A Stranger She Can Trust

by Regan Black

  “Noelle and I would come out here with a bottle of wine and stargaze sometimes.”

  Carson cleared his throat. “Detective Werner gave me the information for her memorial service. It’s this Tuesday afternoon.” He handed the notecard to her.

  She read it and shoved it into her back pocket. “The service is here,” she murmured. “Naturally her parents would want to make things easier on her friends and coworkers.” She had to swallow the lump of grief lodged in her throat. “They must be devastated.” She gazed out at the trees, seeing only Noelle’s beautiful smile. “And wondering why I haven’t called.”

  “Amnesia is a valid reason for your silence,” Carson pointed out, handing her the bottle of water.

  “Bringing her parents closure is a valid impetus to remember every detail.”

  Within the limits of the small balcony, Carson only had to shift his body to put his arm around her shoulders. “Give it time.”

  She eyed the burgers, but it was too soon to turn them. Instead she relaxed into the comfort he offered. “It feels selfish to have it all mixed-up and jumbled when I want to be helpful.”

  He reached back for one of the folding lawn chairs and kicked it open for her. “You will help in due time. The police have solved crimes, even murders, without eyewitnesses before. If you never remember, it will be fine.”

  “It’s pretty obvious that the attack must have been terrible, but I survived it. She didn’t. She deserves justice.” Lissa wasn’t convinced she’d ever remember the critical details, and yet she had no way of controlling what her brain was doing with the lost hours of Friday night.

  Thankfully, while the burgers cooked, Carson changed the subject, asking about her career at the museum and how she became interested in becoming a conservator. An understandable attempt at distraction, and she appreciated his effort.

  When her enthusiastic rambling slowed down, he picked up another thread of conversation as they ate, telling her stories about how Grant had met his wife, Katie, during his hunt for the nightclub a few years back and built it from nothing into the current trendy place. He talked about the various bands they’d had in recently and some of the events coming up in the summer.

  “I can’t believe that was your first visit,” he said. “Grant went out of his way to create a perfect signature cosmopolitan for ladies’ night.”

  She and Noelle hadn’t made clubbing a priority, although they enjoyed going out and catching live groups or trivia nights at bars near the hospital campus. Something about that niggled at her mind but wouldn’t come into focus. She stopped forcing it and voiced a question that had been bugging her since the detective’s visit. “How did I get that matchbook?”

  “If you still don’t remember, it must have come from someone at the hospital,” Carson said. “Or someone you met that night,” he added.

  “I’m hoping it’s a clue of some sort,” she said. “We should have let the detective take it for fingerprints.”

  “We still can turn it over as evidence when we go to pick up your purse.”

  “Maybe.” She finished her water and started cleaning up. “They might find it as useless as my foggy memories, the way I’ve been holding it like a good luck charm.”

  “Let me handle cleanup.” Carson moved around her, nudging her back into the chair.

  A sharp bang sounded in the next second, immediately followed by a metallic screech near her head. She swiveled to see a menacing black puncture in the aluminum siding that framed the door.

  “Gun! Get down!” Carson yanked her beneath him and covered her body with his as two more gunshots ripped apart the quiet day.

  “Are you hit?” she rasped, her breath shallow. Trapped, she could feel his heart hammering against her arm. “Carson?”

  “Inside!” He pushed up on his arms, giving her room to squirm away. “Go.” Another two bullets whizzed past them.

  “Carson—” She tugged open the door and scrambled into the stairwell. She didn’t have long to worry as he crashed into the small space with her and pulled the door closed.

  Another spate of bullets bit through the door, and beams of sunlight spilled through the holes, casting crazy shadows.

  They rushed into her apartment and bolted that door. She searched for her cell phone, then remembered yet again that it was in her purse at the police station.

  Carson was already on his phone, reporting the incident. “Stay back from the windows,” he snapped at her.

  She sank to the kitchen floor, her back pressed against the cabinets. It was the nearest windowless place. Through the pounding of her heart, she heard Carson give her address. Then suddenly he was on his knees in front of her.

  “Are you hurt?” He pushed seeking fingers through her hair, down her neck and then smoothed his palms across her shoulders. “Turn around.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Turn around,” he said, even as he moved her, his hands skimming over her ribs and abdomen.

  She caught a flash of red on his arm. “You’ve been shot. I’m fine.”

  “No. Not my blood.” His hands swept down her back. “Your blood. Let me see your legs.”

  “My legs are fine,” she said, twisting back to face him. “Carson, stop. You’re hurt.”

  “No.” He didn’t stop searching her for injuries. “You need help, Sarah.” His skin was pale, and he was taking in rapid sips of air as if his lungs wouldn’t inflate all the way.

  “Carson, I’m Lissa.” She reached up and held his face, waited for him to see her. He gazed at her through glassy eyes, but she knew he saw his former partner. “Come sit by me.” She took his hand, struggled against his natural strength boosted by his fear. “Please, Carson. Just sit with me.”

  His breath caught, stuttered. Then, on a deep inhalation, he sat down. He held her hand so tightly, she thought the bones would snap, but she refused to complain or move. This wasn’t her first encounter with a person in shock or even having posttraumatic stress reaction. Traveling the world with her parents, she’d witnessed accidents on the dig sites and seen natural disasters tear apart villages along with more common domestic violence producing emotional aftershocks.

  At least from this angle, she could verify the blood on his arm was seeping from a shallow wound. Either he got caught on something on the rooftop patio, or one of the bullets had nicked him. The good news was she didn’t think the injury would require more than basic first aid, a couple of stitches at most. A dreadful chill slipped across her skin. Unless that wasn’t the only wound. Nothing else within her view of him was bleeding, and she clung to that small shred of hope while they waited for whomever he’d called in.

  She spoke to him with gentle reassurances, in much the same way he’d talked her out of her recent meltdowns. Finally, his body stopped quaking as the adrenaline rush subsided. Later she would think about being afraid of the shooter. Right now, she’d be strong while Carson shook off the terror and loss he was reliving.

  Minutes ticked by, each one longer than the last, until finally she heard sirens screaming down the street. Someone pounded on her door even as Carson’s cell phone rang from the floor beside him. “Come on.” She bumped him with her shoulder. “We have to let them in.”

  He didn’t move. She twisted to her knees, letting him keep the death grip on her hand as she put her face close to his. “Carson.” She kept her voice firm but calm, mimicking his method. “We’re going to stand up now and let the police help us.”

  He blinked slowly, then rubbed his eyes. When he looked at her, then down at their joined hands, she knew he was back. “Lissa.” He released her immediately. “Crap. Did I hurt you?”

  “You saved me,” she said, kissing his cheek. The scruffy stubble scraped her lips, making her want to linger over the contact. More shouts and pounding came from the door downstairs. “Wait h
ere.” She pushed to her feet and ran for the security panel, unlocking the door before they destroyed it. “Upstairs,” she called down as uniformed people surged into the narrow stairwell. “Minor wounds only.”

  They were surrounded in seconds. Paramedics treated Carson at the kitchen table while two men from the fire department exchanged words with him, then wandered back out since they weren’t needed. A moment later, she heard the fire truck drive off. A pair of uniformed police officers came up next and took their statements before going up to the rooftop to look things over.

  It was no surprise to Lissa when Detective Werner showed up next. Thankfully Carson’s wound had been dressed and he’d regained his composure as they explained everything once more for the detective. Apparently a neighbor down the street had called 911 about the gunshots moments before Carson had called in the trouble.

  “Now can she have a protective detail?” he asked. Werner hesitated, and Carson swore.

  “What is the real issue here, Detective?” Carson asked.

  “Available resources, to start.” He waited for the crime scene unit to walk on through and up to the roof, and they were alone again. “The three of us can believe this incident was related to the trouble on Friday night, but until we have confirmation of a bigger problem, Miss Baxter has just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Twice in less than seventy-two hours?” Carson glared, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I don’t think anyone believes in that much bad luck.”

  “Should we make some sort of public statement or do an interview explaining my amnesia?” she offered. “Would that help?”

  “Absolutely not.” The detective planted his hands on his hips.

  “Because you want to draw them out,” Carson accused. “You want to use her as bait? That’s crazy.”

  The idea didn’t hold much appeal for her, either. Lissa folded her arms over her chest, trying to lock down the tremor building in her system before it took hold and became obvious to Carson and everyone else. She definitely wanted justice for Noelle, but the stunt on the rooftop had brought the immediate danger into undeniable focus. She swallowed, knowing she should leap at any opportunity to help and struggling against the fear.

  Werner’s pale blue gaze narrowed. “You’re out of line.”

  “Same goes,” Carson said. “Seems we’ve reached an impasse.”

  “Why don’t you come down to the station,” Werner appealed to Lissa. “You can look at some photo arrays, and we can build a description if one of the faces clicks for you.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’ll erase the target from her back, for sure,” Carson grumbled. “Whoever fired that gun at us knows neither of us got a look at him today, which means we can only be at the station to give you a statement and information about Friday.”

  “Which I will happily do when I remember,” she said. Nightmares or not, she had to find those lost hours. She knew the odds weren’t good, if only because of the way Carson kept reassuring her not to force the issue.

  “When or even if you remember isn’t enough,” Werner muttered. “Once they process the scene, it might give us another lead.”

  “Wait.” Carson’s eyebrows knit into a deep scowl. “Give us one second, please?” he asked Lissa.

  She shook her head. “I’m in this all the way. Just say whatever is on your mind.”

  The debate over how much to share played out in the set of his mouth, the troubled expression in his eyes. “You think the men who killed Noelle and beat up Melissa can be tracked down by the ammunition used here,” Carson finally said.

  “It’s possible,” Werner replied, not looking at Lissa. “The techs pulled a .40 caliber bullet out of the door frame. We’ll know more after the lab takes a look. More still when we find the gun and identify the shooter.”

  The color drained out of Carson’s face again, and he slumped into the nearest chair. “What could that mean?” she asked, stepping closer to him. “Are you okay?”

  “There’s a gang running in Philly that prefers .40 caliber ammunition. It’s too common, so they often, not always, mark their bullets for hits to send a message,” Werner said.

  “Wouldn’t that make them easier to arrest?”

  “You’d think,” Werner said. “Sometimes they leave an unspent bullet behind. Sometimes we find a marked shell casing. Without corroborating evidence or eyewitnesses, it’s an uphill battle in court.”

  None of that explained Carson’s sudden despair.

  “Not quite nine months ago,” Werner continued, “that signature ammunition was used in an ambulance robbery that ended with the death of Carson’s partner, Sarah Neely.”

  Carson hid his face in his hands, and she wanted to comfort him, but all she could do was stand there and feel helpless. “How exactly did Noelle die?” she heard herself ask as if she was standing just behind her body rather than in it.

  Werner shook his head and gave her a pitying look. “Let’s just say a marked .40 caliber bullet lodged in her heart was the last straw.”

  Her stomach lurched, and she had to concentrate to keep her knees from buckling. “I see.”

  The detective studied her. “Do you?”

  She leaned away from the blatant doubt and frustration in the detective’s accusing gaze. “You think Noelle knew the killer. That I know who attacked us.”

  “Yes.” He bobbed his head. “According to everyone she knew, you were her best friend. You’re not doing her any favors by hiding details of her personal life from this investigation.”

  Her head swam. Noelle was not a criminal. She had no reason to consort with violent criminals who used signature ammunition. In the ER, she treated too many gunshot victims to support thugs who dealt out that kind of pain. Images passed through her mind of Noelle out dancing, sharing fun dinners with coworkers, the utter exhaustion on her face after troubling shifts packed with emergencies and crises at the hospital. Why would Werner or anyone else suspect Noelle was involved with her killer? Lissa wanted to defend her best friend, but her throat had gone dry and the words stuck there, useless.

  “Well?” the detective pressed. “Tell me what you remember before I haul you in on obstruction.”

  “Take it easy, Detective,” Carson said. “He’s blustering, Lissa. Don’t let him get to you.”

  Her ears buzzed as she tried to find some fact to point to, some recent memory that would shatter such an outrageous theory about her best friend. “You’re wrong.”

  “About which part?”

  “You’re wrong,” she repeated, not recognizing the rasping sound that was her voice.

  Without realizing how it happened, she found herself in Carson’s warm arms, his heartbeat a calm, steady comfort under her cheek. Had Noelle managed to get tangled up with the wrong people? It didn’t make any sense, but it felt as if there were more gaps in Lissa’s memory than facts.

  In low tones, male voices talked over her head, and she just didn’t care anymore. She’d been attacked, battered and now shot at. Her best friend was dead, and though most of her past was clear, she’d exhausted herself trying to dredge up the most important pieces of her memory that were still missing.

  “You’re safe.” Carson’s voice was a quiet murmur at her ear, a soft descant to the enormous screaming heartbreak inside her. “He’s gone. Let it out,” he said. “We’re alone now.”

  Lissa had no sense of time, no sense of anything but the paralyzing fear and sorrow that came at her in ceaseless waves. Carson’s soothing voice, his patient ministrations, his lean body supporting hers were all she could comprehend until finally everything faded to a velvet-coated, starless black.

  * * *

  Propped up by throw pillows, Carson watched Lissa sleep, her body safely caught between his and the back of the love seat, her head on his chest. He was confide
nt they were two of the most broken people in the city today. First his panic attack during the shooting, and now her breakdown. She’d snapped. He’d seen it coming when the detective kept peppering her with information about marked bullets, suspicions over Noelle’s associates and his attempts to press and intimidate Lissa.

  The outburst that had started with a raspy denial and mild trembling had given way to tears and a flood of emotional energy. A flood he thought was long overdue after the few glimpses he’d gleaned of the hell she’d escaped. She’d clung like a burr through it all, and tucking in beside her on the love seat had been the only solution.

  Naturally the detective considered her escape from the attack as suspicious as everything else regarding Noelle’s death, despite the evidence that Lissa hadn’t committed the murder herself.

  At least Werner had left two officers in a marked car parked on the street as a protective measure until Lissa was well enough to move. Carson had no intention of letting her stay here, where memories of Noelle haunted her and they were only one small stairwell away from the roof where they’d been attacked.

  Once she woke up, she could pack a few things and they’d make a plan. They could move back to his place, or find a motel, or whatever made her feel comfortable and safe. As soon as they reached a decision, he’d call Grant and bring him up to speed. Maybe Grant would apply his perennial cop instincts or possibly his wife’s real estate resources and offer a better solution to protect Lissa from both the criminals determined to silence her and the stubborn, resolute detective.

  She stirred in his arms, snuggling closer, her arm sliding over his waist. He smoothed a hand over her glossy, dark hair, struggling to recall the last time he’d been so relaxed. It was well before Sarah’s death—that much was certain. While the circumstances for this particular revelation epitomized bad timing, he discovered an odd pulse of hope in his system. That small hope was undoubtedly for Lissa’s recovery. After his collapse during their emergency, he knew better than to harbor any hope for himself.