by Mallory Kane
She glanced up at him questioningly.
“Did you find anything else?”
She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
“What else did you find, Christy?”
She swallowed. “Some ribbon. A few coins.”
“Is that all?”
“Reilly, I—”
“Is. That. All.”
She looked down at her hands and nodded.
“What about the bag. Did you touch it?”
“Just with my fingernails.”
“The inside of the box?”
Her shoulders slumped. “Probably.”
“Okay. You found this stuff yesterday and brought it back to your room at the inn, but you didn’t open it until this afternoon, and you called me as soon as you saw what was in it.”
“No, I—?”
He stopped her with a raised hand. “Listen to me. You did not open the box until this afternoon and you called me right away. You only touched the contents enough to see what they were.”
“Are you sure—?”
“Trust me, Christy, you don’t want to explain why you kept it for more than twenty-four hours before you told anyone about it.”
“Okay.” She stood.
“And Christy, I need to be sure, before I take this to the police, that there’s not something else I should be giving them.”
She shook her head—too quickly, too hard.
He bit his tongue to keep from pressing her. There had been something else in that hiding place. He’d bet his condo on it. But he had to get the drugs and money to the sheriff’s office—now. So he was happy to accept her answer at face value, although deep in his heart he knew she was lying.
THEY SPENT THREE HOURS at the sheriff’s office while the deputy on duty processed the evidence and took their statements.
The first thing the deputy did when he saw the bag was take a pair of tweezers from his desk drawer and pick it up to examine it. “Did anyone touch this?” he asked.
Reilly nodded at Christy.
“I touched it with my fingernails, but that’s all.”
While she was talking, the deputy turned the bag over to look at the bottom. “I’ll be damned,” he breathed.
“What?” Reilly leaned forward.
“That’s an evidence marker.” The deputy pointed at the smudged letter on the bottom of the plastic bag. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s Amber Madden’s mark. She’s one of the crime scene analysts.”
Reilly squinted at the mark and uttered an expletive.
Christy’s heart leaped in a combination of fear and excitement. “What does that mean?” she asked, although she was pretty sure she knew.
Reilly and the deputy locked gazes for an instant. The deputy cleared his throat. “Well, it looks like this bag was logged into evidence. That number identifies the case file.”
A pang of fear stabbed Christy deep in her chest. Whoever Autumn was involved with had given her drugs stolen from police evidence. It had to be someone in the sheriff’s department.
That information drove home the seriousness of what she was doing. She was withholding evidence. Evidence that could lead to the man who killed her sister.
Reilly scrutinized the mark and the number. “Do we have any reports of missing evidence? This had to have been at least five years ago. The girl who hid this box was killed in 2005.”
“This number underneath will identify the case,” the deputy said. “We’ll know soon enough. To answer your question, there are always a few instances of missing evidence.”
“But drugs,” Reilly insisted. “Wouldn’t that have been investigated?”
Reilly and the deputy exchanged a glance, and then the deputy’s gaze flickered toward her.
She looked down at her lap. The deputy was already regretting talking about missing evidence in front of her. Reilly obviously agreed because he sat back in his chair and looked at his watch.
“Anything else, Deputy?” he asked.
The deputy rolled his chair back from the desk. “We’ll need to get your fingerprints, Dr. Moser.”
He explained to her that they were needed to exclude her from any suspect fingerprints they found on the bag. He got her to give him a crude drawing of the exact location of Autumn’s secret hiding place, and interrogated her about other possible hiding places in the house. He explained to her that since the house and lot were still classified as a crime scene, they wouldn’t need any additional paperwork to search them again. She signed a statement indicating that she understood.
Finally they were free to go. The money and the box with its contents stayed at the precinct, and the deputy promised to let Reilly know what came of the search of Albert Moser’s house.
Reilly and Christy made the drive back to the Oak Grove Inn in silence. He walked her to the door. “I’ll call you in the morning,” he said. “Can I trust you not to go running off in your car?”
Her eyes sparked with irritation as she nodded. “Yes,” she said stiffly, turning the glass knob on the door.
He took a step backward.
She turned back toward him. “Reilly, I’m sorry—” She stopped, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears.
He had an odd urge to pull her into his arms and tell her everything was okay, but the urge wasn’t quite as strong as the anger that still burned in his chest. Anger that she hadn’t confided in him about finding the box. Anger that she had put herself in jeopardy by holding on to illegal drugs. Anger that she didn’t trust him enough to tell him what else she’d found.
And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from touching her cheek. “Good night,” he said evenly. “I’ll watch until I see your lights come on. Try to get some sleep.”
After she went inside and closed the front door behind her, he headed back to his car. But he didn’t crank the engine until she turned on the lights in the front guest room.
As he put the car in Reverse, the unmistakable crack of a gunshot split the night, followed by the sound of breaking glass and a short, piercing scream.
Chapter Eight
Before the scream had died down, Reilly had his phone in his hand. “Dispatch, Officer Delancey here. Need backup at Oak Grove Inn, Covington. Shots fired.”
Then he grabbed his weapon and his high-powered flashlight from his glove compartment and jumped out of the car. He sprinted toward the side of the house from which the rounds had come. He held the flashlight in his left hand and used his left wrist to support the weapon held in his right. He reached the wall and flattened his back against it. He sidled toward the corner.
He heard the front door open. He glanced back. It was Guerrant.
“Get back inside and take cover,” he stage-whispered.
He hoped to hell Christy was okay.
Once he reached the corner of the house, he took a deep breath and darted his head out, then back immediately. He didn’t see anything that looked human. So more slowly, he rounded the corner, leading with his weapon balanced atop the flashlight.
Once he stepped out of the shelter of the house, motion-activated floodlights flared, illuminating the side yard. He scanned the area, looking for anything odd. Anything that moved.
He examined the ground below the window where thick, springy grass grew. There would be no way to get a shoe print.
Beyond the fence was the vacant lot he’d gotten a glimpse of the other night, when Christy was attacked. It was a tangle of overgrown hedges, vines and bramble bushes. Sweeping the area with his flashlight beam, he noted that several yards past the fence, the bushes turned into trees.
Whoever had fired the shot could easily have escaped through there. But not without some scratches. He filed that information away to give to the responding officers.
For an instant, Reilly thought about trying to give chase, but it had been at least twenty seconds since the shot was fired. The shooter was probably far gone by now.
He aimed the flashlight toward the back of the house, then toward the parking lot, bu
t nothing seemed out of place. He switched off the light and pocketed it, but kept his weapon ready as he headed back around the front of the house.
When he turned toward the front door, he saw Guerrant standing on the porch with his shotgun. Would Guerrant hesitate to use the weapon if he were threatened? Given his calm expression and the ease with which he held the gun, Reilly was pretty sure the owner of the inn would have no trouble unloading both barrels if the situation warranted it.
“Backup’s coming,” he told Guerrant as he ran up the steps. “Tell them the shooter went through the vacant lot.”
Guerrant nodded. “I already talked to the folks in the cottages.”
Reilly ran inside. Christy’s door was open. Ella’s voice, an octave higher than normal, came from inside.
“Christy!” he shouted as he ran into the room.
Christy was sitting on the edge of the bed, white as a sheet. When she saw Reilly, she started to rise, but Ella, who was fluttering around her like a mother hen, pushed her back down.
“Don’t get up, dear. You’ll faint.” Ella looked over her shoulder at Reilly. “Oh, my goodness,” she cried. “What in the world is going on out there?”
Reilly barely acknowledged Ella. He was worried about Christy. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt are you?” he asked her.
She stared at him, eyes wide. Her lips were pinched and white at the corners, and her hands were clenched together in her lap.
Reilly started toward her, but was stopped by Ella, who wailed, “Those windows were the original glass.”
She gestured wildly at the broken glass, then turned back to Christy. “Oh, my God, you could have been killed.”
“Ella,” Reilly snapped. “Go make some coffee.”
“Oh, my God,” the woman said again. “We’re going to be up all night.” She hurried out of the room. “I’d better make some coffee,” she said, as though she hadn’t heard him.
As soon as Ella was gone, Christy stood and came to Reilly.
He put his arms around her and hugged her, then pushed her to arm’s length with gentle hands on her shoulders.
Tears glistened in her wide, frightened eyes, and one slipped down her cheek.
He stopped it with a finger. She looked unhurt, but her pallor worried him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded. “I’m not injured. However, I do seem to be having a mild—panic attack.” Her breath came in little puffs and she pressed her left hand against her breastbone. “It’s so silly how the reaction doesn’t set in until after the danger is over.”
Her effort to diagnose herself logically, coupled with the indignant note in her voice made him feel much better. He’d hated seeing her terrified and unsure of herself. He knew she hated being that way.
He smiled wryly. “Yeah,” he said. “Silly. I’m glad you’re not hurt. Tell me what happened. Were you standing at the window?”
“No. I was right there—” she gestured “—in front of the dresser, taking off my watch and jewelry.”
Reilly measured the distance between the dresser and the window with his eyes. At least four feet. He walked over to the window. The house was on a traditional foundation, a couple of feet off the ground, so the shooter had to have his back against the fence to aim at Christy where she’d stood in front of the dresser.
“Why in hell would anybody put lacy curtains and nothing else on a bedroom window? There ought to be shades or blinds on these windows.” He inspected the broken pane, then turned and walked to the other side of the room and swept the wall with his gaze. Sure enough, about two feet above his head, a bullet was embedded in the wallpaper.
“I guess blinds aren’t authentic.”
“What?” he asked distractedly as he turned back to look at the window. The trajectory would have put the bullet about a foot behind Christy.
“Blinds,” Christy said. “Maybe shades were used back in Victorian times, but blinds probably weren’t.”
He looked at her, frowning, then realized she was answering his rhetorical question about the curtains.
“Oh, right,” he said. A little color was coming back into her cheeks as she calmed down. So he decided not to tell her how narrowly the bullet had missed her.
He turned his attention back to the window. Had the gunman been shooting to kill? Or had the shot been a warning? A second warning to Christy to go back to Boston and forget about trying to find out who had killed her sister.
“It almost hit me, didn’t it?” Christy asked, her voice small. “I thought I felt something swish by me.” She shivered.
Reilly realized she’d been watching him carefully. She hadn’t missed his mental calculations of the bullet’s trajectory.
“I don’t think he was trying to kill you,” he said, hoping he sounded reassuring.
“Why not? He told me he would. Assuming it was the same man who attacked me. If you’re just trying to make me feel better, don’t.”
“Okay,” he said. “I didn’t check while I was outside, but with those ridiculous curtains and the lights on in here, I’m pretty sure he could see you clearly. If he’s any kind of decent shot, he could have killed you if he’d wanted to.”
He regretted his honesty when the returning color faded from Christy’s cheeks.
“Let’s go to the dining room. I called for backup. They’ll be here any minute.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he heard the sirens coming rapidly toward them. “There they are.”
He led her through the front parlor and into the dining room. They sat at same massive table where they’d sat a few nights ago, after she’d been attacked.
Ella came in with a pot of coffee just as Deputy Buford Watts and Guerrant came inside.
Buford didn’t look the least bit surprised to see Reilly. “Delancey,” he said resignedly. “First on the scene again?”
Reilly didn’t bother to answer him. “Did you put out a BOLO for an armed man on foot running from this area?”
“Sure did. We’ll see if anything comes of it.” Buford turned to Christy. “Ms. Moser. Oh, I’m sorry. Doctor Moser. Have you thought about when you might want to be heading back to—” Buford looked at his notepad “—Boston?”
“Buford—” Reilly said warningly.
The deputy shrugged without taking his eyes off Christy. “I’m not saying—I’m just saying. If I were attacked twice in one week, I might think about heading home.”
CHRISTY WAS EXHAUSTED and shivering with fatigue by the time Deputy Watts got through questioning her and Reilly. His men had crawled all over her room, taking pictures, measuring the height of the broken windowpane and the height of the bullet hole in the wall and digging the slug out to preserve as evidence.
She watched dully as the deputy and his men left.
“Christy?”
It was Ella Bardin. “Christy, I really hate to say anything, but—”
“Please, Ella.” Christy held up her hand. “You don’t have to. I’ll go to a hotel. I’m so sorry that I’ve put you and your husband in danger. And I’ll certainly pay for the damage to the room.”
“No, no,” Ella protested. “I just might have to make up a tall tale, like maybe Jefferson Davis stayed here and somebody took a shot at him.” She laughed.
Christy forced a smile. “Maybe that would work,” she said. “Thank you so much for the coffee. Can I help you clean up?”
“Absolutely not. You just go ahead and get your stuff together.”
Christy sighed. She’d hoped Ella would protest. That she’d insist that Christy could wait until morning to leave, but no such luck. Still, she certainly couldn’t blame the woman. An assault and a shooting in the same week was never good for business or for peace of mind.
Reilly came in just as Christy pushed herself to her feet. “Get your stuff together?” He’d echoed Ella’s words.
She nodded. “I’m going to get a hotel. I can’t subject Ella and Guerrant to more violence.”
; “Well, you’re not going to a hotel. You’re coming with me.”
Christy saw Ella pause on her way to the kitchen with the coffeepot. She turned around, obviously eavesdropping.
“Could we discuss this in my room?” Christy asked stiffly.
Reilly glanced toward Ella. “Okay, sure,” he said, then leaned in close to her ear. “Although there’s nothing to discuss.”
She turned on her heel and headed through the door into her room. She waited for Reilly to enter, then closed the door behind him.
“I can’t go to your apartment,” she said. “I’ll get a hotel room.”
“The hell you will. There’s somebody out there after you. If he can get to you here, he can get to you in a hotel. No. You’re coming to my apartment.”
“And why can’t he get to me at your apartment?”
“Besides the fact that there’s a security guard on duty 24/7? And it’s on the eighth floor? Because I’ll be there.”
“A security guard?” she echoed. He lived in a secure apartment building? “No.” She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“I don’t see why not. Get packed.”
“Because—” She stopped. She couldn’t tell him why she didn’t want to stay with him. She wasn’t sure she could explain it to herself. She’d like to think it was because he was too overprotective, too bossy.
But that wasn’t it. Or maybe it wasn’t so much his protectiveness as her reaction to it. She’d always been independent. She liked living alone, making her own decisions, being in charge of her own life.
But as much as she tried to tell herself that Reilly’s concern, his larger-than-life presence and his insistence on protecting her were annoying and unnecessary, she couldn’t deny how good it felt to have someone concerned about her safety. She could get used to having a knight in shining armor around. And that was going to make it really hard to go back to her solitary, independent life. A life without Reilly Delancey in it.
“Christy? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“What?” She realized she’d been staring at him. “Yes, of course. I can go to a hotel,” she said unconvincingly, doing her best to look anywhere except at him.
