”
Ginny sucked in a breath so hard her chest hurt. Her mind hadn’t even gone there, and she wished the sheriff hadn’t taken it there, either. Paul squeezed her hand and she glanced up at him. He gave her a barely imperceptible shake of his head and she knew he was telling her to let it go. This avenue with the sheriff was a dead end.
She was deliberating whether or not to lay everything out to Sheriff Blackwell regardless of Paul’s obvious reticence when Madelaine came back into the room, removing that option altogether. She wasn’t about to have her mother any more worried than she already was.
“They don’t think you need to go to the hospital in New Orleans,” Madelaine said, frowning, “but they want you to stay overnight for observation.”
“No,” Ginny said. “I’m fine except for a bit of a headache. I’ll stay for a couple of hours, but then I’m going home. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow, and don’t even start arguing with me about taking the day off. The café will be packed with everyone leaving town now that the festival’s over, and a couple of shop owners from New Orleans said they’re stopping by in the morning to talk to me about my jewelry.”
Madelaine started to argue, but the sheriff, likely sensing a never-ending family squabble, interrupted. “I know your heart’s here with your daughter, Madelaine, but I’d really like it if you’d come with me to your house. I need to know if anything’s missing and see if we can figure out how he got in. The sooner I have the facts, the faster I can get out an alert to other towns for this guy.”
“I’m not leaving her alone,” Madelaine said.
“I’ll stay with her,” Paul said. “I can’t help the sheriff with your house, but you can. Please go. I promise I won’t leave her side.”
Madelaine was clearly torn between wanting to mother Ginny and wanting to contribute to capturing the man who’d hurt her. She looked back and forth between Ginny, Paul and Sheriff Blackwell and finally grabbed her purse from the chair she’d tossed it in earlier and gave Ginny a kiss.
“Call me if you need anything,” Madelaine said, then turned to Paul. “And if her condition gets worse, make her go to the hospital in New Orleans. I mean it—or you’ll both need medical attention.”
“If the doctors say she needs to go, I’ll make her go,” Paul promised.
Madelaine didn’t look completely convinced, but she walked to the door and looked over at the sheriff. “Better get a move on. If one of those silly deputies of yours makes a mess in my house, you’re going to hear about it for a year.”
Sheriff Blackwell, wearing the expression of a much-maligned and abused male, followed Madelaine out of the room, smart enough to keep silent.
“Do you think it happened like the sheriff said?” Ginny demanded as soon as everyone had cleared the room.
“I think it’s possible, but very unlikely, given the circumstances.” Paul removed an extra pillow from a shelf in the corner and motioned to Ginny to lean forward so he could place it behind her. “But you have to remember, you and I are the only people aware of those circumstances, and the sheriff isn’t going to put any stock in a ‘feeling.’ We need evidence.”
Ginny leaned back on the plump pillow but was far too wound up to relax. “He tried to kill me. How much more evidence do we need?”
“Evidence that it was personal and not some rando
m attack associated with stealing four-wheelers. I know it’s hard to be objective given what we know, but put yourself in his shoes. Even if we told him everything we knew, what reason does he have for thinking someone’s after you?”
“Someone was in my apartment.”
“With no sign of forced entry.”
“He shot at us when we were at the school.”
“He could have been a poacher either mistaking us for deer or trying to prevent anyone from talking about his poaching.”
Ginny sighed. “You’re right. There’s a logical assumption he could make about every incident, but isn’t it an enormous coincidence that all of them are happening to the same person within a matter of days? Especially someone like me. I’ve never been in trouble and don’t have any enemies.”
“That’s not true,” Paul said quietly. “You just aren’t aware of who your enemies are.”
Ginny was silent for a moment. Paul was right, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. In fact, now that she’d moved past fear for her life and fear that she’d sustained a serious injury, she was moving straight toward mad.
Paul shook his head, clearly frustrated. “Even tonight is questionable. If he really wanted to kill you, why not shoot you? He had a gun. Why sneak up behind you and crack you over the head?”
Ginny stared at Paul and drummed her fingers on the blanket. “I hadn’t even thought of that. Then what in the world did he want? It doesn’t make sense. Unless it’s like the sheriff suggested…”
Paul frowned. “As distasteful as the thought is, it’s not impossible. But I still don’t think that’s the answer. I have no concrete reason for thinking this, but I still believe that it’s all connected to your past. We just don’t have enough information to connect the pieces.”
“Since there’s no evidence, what do we do about tonight—nothing?” she asked. “Because, I’ve got to tell you, that’s not good enough for me.”
“Me, either,” Paul agreed. “The first thing we do is figure out as much as we can about your attacker.”
“I told the sheriff everything I knew.”
“Actually, you probably didn’t. But given his view on things, I didn’t see the point in attempting to draw more information out of you while he was here.”
Ginny stared at Paul, her interest piqued. “What kind of information?”
“Let’s start with a physical description. How tall was he?”
“I don’t know. I was too panicked.”
Paul sat on the bed next to her and placed his hand on her arm. “Take a deep breath and close your eyes. Now, picture that scene you described in the kitchen—you were on the floor, looking up at the attacker. How much space was in between the attacker’s head and the ceiling?”
The scene replayed in Ginny’s mind as if she were watching a movie. She felt her heart quicken, but she managed to focus on what Paul asked for. “About two feet,” she said, surprising herself that the answer had been gained so easily.
“And how high are the ceilings in your mom’s house?”
“Eight feet.”
“Good. So now we know he’s approximately six feet tall.”
Ginny nodded, starting to feel a little hope. “That’s great! Can we do more?”
“When you stabbed him, what part of the leg did you hit him in?”
“Just above the knee. I remember thinking I was lucky I didn’t hit the kneecap or it wouldn’t have gone in.” She covered her mouth with her hands. “I can’t believe I thought all that or remembered it.”
“That’s great,” Paul said, his voice encouraging. “Now, how high off the floor was your hand when you stabbed him?”
Ginny sat completely upright in bed and held her arm down off the side of the bed, trying to replay the scene in her mind. “Maybe this high,” she said, holding her hands apart to show Paul the estimated distance.
Paul smiled. “So now we know that he’s approximately six feet tall and has long legs. Now, let’s talk about weight—trim or loose?”
“Not skinny or fat. Broad shoulders and some size, but more like man-size versus boy-size, not fat. Does that make any sense?”
“He was a mature man. That makes complete sense. Now, think about his movement—was he fast, agile?”
“He sprang at me at the same time I went for the knife. We were probably covering the same distance, but I got there first. He didn’t seem to have an injury or anything, but I moved faster. Does that mean he’s older?”
“Possibly,” Paul said. “You did really good, Ginny. I think your attacker lives in Johnson’s Bayou. That stab wound is going to give him trouble, but he won’t seek medical treatment for it. He’ll do his best to hide it altogether, but if we’re keeping a close watch, we may be able to catch someone slipping.”
Ginny blew out a breath. It wasn’t much, but it was more than they had before. She looked up at Paul. “I never got to thank you for rescuing me. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”
“I didn’t…” Paul broke off speaking and looked at her, the care, compassion and fear still resident in his expression, along with something else that Ginny hadn’t seen in a long time. Her eyes widened as he leaned closer.
She knew he was going to kiss her, but when his lips touched hers, she was still completely unprepared for the surge of emotion and desire that coursed through her.
“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice sounded from the doorway, and Ginny and Paul sprang apart. Ginny looked over at the young nurse.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the nurse said shyly, “but I need to check your head. The injury, I mean.”
Paul rose from the bed. “I’m going to find the doctor and see how long you need to stay.”
Ginny watched him leave the room as the nurse removed the bandage from her forehead. Check her head, indeed. What in the world was she thinking, letting Paul kiss her? And even worse, kissing him back? She was going to completely ignore the fact that she’d enjoyed it.
The last thing she needed right now was another complication. Her usually uncomplicated life had just exploded on every level. Adding romantic feelings to the mix was a recipe for disaster, especially at a time when her emotions were already running so high. More complication meant more distraction—her attention spread out over too many places.
Right now, she needed to focus only on staying alive.
Chapter Eleven
Sheriff Blackwell studied the kitchen then frowned. Madelaine stood beside him, hands on her hips, wanting answers she’d bet he didn’t have.
“Well?” she demanded. “How did he get in my house?”
“I don’t know. When the deputy got here, the house was locked tight. He had to bust out a panel on your kitchen door to open the dead bolt. All the windows were locked tight, and you said they were all that way when you left. Unless you forgot about an open window, I have no idea. As far as I can see, there’s no other way into this place, unless you can walk through walls.”
“My daughter wasn’t attacked by a ghost, or he wouldn’t have bled on my kitchen floor.”
The sheriff ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “I know that, but what do you want me to say? Does anyone else have a key besides you and Ginny?”
“No, and those locks are new from when I replaced the doors last year. Only two keys came with that lock, and Ginny and I account for both of them.”
“You didn’t make a spare?”
“Yes, but I keep it in my desk drawer at the café, not under the doormat like a fool.”
Sheriff Blackwell looked up and down the hallway, then out the back door once more before coming to stand directly in front of Madelaine. “How’s Ginny been lately?”
“What do you mean? She’s been Ginny.” Madelaine stared at him, wondering what in the world had gotten into the man. It was as if he’d lost all common sense. Suddenly, it hit her and she felt a flush creep up her neck and onto her face.
“I’m certain,” she said
, struggling to control her rising anger, “that you’re not suggesting she imagined all of this.”
The sheriff sighed. “Madelaine, I’m not trying to make you mad or cast any aspersions on Ginny, but you got to look at the facts. The house was locked tight when my deputies arrived and you can’t do that without a key. There was no blood on the floor to substantiate her story of an attack.”
Madelaine pointed to the knife holder. “My butcher knife is missing, and I don’t clean my floor with bleach.”
Sheriff Blackwell looked down at the floor and shuffled his feet. “It may be that Ginny took the knife herself, maybe tossed it in the swamp as she drove away. Maybe she spilled bleach on the floor earlier and doesn’t remember because she spooked herself.”
“And the ATV? She imagined that, too?”
“The deputies have scanned every square inch of the road and there’s no sign of ATV tracks.”
“So you’ve got a logical reason for dismissing the entire thing as imagined or misunderstood.”
“I’m sorry, Madelaine. I know how hard that is to wrap your mind around, but it’s something both of us have to consider.”
Madelaine struggled to control her frustration. She knew what he thought. Knew what they all thought—that Ginny was a ticking time bomb and one day the past would come back to haunt them. All because Madelaine had taken her in and kept her in Johnson’s Bayou. But a bunch of foolishness wasn’t going to keep Madelaine from doing what she darn well pleased—not then and not now. And what pleased Madelaine was protecting her daughter.
“He could have covered his tracks,” she argued. “He could have lifted a key from me or Ginny at some point and made a copy. We’re not always careful with our keys when we’re working.”
Sheriff Blackwell nodded. “Yeah, he could have, but that’s an awful lot of planning to attack someone with no provocation. Far as I know, no one in Johnson’s Bayou or anywhere else has a problem with Ginny.”
