Guilty as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  He pulled into his driveway, heard Tobias’s resonant, welcoming bark, and didn’t get out of the ute. He kept the engine running so the heater would stay on and hated himself again for caring. And cared anyway.

  She said, her voice low and shaking, “I’m more of a bitch for doing it.”

  She opened the door and got down. He saw her stagger, heard the suppressed exclamation of pain, and was leaping down himself, coming around and catching her around the waist, taking her weight.

  She tried to pull away, and he could tell that hurt more. “Damn it,” she said. Near tears, still fighting them hard. “I wish I had my keys. But I don’t. And I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Come on.” He walked up the path with her, knowing it was hurting her bare feet, but that that pain was the least of it. He kept his arm around her as they got to the stairs, when she put a foot on the first one and had to stop.

  This time, he was the one swearing. Then he was lifting her, knowing that it still hurt, but that it hurt less, and carrying her to the front door, where he set her down.

  “One minute,” he told her. He knew what he felt like now. He felt cruel. He found his keys, opened the door, and picked her up again.

  “I can walk,” she said. Of course she did.

  “No,” he said. “You can’t. For f— for God’s sake. Let me take you upstairs. Accept some bloody help.”

  She didn’t argue. She was knackered, and he knew it. He got her up the stairs, set her on the edge of the bed, pulled the blankets back, and said, “Get in. And tell me there’s a pain tablet in that packet.”

  “I don’t—” she started to say.

  That was it. This was the end. He’d done his dash. “Yes,” he said. “You do need it. Taking one bloody pain pill when you’ve been done over that hard isn’t weakness. Telling me you hurt isn’t weakness. Admitting you’re scared isn’t weakness. Letting me carry you when you can’t walk isn’t bloody weakness!” He was shouting, and he knew it. She was pale as a sheet, breathing hard, and he was a bastard. “I’m getting you a glass of water,” he said. “And you can take that tablet or not.” He didn’t add I don’t care, because it wasn’t true, and she’d know it.

  He went down the stairs again with some distant part of his brain saying, Pull your head in, mate, and the rest of his mind not letting him do it. In the kitchen, he opened the door, let Tobias out, then leaned over from the waist, put his hands flat on his thighs, and breathed.

  In and out. Oxygen. He was his father’s son, his country’s defender. A decent man. Not an ego. Not a soldier. Not a competitor.

  She needs shelter. Be it.

  Tobias came back in, wagged his tail twice, and pressed his head against Jace’s thigh. Jace locked the door, took off his shoes, poured that glass of water, and went back upstairs. Ready to be a man.

  Lily was sitting upright, and the face she turned to him was strained and white. He sat on the bed beside her, handed her the glass, and said, “Do the next thing. That’s the rule. I didn’t do it. I let myself get in the way. Take your tablet if you want it. I think you need it, but it’s your choice.”

  She swallowed, and his heart twisted despite everything. Despite his anger, despite her deception. They didn’t seem to matter enough. “I need it,” she said. “You’re right. Pain makes it harder to heal. And you’re right that pride gets in the way. Mine, too.” She fumbled with the little packet of tablets, her hands shaking and one arm in a sling, and he took it from her, pressed a white tablet out of its foil packet, and handed it to her. She swallowed it down with a sip of water, drank half the rest of the glass, and said, “I want a shower so badly. But first—I owe you this.”

  Her eyes were steady on him despite the pain, despite the concussion. He could tell she was working to focus, and that it was getting harder all the time. She said, “I could tell you that I was planning to tell you tonight. I’d know it was true, but you wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have slept with you last night. It wasn’t fair to do it without telling you about myself, and I knew it. And I’m sorry.”

  He blew out a long, slow breath. Steady, mate. “Go on.”

  “My name is Paige Hollander.”

  “Not Lily,” he said. “Paige.” It sounded strange. “I saw your photos online, though. With your husband. So—what is this? Past career under another name?”

  He could see her steel herself, but he wasn’t one bit prepared for what she’d say. He couldn’t imagine. What she said was, “Lily is my sister. She’s my twin.”

  It rocked him back hard. “So the house,” he said slowly. “The shop.”

  “The goats,” she finished. “The clothes. The life. Everything you’ve seen. None of it’s mine. They’re all hers. And I’m not the woman you thought you knew.”

  “Then,” he said, “who are you?”

  “I’m a cop.”

  He had to take a minute. “Where?” he finally asked.

  “San Francisco. Lily was worried about the sale, about the pressure she was getting. I wanted to help her. I switched with her for a while so I could deal with it. I never planned to hurt anybody. I never wanted to hurt you. It was weak of me. I’m sorry.”

  That was the second time she’d said that. Weak. Like it was the worst thing there was. “And the gunshot wounds?”

  She closed her eyes, opened them again, and he saw pain. More than physical. “I was shot. At work. That’s why I could come up here.”

  She was trembling. Too much tension. Too much fatigue. Her hand shook on the glass as she lifted it to her lips, and she winced when it hit her mouth. He let her take her drink, took the glass from her, set it down on the bedside table, and said, “Bathroom’s there. Extra towels in the cupboard. Do you need my help for the shower?”

  “No. I can do it.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes. Please. If you’d just… leave me. Let me. Please.”

  Her self-control, her strength, her courage were just about used up, and she couldn’t stand to let him see them go. He got it. He hated it.

  He stood up. “Use my toothbrush if you like. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  He left her, then, because she wanted him to.

  He felt a hundred years old. He felt like he’d run twenty miles in battle kit.

  The problem was—he knew she felt so much worse.

  Jace woke up fast, rolled off the couch in the dark, and was on his feet, reaching for the Glock on the table along the way.

  Beside him, Tobias whined.

  He heard it again. A startled cry. Coming from the loft.

  He was up the stairs two at a time, hugging the wall, silent in his bare feet, the dog at his heels. His eyes used to the dark, and seeing only one thing when he got up there. A woman sitting up in bed. Sobbing now.

  “Lil—” he began to say, then remembered. “Paige. What’s wrong?” He was at the bed now, sitting beside her, setting the Glock on the table. His heart was still knocking against his ribs like it wanted to get out, but for a different reason now.

  She had her good hand spread over her face like she could keep the bad things out or the pain in, and was rocking back and forth, gasping with the force of her sobs. “Paige,” he said, and got an arm around her. She shook her head violently, then gasped again, and he knew why. Because her head hurt, and her mind hurt more. Because she was back there.

  “I’m coming,” she said from behind her hand. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Hang on. I’ll get you out. Just hang on.”

  He had both arms around her now. “Paige. It’s a flashback. You’re here with me. With Jace. Come on, now. Breathe with me. In.” He hauled in a breath. “Out. In. Out.”

  He kept up the count. She didn’t respond at first, and then she did. He kept rocking her, keeping the motion rhythmic, and felt her agitation gradually easing.

  Finally, her hand came down from her face. “That’s right,” he said. “You’re all good, no worries. You’re here with me. You’re in my bed, and I’m right here with
you. You’re safe. I’ve got you. It’s all over. Count to ten with me on the breaths. One. In and out. Two. In and out.”

  Talking. A flow of words, gentle and steady, giving her something to focus on. Breath. The simplest thing there was, and the most important. And when she was lying back, limp, he pulled the pillows up behind her, settled her gently back onto them, and said, “Stay there. Keep breathing.”

  “Don’t leave me,” she said, sounding so exhausted. So beaten. “Please. I know you hate me, but please. Please stay.”

  This pain. It was a physical thing, squeezing his chest. “I’m not going to leave you. And I don’t hate you. I’m getting you more water and a towel, and then I’ll be back.”

  “Thank you.” Spoken so quietly, he could barely hear it.

  He was back in thirty seconds, leaving the bathroom light on behind him, because light helped. The bad things loved to lurk in the dark, trapping you there, leaving you nowhere to run. He climbed into bed beside her and pulled her good right side up against him, because touch could help, too, could anchor you here, keep you in the now. She drank her water, and he took the glass away and handed her the towel. When she’d mopped her face with it, she sighed and said, “It wasn’t like a dream. It was like it was happening again. Really happening.”

  “It was a flashback,” he said. She hadn’t heard him the first time, he was pretty sure. It was hard to hear when you were someplace else. “You had the same trauma again, too soon after the first time, and it triggered your brain the same way. Sometimes, a piece of your mind gets left behind. It gets stuck there. But you can unstick it, and you did. Who was it you were with? Was it Patrick?”

  It helped to talk it out. He knew that, too.

  “Yes,” she said after a moment. “You know his name.”

  “I looked it up. After you told me your name.”

  “Oh.”

  “You were on a call,” he prompted. “A domestic disturbance. Almost four weeks ago now.”

  “One-thirty in the morning,” she said, and that was good. If she told him, if she went through it again from the outside, she could put it back into the past. “After one, you know, most of the minor stuff has died down. When you get a call for service that late, you know it can turn bad fast, or it can start out that way. It wasn’t the first call from that address. Her address. He was her latest kid’s father. They’d get wasted, he’d hit her, she’d fight back. He’d be arrested, he might even do thirty days, and then he’d be out again. She’d kick him out of the house, he’d come back, and it would start over. People say that the cops don’t take it seriously. We take it seriously. If the DA doesn’t charge, if the courts don’t put him away, if Social Services doesn’t step in, if she takes him back… what can we do? We can respond, that’s what. That’s our job.”

  He didn’t say I get it, even though he did. He knew all about being the first response, too often the only response, in a place where nothing ever seemed to change. You put out the fires you were sent to. You couldn’t stop them from starting. He didn’t say that, though, because that wasn’t what she needed. She needed to talk. “So you responded,” he said.

  “The neighbor called it in. Because of the screaming. The woman—Frankie Roberts—was on the sidewalk outside the apartment when we rolled up. Pat took point, and I was on the flank. She turned toward us, and she had a knife. Pat yelled at her to drop it. She didn’t. She ran at him. Ran for help, I think now, but who knows. Her blood alcohol was pretty high. She ran, and Pat shot her. And I didn’t see.”

  She was rocking again. He let her do it, but kept his arm around her and asked, “What didn’t you see?”

  “Her scumbag boyfriend. Marcus Willingham. I should have seen him. He was there, pulled back between the buildings. He’d chased her out of the apartment. It was my job to see him, to cover Pat, and I didn’t. He shot Pat. Maybe he was aiming for Frankie, or maybe it was because Pat had shot Frankie. No way of knowing. I think he meant to kill her that night, though. She had some hair out. I think he pulled the gun and dragged her by the hair, and she got a knife and got out. All I know for sure is—he shot Pat, and I still hadn’t seen him. I still didn’t get it. When Pat went down, I thought Frankie had shot him. I was on my way to get Pat, and he shot at me from behind. Marcus did. Mostly he missed, but he got me in my thigh. What you saw. In and out, bouncing a little along the way.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I shot him. I was down, on my knees, but I saw him then. I didn’t know if I’d gotten him, though, if he’d run, or if he was still there, waiting. He was beside the building, and I was down, and I couldn’t see, and I had to get Pat and get us out. I called it in. I tied my leg off, and I got Pat, dragged him to the cruiser.” She was crying, but quietly. “Everybody else came screaming in. The EMTs got to us, to Pat and me, and to the others, but they were already gone, and so was Pat. I could hear him breathing, hear the sounds. He was gut shot, right below the vest, and it hurt so bad. I told him to hang on for his wife. For his kids. He wanted to. I know it. He couldn’t. I heard when the sounds stopped.”

  “And that was your fault how? Why the investigation?”

  “Because we killed the victim. And that was true. But Pat was right. She ran at him, and she had a knife. You have less than a second to make that decision, and in that second, they’re on you. But there’s me, too. I was the one who was supposed to be looking past her, who should have been looking for him, for Marcus. We knew he was there. It was such a mess, happened so fast, but I’d been a cop for almost four years. That’s what I’d trained for.”

  All of that had tumbled out, and he knew why. How endlessly that loop had played in her head, how many times she’d rewritten the story. “How long had your partner been on the force?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

  “Nineteen years.”

  “Sometimes,” he said, “it turns to custard. Sometimes it isn’t what you were told, it isn’t what you thought. And sometimes you can’t save your partner. Sometimes you can’t save your squad. And sometimes, part of that is what you didn’t see. Would somebody else have seen? Maybe so. Maybe not. That’s why almost nobody can do our jobs. That’s why almost nobody wants to.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’ve heard it. I’ve gone over it. There’s no getting around it, there’s only getting better. I can be somebody who couldn’t handle it, or I can go back and get better. But I can’t, because the case is still under review. Three people died, and one of them was a cop. And there was only me to tell the story.”

  “Body cameras?”

  “I had one. Pat didn’t. The footage was inconclusive. You know there are bad cops. I know there are bad cops. Pat wasn’t a bad cop. He was a good man. He was ex-military, like you. He was less than a year from retirement.”

  “He was a friend.”

  “He was more than that.” Her voice came out tight around the lump in her throat. “Do you know what it’s like to be a woman on a police force?”

  “No. I’ve heard what it’s like to be a woman in the army, though.”

  “Yeah. Worse there, because you’re living in it, and you can’t get away. But as a cop—it’s hard. It’s jokes that go too far. Harassment, even. Partners who don’t want to work with you, so you wonder why you’re bothering, why you’re there if nobody even wants you. Pat had two daughters, and he wanted his daughters to believe they could do anything. He told me I could, too. He taught me like he’d have taught a man. No favors, no punches pulled. He told me I could do it. He told me I could go far. He helped me believe it.”

  “And you watched him die.”

  Her face twisted, and he knew she was crying again. Crying silently, now, but these tears helped. They carried the pain out with them. “It just… hurts, you know? It just…” She had a fist over her heart. “Hurts.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

  There was nothing else to say, so he didn’t say anything. He lay there with her, the fabric of the
faded cotton scrubs, washed a hundred times, soft against his skin, her body warm against his. He breathed in her scent, a mixture of soap from his shower and a faint sweetness that was all her, let her hot tears fall onto his chest, and was, suddenly, fiercely glad to be here. To be the one holding her. To be the man she needed.

  You are one hell of a woman, he thought. Whatever your name is.

  She woke because the bed was empty, the warmth at her back gone. It was light in the room. And she hurt.

  She tried to sit up, and gasped. Beside the bed, Tobias did sit up. And Jace came out of the bathroom. Fast.

  “All right?” he asked. He was wearing jeans, and that was all. Part of her went, Ouch, and part of her went, Arms.

  “Oh.” She struggled to sit, and he came over and helped her. “It’s morning.”

  “Yeah. You should sleep some more, though. I’m about to go over to your place and take care of your animals. How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, you know.” She tried to make it airy. She couldn’t. “A few things.”

  “Like what?”

  He was still standing over her, and she said, “Could you sit down? You’re too… tall.”

  “Ah. Hurting your neck.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Want a tablet?”

  She sighed. “Yeah. I do. One more. Don’t remind me tonight that I said that. I could need another one.”

  “First day, worst day.” He touched the side of her face. Gently. “Bruising’s come out. I’m guessing your shoulder’s looking pretty bad, too, and feeling that way.” He reached for another bottle and opened the childproof cap. “Couple ibuprofen probably wouldn’t come amiss, either.”

  “Actually,” she said, taking the pills from him and swallowing them with the help of the glass of water he handed her, “it’s my face, mostly. And my leg. I must have twisted it falling. I need to stretch it, but, man.” She sighed again. “Yeah. Oh, well. I’m alive.”